#feysand fic

[starfall-spirit]

I Can't Keep Pretending

A belated birthday gift for my beloved @sajirah

Our timeline was extended slightly on the commission, so it wasn’t ready by your birthday. Sorry.

Read But For You, I Was Made

🎨: honeyypears

She sighed. “Please tell me there was at least a sound-shield in place last night.”

Rhys laughed, eyes bright even as morning drowsiness lingered. “There are very few ways I can be considered a gentleman, Feyre, but they’re there.” He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her closer even as she wrapped herself in a scratchy sheet nearby before they could start in on each other again. “I may not be the first male to have the pleasure of hearing the sounds you make when you come, Feyre darling, but I will be the last.”

He released her, smirking at her soft blush. Taking a breath, she withdrew, only allowing herself to reach out and frame his jaw with both hands, his morning stubble rough against her palms. “This doesn’t… Not everyone respects bonds and stations mates together, Rhys. Even if we aren’t in the full frenzy this is reckless.”

“I know, darling. We’ll figure this out. That I promise.”

[violetasteracademic]

Generative AI Can Fuck Itself

I am one of the AO3 authors (along with all of my friends) who had their work stolen and fed into a dataset to be sold to the highest bidder for training generative AI models.

I feel angry. I feel violated. I feel devastated. I cannot express enough that if you still do not understand the damage that generative AI art and writing has on our planet, our society, and our artists, I don't know what else there is to say. How do you convince a human being to care more about another humankinds ability to create than their personal need to consume?

Generative AI, when it comes to art, has one goal and one goal only. To steal from artists and reduce the dollar value of their work to zero. To create databases of stolen work that can produce work faster and cheaper than the centuries of human creation those databases are built on. If that isn't enough for you to put away Chatgpt, Midgard, ect ect (which, dear god, please let that be enough), please consider taking time to review MIT's research on the environmental impacts of AI here. The UNEP is also gathering data and has predicted that AI infrastructure may soon outpace the water consumption of entire countries like Denmark.

This is all in the name of degrading, devaluing, and erasing artists in a society that perpetually tries to convince us that our work is worth nothing, and that making a living off of our contributions to the world is some unattainable privilege over an inalienable right.

The theft of the work of fic writers is exceptionally insidious because we have no rights. We enter into a contract while writing fic- We do not own the rights to the work. Making money, asking for money, or exchanging any kind of commercial trade with our written fanfiction is highly illegal, completely immoral, and puts the ability to even write and share fanfiction at risk. And still, we write for the community. We pour our hearts out, give up thousands of hours, and passionately dedicate time that we know we will never and can never be paid for, all for the community, the pursuit of storytelling, and human connection.

We now live in a world where the artist creating their work are aware it is illegal for it to be sold, and contribute anyway, only for bots to come in and scrape it so it can be sold to teach AI databases how to reproduce our work.

At this time, I have locked my fics to allow them only to be read by registered users. It's not a perfect solution, but it appears to be the only thing I can do to make even a feeble attempt at protecting my work. I am devastated to do this, as I know many of my readers are guests. But right now it is between that or removing my work and not continuing to post at all. If you don't have an account, you can easily request one here. Please support the writers making these difficult decisions at this time. Many of us are coping with an extreme violation, while wanting to do everything we can to prevent the theft of our work in the future and make life harder for the robots, even if only a little.

Please support human work. Please don't give up on the fight for an artists right to exist and make a living. Please try to fight against the matrix of consumerism and bring humanity, empathy, and the time required to create back into the arts.

To anyone else who had their work stolen, I am so sorry and sending you lots of love. Please show your favorite AO3 authors a little extra support today.

[sapphicmsmarvel]

feysand: lazy mornings

a little lazy morning drabble showing how badly i want to experience a lazy morning with my partner (i dont have one yet but that's not the point!)

It was rare for Rhys to actually sleep in. He felt restless, his brothers were the same way for the record. 

But you and Feyre were sleepy girls. 

You’d try to get up and train with Rhys. You cherished your partners together, but you’ve all found that solo dates and rituals with each other helped build your bonds. 

You sometimes made it out in time to go run with him or train around Velaris. 

But usually, Feyre pulled you back into bed. It was pretty easy for her to convince you to go back to bed. She just had to get you to touch the bed after getting up and you’d melt right into the mattress. Didn’t help that Rhys had to have the bougiest mattress in the land. 

He didn’t mind that you didn’t join him a lot. He liked to be alone sometimes. As much as he loved you around him, he needed to chill by himself.  

Plus nothing beat coming home and finding the two women he loved more than anything sleeping in bed tangled in each other. 

Lazy mornings only happened when the night before was rough. Whether that be from nightmares (all three of you dealt with those), or your panic or anxiety attacks. 

Your home was where the wait of everything didn’t matter. You all could breathe. 

You loved when he would come back to bed after a bath, smelling like fresh citrus and sea breeze. A clean musky scent. You always would sniff him aggressively when he came back in. Sometimes, he would just bring you two breakfast and wake you with sweet, sleepy, soft kisses. But other times, he would crawl back into bed with you two. 

You treasured being squished between Feyre and Rhysand. Feyre’s soft chest pressed against your back, Rhysand’s pecs as pillows at your front. Arms and legs tangled, not knowing where one of you began and the others ended. 

With you, the both of them have learned to cherish the sleepy calm moments, and to savor them. 

You loved lazy mornings.

[littlest-w01f]

feysand mirror sex 🥰🥰

a/n: nehdjdjejsjs you know they do ittt

Look

1) mirror sex

Feysand drabble

"Eyes open darling," Rhysand breathes, face close to Feyre's as he has her on all fours, hand wrapping in her hair to force her to look up. When Feyre does, her eyes lock onto her reflection in front of her, her, bend over as her mate ruts his cock inside her willing cunt, drooling all over both their thighs.

Her eyes are hazy from pleasure, a line of drool on her lips from how far she is fucked out, she whines as he twists her hair in his hand, the way the veins and muscles in his body flex with how he fucks her.

"Rhys-" Feyre whines, thrusting back onto his length, the cock that fit her so perfectly like they were puzzle pieces always meant to be together. Her eyes look into her reflection, going up his body she swallows, he's so focused on her, eyes locked with her sweaty back where the moon phases go up her spine.

He can't look away from her, hands on her hips to pull her perfect cunt back on his cock, "Look at us Feyre... We're perfect." He purrs, looking at her body in the reflection, how her breasts sway enticingly with each move and shudder.

"Yes... Yes..." The High Lady whines, pushing herself back on him, face screwing in pleasure only he could give her. Her nails dig into the pillow below her, arms straining to keep herself up.

Rhysand chuckles at the desperate way she pushes herself on his length, himself softly losing his mind from the warmth of her, going as deep inside her as her body allows, "My Lady!" He growls, hands landing on her ass as he prowls for a better grip on her.

"My Lord- FUCK." Her eyes roll to the back of her head as he spanks her again, feeling and seejng the refldction of his hands scratching at her body for a grip, legs trembling from the force of keeping her release at bay. "Rhys..."

"I know darling... I know..." He hums, leaning closer to kiss her shoulder and then her back, "Trap me inside your body, Feyre darling."

Just as the whisper leaves his lips, she clamps down on his cock, release gushing onto his form, her hands give out from under her making her nearly land on her face if it wasn't for Rhysand's arms instantly holding her up.

Rhysand swears as Feyre's grip on him tightens through her orgasm, "Just like that-" He hisses through clenched teeth, "Let me give you... Ugh– everything..." He grunts as his own release rushes through his entire being, thick, hot seed emptying inside her warmth, Feyre's cunt held him throughout, tight enough he couldn't move as she clenches around his length like he asked.

[the-lonelybarricade]

“So are you thinking soft tacos, or—”

@officialfeysandweek Day 2: Mirrors

Something I find really compelling about Feysand is that they don't just mirror the good in each other, they mirror the bad, too. Their capacity for ruthlessness is so fun to play around with in fanfic, and @separatist-apologist does it masterfully in Is There A Word For Bad Miracle? when Rhys stumbles upon Feyre committing a murder.

This is one of my all time favorite fics and I had so much fun working with @/lacunanism_ to bring this iconic scene to life!

[rainymorning-writes]

hi! I write spicy pre-relationship feysand fics where one or both get wrecked by the mating bond. This is a shortlist but you can always find me on AO3 for more <3

Infatuation and its Many Inconveniences Set UTM, Rhysand grows frustrated when he can’t find an explanation for his increasingly debilitating attraction to a mortal.

Seduction, Temptation, and Other Such Troubles Sequel to Infatuation. After UTM, Rhys tries to spare himself heartbreak but Feyre won't stop showing up to pester him. (WIP)

Make Me Tortured Feyre navigates Under the Mountain without realizing she has caused dark!Rhysand's mating bond to snap. (WIP)

One shots/short fics:

No One Will Ever Know: Rhysand overhears Feyre being naughty through the bond.

A Tonic for Their Troubles: An alternate telling of events following the night at the inn.

The Possibilities of a Throne: After the throne scene, Rhysand finds himself with needs.

[inkedinshadows]

18 with Feysand djsjjdjs

Five More Minutes

Pairing: Feysand

Word count: 551

Warnings: none

18 - back hugs in the morning

(fluff writing game)

Rhys could never get enough of his mate—of that he was sure.

Whenever Feyre was near, his hands would automatically reach for her. A brush of their fingers, a caress along her arm, a hand at her back…

He couldn't help himself. He needed to touch her. And if she wasn't near, he'd go to her.

Rhys got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, where Feyre was getting ready in front of the mirror. Her reflection smiled at him as his arms slipped around her waist, drawing her back against his bare chest.

“Are you sure you can't come back to bed?” His lips brushed the skin of her neck as he spoke, soft like a feather. “Just five more minutes?”

Feyre playfully flicked his forehead. “No,” she replied, turning back to the mirror. “You already asked for five more minutes, and that was fifteen minutes ago. Now I'm late.”

But Rhysand didn't give up. His arms tightened around her, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, watching as she finished doing her makeup.

“I'm sure Mor would understand,” he mumbled.

“Rhys,” she chided, “I promised her we'd have breakfast together.”

He shrugged, then a sly smirk appeared on his lips. “I'm the High Lord,” he said. “I could make her reschedule. Or order that bakery to take a day off.”

Feyre chuckled, eyes on the mirror. “Are you pulling rank to keep me here?”

Rhys only hummed, pressing a kiss to her jaw. She drew a black line on his nose with her mascara, then laughed again as she put it away.

He lifted a brow. “That was uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?” Feyre turned in his embrace, looping her arms around his neck. “I'd say it's very much deserved for threatening to pull ranks like that.”

He gave her an exaggeratedly offended look. “It was merely a suggestion, darling.”

“Fine,” she replied with a grin. “Then here's a suggestion from your High Lady.”

His eyes gleamed at the mention of her title. His fingers slightly dug into her waist as she leaned in to murmur in his ear.

“Don't even think about ruining my breakfast with Mor.”

He couldn't lie—he was disappointed. And judging by Feyre's low chuckle as she pulled back, she knew it too.

But she only looked at him.

“Alright,” he finally gave in. “Go on and abandon your mate to see his cousin instead.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're a few centuries too old to be acting like a baby, Rhys.”

But then she drew him closer for a kiss, and no matter how many times their lips met, it would never be enough for him.

“I really have to go now,” Feyre said after they broke apart. “I'll see you in a few hours?”

Rhysand held her close for a moment longer before finally letting her go.

“Always,” he answered. Then he smirked. “And then we can finally have those five minutes?”

She shook her head, already heading toward the bedroom door. “You're impossible.”

Rhys smiled at the affection in her voice. He leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching as Feyre stopped after opening the door.

She glanced back to him.

“Oh, and good luck getting that mascara off your nose.” She flashed him a grin. “It's waterproof.”

Taglist: @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

[lady-bluebird-luv]

Happy @acotargiftexchange, @shadowisles-writes!

“Happy birthday, my prince.” Feyre dropped into a bow just shallow enough to be insolent. She rose and inclined her head to the dais. “My lady. High Lord.” “Lady Archeron,” Rhys purred, masking his shock with wicked delight. “What a surprise.” He dropped his gaze to her trophy. “I don’t suppose you brought me a present for the festivities?” Feyre’s eyes were walls of blue ice, but Rhys saw a mischievous fire sparking far behind her mask. “Your birthday gift is my attendance.” The crowd shifted uneasily. “But,” Feyre added, with a smile that made even Rhys’s skin prickle, “consider this an apology for arriving late.”

I had so much fun tailoring a feysand fic for you, and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for letting me pick your brain these past few months - I have a lot of treats for you lined up in the coming chapters!

And a huge shoutout to the exchange mods - this is my first exchange for this fandom, and it's been a great experience because of all the work you've done to make sure it runs smoothly.

Read it on AO3.

Word Count: 5,357 (1/4 chapters)

Rating: Explicit (eventual smut, violence)

Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, background ships

[astra-aeterna]

my brain said "hey what if feyre had trouble coming w other people and asked rhys for help (ft daddy kink)" and i ended up with 5k words about it

i hope you enjoy late night, your hands, my thighs

[starfall-spirit]

Tell Me I’m Someone That You Can’t Replace

Read But For You I Was Made, Chapter II

For @sajirah

🎨: @theredcrane

My second commission for the acotar gift exchange, to pair with the fic linked above. theredcrane was amazing to work with for this project and I'm so glad to finally share this stunning piece.

~~~~~

“Darling, you have nothing to worry about. Just relax.” He smirked, standing so he faced her fully. “Here, we’ll start again.” Leaning down, Rhys raised her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. “You look lovely today, Feyre darling.”

Something snapped, sharp and hot before mellowing to a soft glowing thread. An endless river of joy and light and all things good. And the next time he met her eyes, she saw it for what it was. The High Lord of the Night Court was her mate.

Rhys smirked again. “There you are.”

[sapphicmsmarvel]

feysand: disability comfort

note: i have sciatica nerve pain and will for the rest of my life and i had a bad flare up recently (im at the lower end of that flare up as i write this)  so this is a super duper self indulgent fic. These are my specific symptoms and experiences, pls seek a medical professional’s opinion if you find yourself feeling the same things. 

Self diagnosing is dangerous ! 

We love doctors ! 

When you woke up, you knew it was going to be a bad day and that a potential flare up was on its way to you. 

You had shifted your leg ever so slightly, and felt it. 

The twang. 

And you sighed. The twang of the muscle was a sign that you were in for it for the rest of the day and possibly the next few days. It didn’t necessarily hurt. The twang was a minor discomfort. 

It was the most comfortable part of a flare up. 

So you got out of bed ever so carefully to not aggravate it further. You knew you’d be able to go to work and complete your tasks for the night court today, but the next few days? Might as well bring work home with you so you can do it from a bed. You were the last of the family to leave for the day, Feyre was at the studio, Rhys was running a city and Nyx was away with Auntie Nesta, Uncle Cassian and Uncle Azriel. 

When you went to grab your jacket, a note fell out of the coat pocket. 

Have a good day my love. MWAH Feyre didn’t need to sign it, her kiss mark with her pink lipstick was her trademark. 

When you went to grab your lunch, you saw Rhysand wrote you a note.

This is almost as delicious as me and Fey! See you soon, angel! 

Ps don’t forget about us while you're off running an entire newspaper! 

You couldn’t help but snort, he seems to forget he’s the main breadwinner. 

You were a journalist for Velaris. Extremely well known across the entirety of Prythian. You were the reason most of your staff were able to stay calm because you kept things in order. 

You didn’t start limping until you had gotten to your office, your secretary asked why you were limping and you lied that you twisted your ankle.

If anyone else had told you they were also disabled, you would offer them whatever they needed, and tell them how it wasn’t embarrassing and there were zero things to feel bad about.

But since it was you, you were quite hard on yourself. 

After putting out a small metaphorical fire, you were able to hide a bit in your office where you can limp and cry in peace. It was getting worse, the pain was more intense, it was white-hot pain at this point all across your lower back and butt. You had managed to not cry yet, teared up yes, but you were able to swallow them down. 

You had gotten to lunch, and that’s when you couldn’t stand up straight. 

Fuck. 

Feyre and Rhysand were absolutely on their way to the cafe you three had agreed to meet at today. But there was no way you would make it to that restaurant, back and then the walk home. 

You opened up the bond to say, I won’t be able to make it to lunch. Things are crazy over here, I will see you both at home. Love you!

Feyre’s worried voice came through. Is everything okay? 

Just a gossip column issue with the Spring Court branch! I’ll see you both at home. 

It was a small lie, technically there was an issue with the gossip column for the Spring Court branch. You just took care of that that morning, not the afternoon. 

Rhysand didn’t respond but you chose not to worry. 

You closed the bond and resumed your work, you were agonizing over some final edits when there was a knock at the door. You looked at the clock, you knew you had zero meetings for once today. 

“Come in.” You said. 

Then the door opened to your lovely spouses with food. 

“What the hell?” You asked. 

“We wanted to make sure you ate. But your secretary said that everything was calm.” Feyre tilted her head, those grey eyes narrowing and are somehow able to detect your lies. 

You stood up, “baby-” then your back just twinged and it caused you to gasp and nearly fall over. Your hands slapped against the oak of your desk, causing your pencil cup to rattle. 

“Y/N!” Rhysand was fast as light as he came to stabilize you. Feyre was right there at your front, the look of irritation quickly replaced by concern. 

You were trying to breathe deeply and Rhys’ hands were on your hips. 

“Sciatica pain?” Feyre’s brows furrowed as she asked. 

“Yeah.” You breathed out, Rhys’ large hands massaging your hips gently but not putting so much pressure on the area where it’s really throbbing because pressure doesn’t help all the time. 

“C’mon, sit.” Rhysand guided you down to your chair, and you let out a breath of relief at the loss of tension when you sat. However, there was still an echo of pain. 

“When did this start.” Rhys didn’t ask the question. He demanded it. 

“This morning.” “And you didn’t tell us because…?” 

You sighed, “I just. I hate this part of me. I didn’t want to bring attention to it.” 

“My love, it's a part of you, whether you like it or not.” Feyre said the harsh truth. 

You snorted. “Thanks.”

“Shut up.” She said and nudged your knee with her own paint splattered shoes. “It’s a part of you, and we love all parts of you. Granted, we don’t want to see you in pain, but if you are, we want to help you. We aren’t burdened by this.” 

Rhysand began scratching the top of your head lightly, but it was soothing. “So tell us the truth, Angel.” 

You sighed, and looked back and forth between them. “I hurt. A lot.” 

“You wanna go home?” Feyre asked. 

“More than anything. Am I allowed to do work? Or is that a no go?” You looked at them, “May I have my nurse's opinion?” 

Feyre smiled, “work stays here.” 

You looked at Rhys, who smiled and kissed your forehead, “work stays here.” He agreed. 

You sighed, as they began getting your stuff around to take home. You let Rhys winnow you home while Feyre ordered people around the office to not bother you. Your staff adored her and you, so it was an easy ask. She told them to just leave things on your desk and again, the world will not end if the paper is slightly delayed. But the way you ran the office, you were always a week ahead, with editing boxes available for actual timely events. 

So nothing was too crazy. 

By the time Feyre got home, you were in the bath. And Rhys was making your favorite foods. He already had your painkillers set out on a tray on the made bed. 

He’s such a housewife. 

You hated how much you had to depend on them for the next few days. You could barely move. It hurt to lay, it hurt to sit, to stand, anything. Even using the toilet, it took you a while to just get the momentum to stand up. (Rhys had bars installed to help you up because he knew you wouldn’t ask them).

Sometimes your leg would go completely numb or tingly. So they’d work with you to ‘wake’ your leg up. You knew they were scared when they saw you like that. You’d be scared if you saw them like that. 

When you went stir crazy from being in the house for a few days, they would bring you random drawers to organize. Or untangling Feyre’s jewelry from each other, organizing Rhys’s photo boxes. 

You and Feyre did stretches together as well, Rhys would press a hot cloth to your back and switch with a cold cloth when you requested. 

And when you’d cry from the pain, they would brush your hair back, they’d rub your sore spots if you wanted. They’d bring you water or snacks. 

They would comfort you through anything, and you couldn’t be happier. 

(Even though you felt completely miserable at the moment).

[littlest-w01f]

Thinking about best friend's older brother Feysand... Again...

Morden AU, Feyre moves to study Art in Velaris uni and meets and becomes besties with Rhys' sister, who is studying fashion to be a seamstress like their mother

She convinces Feyre to stay with her for the summer, and that's when she formally meets older brother Rhys, who's VERYYY... well himself.

A lot of sparks be flying all over, and Rhys is wrapped around Feyre's finger almost instantly and only his sister realizes that.

"Wait, he asked you if you wanted food? When I ask him to get me something, he says he's bringing back his foot..."

"HE LET YOU SIT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF HIS CAR??!!??"

"Mmmm, why does he want to chaperone our drinking nights with my friends? He says my friends are boring and I'm boring. Mmmm..."

And drunk Feyre is safely draped over Rhys with his jacket covering her while he's just looking over to make sure she's alright after glaring at the guy she was dancing with.

FEYRE GETS KIDNAPPED BY THEIR FATHER'S ENEMIES AND RHYS BRINGS HER BACK CAUSE OFC THEY ARE SECRETLY MAFIA HAHAAHA

[the-lonelybarricade]

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 4

Summary: Fresh after her third, and final, breakup with Tamlin, Feyre decides a one night stand is exactly what she needs to get him out of her system. Except, her one night stand with a violet-eyed stranger ends up being far more than she bargained for.

Or; the one where Feysand gets pregnant from a one night stand

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

"I feel like we should establish some ground rules."

Feyre blurted the words, using them as if they were a shield she could mount across the center console to keep Rhys firmly on his side of the car.

She supposed, technically, every side was his side, and the arm he pushed through the invisible barrier was testimony. Feyre restrained the urge to flinch as his palm settled at the back of her headrest.

"Ground rules for what?"

"This car ride."

"Oh yeah?" Rhys asked absently, pivoting his attention to the rear window as he began reversing out of the space.

"Yes," Feyre said, but she cringed at the way the s slid through her teeth. Like a hiss. Like the sound of a whirring spindle, unwinding her composure until it was a tangle of loose thread in her lap.

Rhys paid no mind to her urgency. He acted like someone who had all the time in the world, methodical as he smoothly brought the car to a stop, switched gears, and turned out of the gallery parking lot.

It was only then that he turned to her. When it was too late to get out. Like he knew that finding his eyes in the dark, twinkling in and out from the passing streetlights, would be too reminiscent of that night.

For the first time in weeks it was just the two of them, in such a small space, and it felt like an electric storm collecting overhead. Feyre could feel all the warning signs: the rising hair, the thrumming pulse, the static crackling in her ear.

"What are the ground rules, then?" He asked, clearly unaffected.

Feyre reasoned it was the quiet making things worse. Tension couldn't build if there was no room for it, right?

She held up two fingers, ignoring the electric charge burning on her tongue as she said, "No talking about Tamlin." She waited until he nodded. "And no talking about the baby."

Rhys glanced towards her. A long glance. The kind that was full of meaning she couldn't hope to decipher, and also made her antsy about how long he was taking his eyes off the road.

He swivelled his head back before she could snap at him for it. Then he said, far too casually, "And has that been going well for you? Not talking about the baby?"

"If you're going to be a dick, I can walk home."

She watched his grip tighten on the wheel. Tighten, then relax.

He said, softly, "We'll have to talk about the baby eventually."

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself, hoping it could be another shield, knowing it would be just as useless as the first.

"I know," she whispered, slumping her shoulders. "It's why I invited you in the first place. I just… not tonight, okay?"

"Okay," he said, after giving her another one of those long stares. "Fine. No Tamlin, no baby. What about your art? Can we talk about that?"

Feyre, admittedly, didn't want to. It only made her think of the disaster of an art show they just fled and the carnage that would be waiting for her when she got home. Barring another topic of conversation felt like overkill, though. And it was safe enough.

"What about my art?"

"You're very talented."

Feyre was grateful his eyes were on the road and it was too dark to see her expression. She'd never been very good at reacting to compliments, and Rhys somehow managed to make them sound so much more… personal.

"Careful," she said, trying for lightness but finding the shape of it was too sharp. Less a feather, more a blade. "If you keep saying that to me, I'm going to think you're being insincere."

Rhys flashed her a sideways smile. Everything was coming out wrong tonight, but he hardly seemed phased by her sour mood.

"I keep saying it because I mean it."

Sure he did. The same way Tamlin's colleagues meant their compliments—because they wanted something out of it. A business deal or a pay bump or, in Rhysand's case, a baby mama who didn't try to ignore his existence.

Maybe his motivation wasn't such an awful thing, by comparison. Maybe it was… sweet that he was trying.

Maybe she should let him try.

Feyre sighed. "Thank you. I'm sorry for—"

"May I establish a ground rule?"

She blinked, surprised and a little annoyed at being interrupted.

"Sure."

"No apologizing. For anything."

Feyre assessed him out of the corner of her eye, measuring his intent. "Even if I puked in your car?"

Rhys looked alarmed. "Is that a possibility? I can pull over."

"No." Feyre shook her head. "No, it's just that this car is so meticulously clean, I figured that'd be a big deal to you."

It'd be a big deal to Tamlin. He still refused to pick her up from her studio after the time she accidentally got paint on one of his seats. It was only water-based, and they'd been able to get it out with a wet cloth as soon as she got home, but sometimes anger left a stronger stain than paint.

Rhys shrugged. "It's just a car, Feyre. I can get it cleaned. And honestly, you wouldn't be the first. Cassian and Mor have puked in my back seat at least a handful of times."

"Cassian?"

The name sounded familiar, but she was having trouble putting a face to it.

"My brother," Rhys said, affection plain in his voice. "Not by blood, though. He was a foster kid my parents took in. Along with Azriel."

"I didn't know you had brothers." But then again, how could she? It's not like they exchanged much small talk when she had her tongue down his throat. "I have two sisters."

Rhys smiled. "Older?"

"How did you know?"

"The light in your eyes is too bright for an eldest child," he joked. "And your art—you had one piece that was titled as a family portrait."

Feyre knew the one he meant. She'd recreated her mother's old wardrobe and attributed each of the drawers to one of her daughters.

"But I didn't paint my sisters," Feyre said, dumbfounded he could have guessed she was the youngest from that piece, of all things.

"I know. I was trying to make sense of it for a while. But each drawer represents one of you, right? Fire, flowers, and stars. I assumed it was by birth order."

"How on earth did you know I was the stars?"

"They're everywhere in your art, Feyre. Like a signature. How could you be anything else on that dresser?"

He did that thing again. He turned his head and looked at her. Like he was seeing her for all she was.

It was a frightening thing to be looked at by a stranger and feel seen.

"The fire is my oldest sister, Nesta," she said, swallowing past a building lump in her throat. "The flowers are Elain. She's gentle and kind in ways I don't think I'll ever be able to emulate."

"You're bright and guarded," Rhys said thoughtfully. "Like the stars."

"Lonely, too."

She didn't know why she said that.

She absolutely shouldn't have said that.

Feyre cleared her throat, rushing into the silence before Rhys could think too carefully about that horrifying admission.

"Do you think we could stop for ice cream?"

He must be an athlete, accustomed to changing direction at neck-breaking speeds, because he only huffed a laugh and asked, "Do you have a place in mind?"

"Anywhere that has vanilla soft serve."

He shot her a cursory glance. "And that won't make you feel sick?"

"Recently, it's one of the only things I know I can keep down."

Without another word, Rhys switched on the indicator light. Its soft click filled the silence as they rolled to a stop and waited for the opportunity to turn.

"Is that normal?"

"I think so?" Feyre shrugged. "I keep googling everything, but the amount of information gets pretty overwhelming. I was going to bring it up at the appointment tomorrow."

"You have an appointment tomorrow?"

She didn't point out he was breaking the no baby talk rule. Mostly because she found herself wanting to tell him.

"It's my first one. I'm a little nervous. I… don't like doctors very much."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

The offer sounded so earnest it nearly subdued her knee-jerk rejection. Nearly.

"No, I'll be fine. My friend Alis is coming with. She's my roommate."

"Yes," Rhys said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "I remember."

She remembered it, too. Unfortunately. Even when she told herself she should stop remembering it, that husky voice came back to her, urging her to be quiet, to be a good girl.

Feyre bit her lip. Time to steamroll straight through that train of thought. "She did remind me of something earlier, though. She said the doctors will probably want to know about your medical history."

"Sounds like I should be there, then."

"Or you can just tell me now."

Rhys flipped the indicator again, filling the car with that soft click, click, click as he waited for the opportunity to turn into a McDonalds. She couldn't tell if he was silent because he was focused, or because she refused to let him go to the appointment. Tamlin always gave her the silent treatment when he didn't get his way.

"I'll tell you what," Rhys said as he slid into a parking spot. The car jolted forward as he put it into park. She felt her stomach jolt with it. "I'll run inside and get ice cream while you think about some of the questions they might ask you tomorrow. You can interview me once I'm back."

"Okay," she said, hardly believing it was that easy for him to let it go.

Rhys leaned closer, fiddling with the center console. "Warm enough?" He asked, holding his hand in front of the vents. "Or, too warm?"

"Too warm."

He nodded, lowering the temperature. "Better?"

She snorted at the unexpected coddling and nudged his shoulder. "Go get the ice cream. I know how to work the AC."

With a laugh, he retreated back to the driver's side. She watched, curious, as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid a hand into his front pocket, keys jingling as he withdrew them.

"Here." He held them out to her. "In case you need to lock the doors. Or sound the alarm."

Feyre raised a brow. "You're only going to be a second, aren't you?"

"Just take the keys, Feyre."

"Can't promise I won't drive off with them," she teased, taking them from his hand. She ignored the way their fingers brushed, how her skin tingled from just that brief, accidental touch.

"And miss out on ice cream? I think you're bluffing."

Feyre poked her tongue at him as he pushed open the car door. He laughed—the kind where he tilted his head back.

She thought of her sisters, how they used to spend hot summer days playing with the garden hose. Sometimes it would get stuck, lodged beneath car tires and fences, and the water would dissipate into a languid drip until the kink was smoothed out. Feyre thought that must have happened to her at some point, a dozen sharp twists and light pinches slowly building up until her happiness was just a suffocated trickle.

It wasn't new, the realization that she was unhappy.

But it may have been the first time she realized how far she'd deviated from the girl she used to be. Rhysand laughed like it was easy. She wanted to feel that way again—so badly it was like a craving.

"I'll be right back," he said.

She nodded, digging her fingers into the armrest as she waited for this unexpected longing to fizzle out. It only felt worse once she was alone. The solitary silence threatened to bury her alive.

Her hand fell, unconsciously, to her stomach. The baby was still barely bigger than a pea. Would she feel less lonely once the baby was here, or would it feel like losing more of herself? It terrified her that she didn't know.

Rhys returned minutes later, ice cream cones procured in each hand. He nudged his elbow against the passenger door as a form of knocking. She debated locking the doors just to fuck with him, but ultimately her desire for ice cream won over and she leaned over to unlatch the door.

"Vanilla soft serve, as requested," he said, proudly presenting one of the cones to her. Once he was certain she had hold of it, he gracefully slid into the driver seat, pulling the door after him. "So," he said, turning to her. "Hit me—what's the first question?"

"Hmm." Feyre stalled for time by running her tongue along the rim of the cone. It wasn't lost on her, the way Rhysand's eyes darkened. "Any hereditary illnesses I should know about?"

Rhys grinned. "Nope. Clean bill of health. Well, besides my right knee, but that was a sports injury so I think we're in the clear."

"Oh? What sport?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a personal question," Rhys said lightly. "I thought this was strictly clinical."

"I thought you wanted to get to know each other," she countered.

"Any question relevant to the appointment you get for free. But if you want to ask something personal, I get to ask something, too. No grounds rules."

Feyre gaped. "Yes, ground rules!"

"Then no personal questions."

"Are you always like this?"

Rhys clicked his tongue. "Ah, now that sounds like another personal question."

"Unbelievable," she grumbled. "Okay, fine. Do you have any allergies?"

"Cats make me a little sniffly, but otherwise, no."

"I'm more of a dog person, anyway," she said, as if that mattered. "What about… medicines? Were you taking anything at the time of, erm, conception?"

Feyre felt like she was burning as she met his stare. She'd flipped the AC unit to its lowest temperature, but the cold air blowing on her face still wasn't enough. Not when she could practically see the memories dancing behind his eyes.

Holding her gaze, he took a long lick of the ice cream. She realized she couldn't be angry with him for doing it—it would melt if he didn't eat quickly enough—but the slow flick of his tongue felt suggestive of those memories.

They both knew he had taken something that night. Thoroughly. Passionately.

"No," he said, a glimpse of the ice cream still visible in the cradle of his tongue. "Needed a few pain killers for the day after, though."

"Hangover?"

There was that infuriating smirk. "Claw marks."

"Moving on," Feyre said quickly, clearing her throat. "What about your mom and dad? Grandparents? Did they have any health issues?"

Rhys considered. "My grandfather died of lung cancer, but he was a smoker. Not sure if we need to be too concerned there. My grandmother lived a long life, though—one hundred and two. Survived him nearly forty years."

"That's so sad," Feyre whispered, thinking of her father, and the way he deteriorated after her mother died.

Grief was supposed to get better with time, but sometimes she thought it was just like burying a capsule in dirt. It didn't matter how many layers were added, it was still there. And when it opened, it was as fresh and raw as the day it was buried. Like an abscess that never healed.

"She wouldn't think so," Rhys said. "Used to say it's what helped her live longer."

His eyes were creased like he was telling a joke, so Feyre forced a laugh. Inside, something in her withered.

She always thought love was so tragic. Every person she loved, she would one day lose, either through circumstance or death. Neither outcome seemed particularly happy. And in the chance where she was the one who died first, there was still the burden of knowing she would leave that wound festering in someone else.

And that was assuming the love wouldn't sour before that point. There were plenty of stories like Rhysand's grandmother's, where the promise of being with someone until the end of your life felt like more of a burden than a gift.

Lingering on those thoughts too long was painful, like pressing fingers to a bruise.

"What about your parents?" She asked, changing the subject.

The humor in Rhysand's expression dampened. "No health issues that I was aware of. I can't ask them, though. They died in a car crash a few years ago."

"Oh." Feyre's mouth popped open. "Rhys, I'm so sorry."

He waved it away and teased, "You forgot my ground rule, Feyre."

"I'm—" She pressed her lips together before she could apologize for apologizing. Like an idiot.

Rhys grinned. "I think I should get to break one of your rules. In the interest of fairness."

"How is that fair?" She sputtered. "What am I supposed to say when you tell me your parents are dead? Good riddance?"

He was shaking his head, grid spread wide. "I don't make the rules, Feyre."

"Yes. You literally do."

"Come on, humor me. One question, no ground rules."

She glared at him. "Fine. What is it that you want to know so badly?"

When Rhysand's expression shifted, assuming a gravity that sucked the air from car, she knew to brace for a question she absolutely did not want to answer.

"Does Tamlin make you happy?"

Her eyes darted to the button that controlled the passenger window, reaching for it because she needed the fresh air to feel like she could breathe, and also because it bought her a moment to compose her thoughts.

It was damning, she considered, that her answer was not an immediate yes. If she was going to lie, then her chances of sounding credible plummeted in the time it took to roll down the window, suffocating her with every second she waited for the glass panel to disappear into the hollow of the door.

Night air rushed in, greeting her like an old friend with a kiss on her cheeks. She gulped it down greedily, hoping that Rhys would drop the question if she simply pretended he hadn't asked.

"I'm not trying to interfere," he added, gratingly gentle. "And it's not a judgment. I just assume that if he's around, he'll be playing a role in our baby's life, and I want to understand what that role will be." There was something about those words—our baby. It implied an intimacy that sent her chest thumping. "And… I just want to make sure you're happy. Because honestly, Feyre—"

"Don't," she warned, trying her best to tamp down on a flare of anger. She hated that the question made her feel defensive. It wasn't as if she owed anyone an explanation, even him.

"You're right," he said. "It's not my place."

Feyre swallowed. Not really sure what to say to him. Whether to be honest or spiteful or find some way to articulate the maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions that had been plaguing her for the last eight weeks. They all felt too personal—too tightly wrapped in the fist she kept clenched around her heart.

"Tamlin is all I know," she said, finally. "We met in college when everything else in my life was falling apart, and he was the one who collected all my broken pieces and helped me fit them back together. He's… familiar."

Like an old hoodie, she almost wanted to say.

"But you broke up?" Rhys asked. "Mor told me that when we, uh—met, let's say—that you weren't with Tamlin anymore."

"We were broken up," she admitted, feeling a bit pathetic for it. "I found messages on his phone. There's this woman at his work… he promised it was nothing, but the messages didn't seem that way."

She bit her lip and snuck a glance towards Rhys to gauge his reaction, but his face was so hard to read. It felt dangerous to let the silence sit. It was too easy to probe, to ask a question that would be just as damning as the last.

In a rush, she explained, "He showed up at my door a few days after… you know. I didn't know I was pregnant, obviously, and he was so adamant that everything was going to change. He's told me that before, and I didn't really believe him, it's just…"

Rhys leaned forward. "It's just what?"

How did she even begin to put words behind the numbness she'd felt, standing on her doorstep, listening to Tamlin explain why they should get back together again? Words were too precise, too clean. Nothing Feyre felt was easy to draw distinct lines around, it was too blurred, too muddied, like watercolors that had run together.

"Sometimes…" Feyre chewed at her lip. She knew how it sounded, and she knew it wasn't right, but the closest she could articulate was, "Sometimes I feel like I'm too scared of living."

Those violet eyes, near black in the dim light, darted over her face again and again, as if trying to convince himself he'd heard her wrong.

His voice was hoarse as he whispered, "What?"

He sounded devastated.

"Not like that!" She insisted, squeezing her eyes in frustration because she just wanted to make him understand, but she didn't know how. "It's like… when I used to take swim lessons as a kid. We always had a break in the middle where all of the girls would rush into the hot tub, but I would stay in the pool. Because I knew that once I felt the hot water, the pool would feel twice as cold. Once your body's acclimated, it's just easier not to get out at all."

"And Tamlin…" Rhys puzzled out. "He's the pool water?"

"Life is the pool water," she said, feeling her eyes begin to sting. "Everyone talks about love like it should be this deep, all-consuming feeling, but then what happens when you lose something like that?" She thought of the ever-present grief in her father's eyes and shook her head. "I don't think I could survive it. Tamlin is…" Her bottom lip wobbled. "He's safe."

She could feel Rhys watching her. Maybe it was finally occurring to him that she was a mess, that something in her was broken, and that he didn't want anything to do with it. Did he regret driving her home?

"If Tamlin is safe," he said quietly, "then why haven't you told him about the baby yet?"

It was the question she dreaded more than anything else. She liked to think she could handle it like an adult—tell him it was none of his business, or make some evasive comment. She was going to be a mom. It was important to be able to handle these things.

Instead, Feyre burst into tears.

She wished that the breeze lapping against her cheek would take mercy and swallow her whole. It would be so much easier if she broke down in a pit of darkness that only she was witness to—at least then she wouldn't feel so mortified, wouldn't be trying to cover her face with a neglected ice cream cone that was already dripping down her wrist.

Warm fingers brush against hers, gently prying the ice cream out of her fist. Through blurry vision and soft, hitching breath, she watched Rhys place the melted cone in the cup holder of the center console. That in itself was almost enough to still her tears—his utter disregard for the mess it would cause.

Then he was pressing a napkin into her palm, gentle as he gripped her wrist, maneuvering it this way and that so he could wipe the sticky residue from her fingers.

Feyre didn't think she'd ever been so pliant in her life. She reasoned it was from the shock of his reaction. She was sobbing in his car and he wasn't asking her why, or telling her to stop, or insisting that it would be okay. He wasn't saying anything.

Once he was satisfied that her hands were clean, Rhys set down the wipes and opened out his arms in offering. It was wrong, wasn't it? To accept. She should have curled her knees into her chest and cried there like any other self-respecting woman.

Self-respecting women had resolve. The last of hers had been spent holding back her tears, and now that it had collapsed entirely, there was nothing to prevent Feyre from burying her face in his collar. It smelled like him, the scent she'd been trying to push out of her head for weeks. Just when she thought she was on the cusp of success, here she was, inhaling deeply with each ragged sob. She feared it would settle inside her lungs and never escape, tinting every breath with his presence.

This was what the soil must feel like, she thought. When it could feel the roots taking hold, binding and shaping it to the will of another. Rhys had the kind of touch that would need to be uprooted from her soul.

And she felt, as his hands smoothed down her hair and back, that it was already too late for her. She was already in the hot tub, feeling the slosh of warm water as he rocked her in a slow, gentle motion.

He didn't shush her, not once. He just held her until the tears quieted. And kept holding her, still.

"Let me know when you're ready for me to take you back," he murmured.

It would be a while until she was ready to feel that cold again.

-

Tamlin was waiting for her.

She'd been expecting it. But seeing Tamlin's car parked in the drive, it felt like a clawed hand rising out of an abyss and grabbing hold of her legs to drag her down into a cold, foreboding dark.

The car came to a slow, rolling stop.

Rhys turned to her. His expression was guarded, difficult to read. "Want me to walk you inside?"

There was something hidden in that offer, she was sure. Want me to make sure he doesn't bother you?

Feyre shook her head. "No," she said, rubbing at her cheeks to make sure the tear tracks were gone. "I'll be fine. Thank you for driving me home."

His gaze landed on the pickup truck parked in her driveway. His mouth tightened. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"I'm fine," she snapped.

With a sigh, Rhys shifted his car into park and unlocked the doors. "You'll call me if you need anything?"

Feyre knew he was only being kind. But she could sense that beneath the offer, he was worried, and that grated her. She hated that everyone treated Tamlin like he was some volatile explosive. It felt just as much a judgment on her as it was on him.

The smile she offered Rhys was tight. "Thanks for the ride."

Rhys returned her tight smile, giving a small wave as she slid out of the passenger seat and shut the door behind her.

It was likely her imagination, her anxiety spiking from the anticipation, but she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck once the door was closed.

She knew Tamlin was watching her. Either from the truck, or from inside the house. He'd probably been monitoring her location the entire time. Feyre chewed the inside of her cheek, careful not to look back at Rhysand's car as she crossed the road.

Passing Tamlin's truck, she saw there was no one in the front seat. Alis must have let him in, then. She dreaded to think how long he'd been waiting. It couldn't have been that long, right?

At the front door, she paused to check if Rhys was still there. She could see him, watching from the driver's side for her to get into the house safely. Her heart swelled with gratitude for that small gesture, and the inexplicable courage it gave her to know that he was watching.

With a deep breath, Feyre stepped into the house.

"Where have you been?"

Tamlin stood on the other side of the door, blocking the hallway. His expression made her stomach tighten. He was furious. And drunk. A bad combination for anyone, but especially Tamlin.

Staying as calm as she could manage, Feyre began slowly unravelling her scarf. "Rhys drove me home."

"I didn't see Mor in the car."

An accusation, more than a question.

"We dropped her off along the way," Feyre said.

"Oh?" Tamlin shoved his phone inches from her face. The screen was open to a picture of her location. "Mor lives at McDonalds, does she?"

Feyre gave him an incredulous look. "You're angry we stopped for food?"

"I thought you had food poisoning. Isn't that why you rushed out of your own art show?"

"We stopped for ice cream," she said. "It's the only thing I thought I could keep down."

"Bullshit."

After hanging up her coat, Feyre turned to him and crossed her arms. "So what don't you believe exactly, Tam? That I was sick? Could you not hear me puking in that bathroom?"

That stumped him for a moment, which confirmed Feyre's suspicion that he and Rhys had been able to hear her retching through the bathroom door. Her cheeks heated, somehow far more embarrassed about Rhys overhearing than anything else.

"I believe you were sick, Fey," he said, eventually, "but you told me you were heading straight home."

She shrugged. "I was starting to feel better and wanted ice cream. Is that such a big deal?"

It was starting to work. She could see Tamlin mulling over the explanation, his irritation still plain but with increasingly less justification. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh.

"Something feels off here, Feyre."

Feyre made the mistake of hesitating. They both knew that the real reason he was angry was that she went home with Rhys. That she spent time alone with him.

But he was also right. Something was off. And Tamlin wasn't an idiot; he could sense it, even if he couldn't figure out what was off. And if his suspicions involved Rhys, they likely weren't too far from the truth.

Tamlin's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"

In her mind, she tried to play out how this would go if she just told him the truth. He would be angry, and that would be a justified reaction. But he was also drunk, and already jealous of Rhys, and the way he was leaning over her… she worried that anger would escalate.

"I'm tired," she said in a soft voice. Once she found herself frequently using when he'd had too much to drink. "Can we talk in the morning?"

"Talk?" He was getting worked up now. "What do we need to talk about, Feyre?"

When Feyre tried to step past him, he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to say, we're done when I say we're done.

Her hand absently found her stomach, cradling the invisible bump.

I just assume that if he's around, he'll be playing a role in our baby's life, and I want to understand what that role will be

When she was seven, she'd been sent to the principal's office for biting a boy who tried to corner Elain at recess. She'd always been fiercely protective of her sisters, but she'd never felt a protectiveness as intense as the one that surged through her in that moment.

At just that small act of acknowledgement that her child was beneath her palm, and that she would be damned if anyone threatened their safety. Tamlin may not have been an immediate threat, but he certainly didn't have the temperament of someone she'd want around her baby.

Feyre tilted her chin up. "I think we should break up."

"What?"

"You heard me, Tam. I don't think we should be together. And I mean it this time. We're not good for each other."

"Is this because of Mor?" Tamlin demanded. "Did she say something to you?"

"This has nothing to do with Mor." Feyre met his eyes levelly, begging him to stay calm. "This is about us, Tam. The fighting, the distrust, the secrets. I can't deal with it anymore."

"You can't deal with it?" He demanded. "Funny, you seemed happy to deal with it a few hours ago when I was bankrolling your art show."

Feyre clenched her teeth, her temper getting the better of her. "Don't go there with me. You and I know damn well you only booked the art show because you felt guilty about what happened with Ianthe."

"God dammit!"

Feyre barely had enough time to stumble out of the way as Tamlin whirled and crashed his fist through the wall. Plaster crumbled to the floor, covering his fist in ivory dust.

"Tamlin!" Feyre screeched. "Holy shit!"

A door slammed down the hall, and seconds later Alis came racing towards them, her eyes wide as she took in the scene before her.

Even Tamlin looked shocked by what he'd done. He straightened slowly, withdrawing his hand from the wall with what looked like shame. He looked at her, the anger gone from his eyes. "Feyre…"

She didn't need to hear it. This apology would be just like the hundreds of others, all delivered with the same sad eyes. Please don't hold me accountable, they begged.

But she was a mom now. That outweighed everything, even her empathy.

"Get out," she said.

When he didn't move, Alis warned, "You have ten seconds before I call police."

Tamlin kept his gaze pinned on Feyre, and she realized he wasn't just begging to be rescued. He was expecting it. Somewhere along the line, she'd taught him that he could behave however he wanted so long as he pretended he was sorry for it.

Well, not anymore. Not ever again.

Feyre met his eyes, making sure he could see every ounce of her resolve as she told him, "Get the fuck out of my house, Tamlin."

His jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle sticking out. He said nothing else as he shouldered his way past Feyre, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut.

Alis came to her side immediately, putting one hand on Feyre's back and the other on the deadbolt, pulling it across. They held their breaths until they heard the engine start up and the oversized tires kick up gravel as he pulled out of the drive.

"Oh my god," Feyre whispered once he was gone. Her eyes and throat were beginning to sting, her only warning before a sob wracked up her throat.

"Oh honey." Alis pulled her close, cradling Feyre's head against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrifying."

"It's over," Feyre said, uncertain who she was trying to console—Alis, herself, or the baby.

So she said it for each of them.

"It's over."

"It's over."

"It's over."

[littedidyouknow]

“I want Rhys to listen to my heart, not him.” Juliet’s quiet voice broke the silence of the room and with it, made his own heart squeeze painfully in his chest. “Please, Mama.”

What followed her words—her admission, her declaration, her truth—was another beat of silence.

Until finally, Feyre kissed the top of her head gently, and offered, her voice equally quiet,

“You’re good.” She paused, her eyes finding Rhys’s for only half a second before she averted her gaze again. “Doctor Knight is right there, Jules.”

Chapter 4 - Read on ao3.

[baenakinskywalker]

cold coffee in the morning

Rhys flicks his violet eyes toward the door. The condensation on the plastic to-go cups remind her just how hot it is outside — if she makes him wait, the drinks he’s brought will be completely watered down, and then she won’t be able to accurately judge them for purchasing purposes. That’s what this is, Feyre thinks as she twists the lock and pushes the door open. Hot air rushes in the building, scented with citrus and sea salt. He’s just here to bring her samples. She’s just trying out coffee varieties.  The business card handed to her at the Velaris Coffee Festival with a phone number hastily scrawled on the back was just networking.

rating: t

words: 2917

a/n: i'm back! here we are with my contribution to @separatist-apologist's feysand group project — a coffee shop (and coffee roaster!) au. thank you to @popjunkie42 for the beta read!! hope you guys enjoy <3

read on ao3 or under the cut:

“He’s here again,” Nesta calls from what’ll be the dining room when Archeron’s Coffee and Art House finally opens. “Want me to tell him to beat it?”

Feyre steps back from a half-finished mural along the back wall of the space. Someday, she’ll host classes or paint and sip events in this very spot. For now, it’s empty, save a drop cloth protecting the newly refinished floors, a ladder that OSHA certainly wouldn't approve of, and enough paint to rival the local hardware store. She closes her eyes and pictures the finished piece: Two hands holding a coffee cup emerge from a cloudy night sky, tipping its contents over a glittering city and coating everything in shades of black and brown and gold.

The idea came to her in a dream.

“No.” She wipes her paint-streaked hands on her coveralls. “I’ll be right there.”

Nesta and her laptop take up the only table in the dining room — the rest are slated to arrive in a week, with Archeron’s grand opening a week after that if all goes to plan. Spreadsheets that dictate the amount of money they need to make each day for the first year to break even cover the screen. Feyre’s head throbs just thinking about it.

Maybe Rhys spiked his delivery today.

She spies him leaning against the front windows, drink carrier in hand. Broad shoulders press against the glass, and Feyre runs her eyes down his back like she’s in a figure drawing class — the way his waist tapers in could take up a full page in her sketchbook. She taps on the glass like he’s a fish in an aquarium just to see if he’ll jump. He turns calmly, dark eyes glittering. 

Her stomach flips.

Rhys flicks his violet eyes toward the door. The condensation on the plastic to-go cups remind her just how hot it is outside — if she makes him wait, the drinks he’s brought will be completely watered down, and then she won’t be able to accurately judge them for purchasing purposes.

That’s what this is, Feyre thinks as she twists the lock and pushes the door open. Hot air rushes in the building, scented with citrus and sea salt. He’s just here to bring her samples. She’s just trying out coffee varieties. 

The business card handed to her at the Velaris Coffee Festival with a phone number hastily scrawled on the back was just networking.

“Good morning, Archerons,” Rhys says, stepping into the shop. 

“It was, until someone let all the air conditioning out.” Nesta closes her laptop and looks up expectantly. “What did you bring us?”

He sets the drink carrier on what’s going to be the pickup bar. “Cold brew. Two varieties, two ways.” 

“What’s the difference?” Feyre asks, grabbing one of the lighter cups. Truthfully, she’s not a coffee aficionado. She drinks it daily, but she’ll take whatever’s available. Usually hot, black, and bitter. Sometimes even instant. 

“This one” — Rhys tilts his chin toward her — “is a dark roast, paired with oat milk. I have that same roast on its own, and then a medium roast with and without oat milk.”

“Not dairy?” Nesta asks, grabbing the plain medium roast. She arches a brow. “More than 90% of all coffee-based drinks served in cafes are prepared with dairy milk.” 

Feyre rolls her eyes to herself. Thank God for Nesta’s business degree.

“That’s true,” Rhys says. “But non-dairy options are only growing in popularity. So much so that Nespresso developed a pod specifically to pair with Oatly.” Rhys shoves his hands into his pockets. “And Feyre said she likes oat milk.”

Nesta makes a noncommittal noise, then sips the cold brew. “It’s annoying how good that is.”

“Annoyingly good might make a nice tagline. I’ll pass that along to Cassian in marketing.” Rhys turns, and it’s clear the conversation with her sister is over. “Now, Feyre darling, what do you think?”

Her stomach flips. It’s not the first time he’s said it — darling — but she has the same internal reaction each time. “I like it,” Feyre manages, willing her face to stay its normal color. She feels sweaty, not just from painting in the weak air conditioning. “It’s smooth.”

“And?” he asks. 

He’s been doing this, too. Asking follow-up questions like she’s got any idea what she’s talking about when it comes to coffee characteristics. Like he really cares what she thinks. “And,” Feyre starts, biting into her bottom lip, “chocolatey?”

Rhys’s violet eyes twinkle. “Exactly. That’s what you tend to get from a darker roast — that velvety chocolate flavor. But the cold brew process eliminates some of the bitter notes you find in a traditional drip coffee or espresso.”

Feyre takes another sip, closing her eyes as she swallows. It tastes chocolatey, yes, but beyond that, it’s leisurely. It’s sitting at brunch with friends. A first date. A treat after a long day. “We have to serve it,” she says after a moment. 

Across from her, Rhys nods. “As you wish.” Then his smartwatch beeps. “That’s work,” he says, mouth ticking down into a frown. “But I wanted to ask if you’d like to tour our facility.”

This time, she can’t stop her face from flushing. 

”To get a better idea of what we offer, and what your wholesale options might be.”

Oh.

“And of course, we’d love to host Nesta, too.”

Of course. 

“No thanks,” Nesta calls from her workstation. Feyre’s head snaps in that direction and notes that Nesta hasn’t even looked up from her computer — though her cold brew has been drained, plastic cup fallen over on the table, rolling perilously close to the edge. 

Rhys laughs, a rumbling baritone that she feels in her toes. “So, what do you say, Feyre — shall we?”

“Now?” Her eyes go wide. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Typically when work is done, yes?”

Feyre nods. “Which is what I’m doing.” She gestures to the space around them. The unfinished mural on the wall is one thing, but there are bigger things on the to-do list: getting the plumbing and electric finished, interviewing staff, and building the menu, to name a few.

“But you need to finalize your first coffee order, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Nesta says. “She does.”

“I mean, if you want it in time for your grand opening, right?”

“I —” Feyre starts, trying to think of a way to disagree. But she knows he’s right. Nesta knows he’s right. And secretly, she wants him to be right. Wants to spend more time in his orbit. “I’ll just go change, then.”

Rhys’s smile drops for a fraction of a second. 

“What?”

“I like your coveralls,” he says plainly. 

Her mouth drops open. “But I’ll get paint on your car, or in your office. I’m…filthy.”

He eyes her, gaze moving from her surely paint-streaked face, down across her chest and torso, lingering on the subtle flare of her hips. “I don’t mind.”

Feyre’s mouth goes bone dry. “Let me just grab my bag.”

Rhys drives a dark sports car with a logo she doesn’t recognize, until she gets closer and makes out Aston-Martin in the middle of the wings. That’s the car James Bond drives — not a fellow small business owner. Thank God they didn’t take her beat up Camry. 

But she could use her sunglasses, which are somewhere in the console. In the midday sun, Feyre squints at a one-story building situated in the middle of an industrial business park with a sign out front reading Carynthian Coffee. In the window, there’s a decal of a mountaintop framed by three stars, just like the one on their booth at the Velaris Coffee Festival.

“Shall we?” Rhys asks. He leads her into the front office, where two women — twins, maybe — with dark hair and skin sit behind a long desk with two computer monitors.

“Welcome to Carynthian Coffee,” the one on the left says. Her voice is soft, shadowy. 

Her twin smiles warmly at Rhys. “Cassian and Azriel will be back in an hour or so.”

He nods. “Nuala, Cerridwen, this is Feyre.”

“From the coffee shop you keep visiting?” the woman on the left — Nuala — asks. Feyre fights to keep her face neutral at the admission that he’s been talking about her. 

He eyes them carefully. “I’m giving her the tour.”

“There’s a tour?” Cerridwen asks. 

Rhys waves his hand. “There is now. Keep up the good work, ladies.” And then he’s guiding them past another door and into a huge warehouse.

With huge coffee roasters. 

“Nuala and Cerridwen have worked here for years,” Rhys says. “And technically, they’re right. There’s not really a formal tour.”

Feyre nods absently, gaze still tracing the equipment in the room in front of her. “This is crazy.”

“The roasters?”

“They’re so…big.” She searches for a better word, but there’s not one. They’re just big. 

His mouth curls into a devilish smirk. “You’re impressed by size?”

She slips her hands into the pockets on her coveralls, suddenly feeling fidgety. “You were saying something about a tour?”

Rhys raises his eyebrows, that smirk still plastered across his face. “Right. So this is it — this is where we roast the coffee you’ve been sampling for the past two weeks.” He tugs at her elbow, pulling her into the belly of the beast.

The air around them is heavy, hot, and noisy. The sound of machinery whirring makes sense, but then there’s a sound almost like popcorn. Feyre tilts her head, and before she can ask, Rhys is speaking again. “That noise you’re hearing is called cracking. Steam builds up in the beans as they heat up, which has to escape somehow. It happens in stages, first and second.”

They walk in tandem, weaving through roasters and palettes of supplies, most of which Feyre doesn’t have the name for. “We use drum roasters, which roast the beans via convection, like your oven does.” She stops walking, hands playfully on her hips. “So I could cut out the middleman and roast coffee beans in my kitchen at home?”

His lower lip juts out in a facsimile of a pout. “And deprive yourself of my company?”

The realization hits like a freight train: Feyre desperately wants to kiss him. 

So she changes the subject. 

“What got you into the roasting business?” Her eyes bounce between the different pieces of machinery, at odds with the scent of coffee around them, and that salt-and-citrus smell that seems to follow Rhys wherever he goes. Frankly, the whole situation would make a great candle. 

She could sell them at Archeron’s. 

He leans against a pillar, hands sliding into his pockets. “My mother, really.”

“Big coffee drinker?”

“You could say that.” The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile, softer than she’s seen before. He looks almost boyish. “She worked in a cafe and roasted her own coffee, actually. That’s where she met my father. He worked at a VC firm, helping her franchise and eventually put her coffee on grocery store shelves. Illyria, if you’re familiar with it. The name’s an homage to where she immigrated from — in the Balkan peninsula.”

Feyre’s heart clenches. The way he speaks about his mother…she doesn’t have similarly warm memories of either of her parents. What to even say after that? “So you’re a nepo baby.”

Rhys’ eyes widen, and for a moment, Feyre worries she’s miscalculated. Then he laughs, loud, boisterous, echoing off the hulking roasters around them. “I guess I am.”

Not helping her desire to kiss him, which is growing by the second. Then:

“And you?”

It’s like a bucket of cold water poured over top of her like Carrie at the prom. Of course, Feyre knew this question was coming. Still, she feels herself dancing around it, trying to find a way to tell the truth without painting anyone too badly. So much is in the past, mostly forgiven. “Honestly, I’m less into coffee than I am the community of it all,” she says, wringing her hands. 

Rhys nods, and she can practically hear him saying and? like he does when she’s tasting a new brew in front of him. But he stays quiet, gives her room to get into it. 

“My mother died when I was 10.” She breathes deep, the hurt of it never fading the way she thought it would — the way counselors and friends told her it would, too. “And when she died, my family fell on…hard times.” In her mind, she sees the past-due bills piling on the counter. The shut-off notices. The empty liquor bottles. 

“I’m so sorry,” Rhys says. He reaches for her hand, and she lets him collect it, twining their fingers and squeezing gently. “If it’s too hard to talk about, we can just…continue the tour.”

Feyre blinks. It’s important to tell him this, for some reason. “No, it’s fine. Really, I don’t mind.”

His thumb runs across her knuckles, the feeling making her pulse flutter in her throat. “Go on, darling.”

“When we didn’t have food or water or electricity, I’d visit the coffee shop around the corner from our apartment. At first, I’d do my best to scrounge up enough change to order the cheapest thing on the menu: a plain, black coffee.” It had been bitter, the taste foreign in her mouth like motor oil. “But then the owner, Alis, got to know me.”

“She started giving you a discount?” “No, not at all.” Feyre laughs quietly. “She gave me a job. I bussed tables and brewed coffee and eventually worked the cash register. But my favorite thing about it wasn’t the coffee — it was getting to know the people. The regulars: students cramming for finals and writers working on manuscripts and families spending time together on the weekends.”

“How old were you?” Rhys asks, studying her carefully. “When you started working?”

She drops her eyes to the concrete floor beneath them. “12. Ish. It was off the books because I was so young, and she paid me in cash. But it helped keep the lights on.” And eventually helped send Nesta to business school. The two of them together now helping Elain attend a pastry program in the city.

“That must’ve been a lot on your shoulders.” Rhys squeezes her hand again.

Feyre shrugs. “I did what I had to do.”

“What about your father?” he asks softly. 

Something constricts in her chest, barbed and ugly. “My father?”

Rhys nods. “Was he working, too?” His brows slant together, and Feyre knows he knows. 

“He, uh, wasn’t. No. Couldn’t, really.”

“Couldn’t?”

She takes a deep, steadying breath. This is the sort of thing she lies to her therapist about. So why is she so compelled to share with this man she’s known less than a month? “He was dealing with a lot. Mental health issues.”

His face softens. Pity. The one thing Feyre’s never wanted from anyone, the reason she doesn’t open up. She never even told her ex all of this, but here she is baring her soul during what could technically be classified as a business meeting. She squints in the fluorescent lights, her vision going spotty around the edges. 

“Let me show you my office,” Rhys says, voice low and even over the cracking coffee around them. He fits a hand at the small of her back and leads her from the too-bright warehouse interior into a quieter, smaller room close to the door they first walked through. 

Feyre lets herself be led, lets Rhys handle her delicately — whether it’s from pity or not. He sits her in a comfortable armchair and then slips back into the warehouse. 

Her mind goes blank, first. Then, she thinks of the nights spent alone. The arguments with Nesta. The truce they seem to have finally come to. Of Elain, living in her own apartment and honing her pastry craft. 

Of Alis, the first person to take care of her. She’s retired now, living in another city with her son and daughter-in-law. When Archeron’s opens, Feyre wants to invite her to see it.

The door opens, and Feyre blinks hard. A tear falls into her lap.

Rhys hands her — what else? — a steaming cup of coffee. “From the kitchen,” he explains, scooting another armchair next to her. “It’s a medium roast.”

“I’m sorry,” Feyre says softly. “I-I didn’t mean to…to kill the mood like that.” She blows the curls of steam rising from the cup in her hands. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I asked the questions, and I wanted to know the answers. I like learning about you.”

“But you were probably expecting a fun date, and then I —”

She stops short. 

Rhys’ eyes are wide as espresso saucers. 

“Oh my God, I don’t know why I said that.” She gulps down the medium-roast coffee, and it nearly burns her tongue. The taste is pleasant though; lightly sweet and full bodied.

“Feyre,” Rhys starts calmly, “did you want this to be a date?” Her mouth falls open. “No.” She takes another gulp. “Yes. Maybe.”

The violet eyes across from her sparkle like the night sky. “In that case” — he leans in closer and plucks the mug from her hands, setting it on the little coffee table in front of them — “I’d say this was a perfectly successful date. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” she breathes, leaning closer, as if pulled by a magnet. 

When Rhys kisses her, he tastes like coffee, yes. But more than that, he tastes like new beginnings. 

[romanticatheartt]

What are your favorite Feysand fics? I just started reading them within the last few months and am slowly making my way through them while also trying to make a dent in my book tbr 😅.

I am VERY glad you asked hehe I've already posted a list of my favorite feysand fics long ago it's still somewhere in my blog (and I can't find it lol) but I'm gonna add some here as well. Also you can search #feysand fanfic on my blog and you'll see so many good Feysand fics<3

Before I start I think you should read these authors fics no matter what!!! Their mind is made of gold: @the-lonelybarricade , @littedidyouknow (Sophie writes the most fluffy/angsty fics<33) , @thesistersarcheron , @whatishowedyouinthedark (SVDG fanfics' tend to be very dark so be warned, but I suggest you to give them a shot hehe) @rosanna-writer , @popjunkie42 , @separatist-apologist , @amnevitahwritesstuff

Explicit, Fluff, Angsty, AU, Canon divergence:

Ready Or Not by Separatist_Apologist

The darker the fruit, the sweeter by Lady_Bluebird

I’m on my way to you by Littledidyouknow

Play me a memory by Littledidyouknow

Chains by Popjunkie42

A Study In Starlight by Vivienne1412 (Bridgerton AU)

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met by ClimbTheMountain2020

All I See Is You by KingofSummer

tensegrity by SweetVillainDarlingGod

On The Usefulness of Kneeling by rainymorning

A Court of Dreams and Wishes by HighLadyOfIcedCoffee (role-reversal)

to take, to worship by VivereLibri

Poltergeist Darling by miss_belivet

miracles by VivereLibri

i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved by soopsiedaisies

Also these ones are on my tbr:

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) by amnevitah, BelaBellissima, ClimbTheMountain2020, Popjunkie42, reverie_rose, rosanna_writer, WordsAndWishes

Painted Blind by Popjunkie42

Blossoming in Winter by Popjunkie42

Bejeweled by miss_belivet

Buried Alive Inside My Dreams by Separatist_Apologist

I hope you love reading these as much as I did<3 although if you're looking for something specific let me know hehe