#feysand fan fiction

[violetasteracademic]

Chapter Three: A Poet Trapped Inside the Body of a Finance Guy

Summary:

Rhysand's collected demeanor begins to fray as his return to the hospital brings up haunting memories. New information about Feyre Archeron threatens to unravel him entirely.

Warnings: None

Read the chapter here on AO3

Biggest boops to @nikachansstuff and @rosanna-writer for the most incredible beta reading on this chapter. Thank you so much for your stunning eyes on this, and guiding me on my journey to make our High Lord of the Night Court a billionaire that I would def want to bang.

Preview:

I was beyond fucked.

I certainly wouldn't categorize asking a stranger if we could walk together while on my way to finalize the purchase of a hospital as typical behavior of mine. But I took one look at those blue eyes, the smattering of freckles, and her full, slightly asymmetrical mouth, and felt struck by something I didn't want to walk away from. She felt... familiar to me.

Strolling the Rainbow of Velaris with Feyre was the best fifteen minutes I could recall in a long while. I was usually so guarded that I never made small talk with anyone I didn't know. And yet, after just a few minutes with her, I was opening up more than I had with people I'd known for fifteen years. Had we spent a few more minutes together, I probably would have told her about my mother.

Maybe I was starved for the presence of someone who didn't know who I was and had no interest in the size of my bank accounts or the number of companies I owned.

I don't think she realized she did it, but Feyre actually scrunched her nose in distaste when she said I looked like a peak-performance biohacker. Apparently, that was one of the most attractive things a woman could do to me.

"What's got you grinning?" Cassian asked, leaning against the side of the elevator as we made our way to the conference rooms. "A cute children's therapist, perhaps?"

Shit. I didn't realize I let my facial expressions slip.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said stiffly.

"Sure," Cassian grinned, but didn't press further.

VMH was at the center of a sexual harassment lawsuit, and I'd known Tamlin and his family long enough to know he would make no effort to keep it clean. The last thing that needed to happen was for me to become romantically interested in any of the women within these walls.

No matter how easy they were to talk to. Or how adorable their freckles were... or how effortlessly sexy their golden brown hair looked in a messy bun, little wisps tugging free and perfectly framing a heart-shaped face.

[shallyne]

I Think Your House is Haunted

"And I've been meaning to tell you, I think your house is haunted. Your dad mom is always mad and that must be why. And I think you should come live with me and we can be pirates." meets "I like it, picasso" in a 1.4k word Feysand fic for @sjmromanceweek

Feyre's eyes darted to her sister, who sat beside her at the dining table. Feeling Feyre's stare on her, Nesta looked at her for a brief moment. Long enough for Feyre to see a devilish glint in her sister's eyes, not the usual “I'm going to stab someone” glint, but pure mischief which gave her something…child-like, something Feyre never had seen in her sister. Nesta had never been a child, she always had been expected to be a young lady and she had played that part very well.

The mischievous glint wasn't gone, Feyre knew that, but as Nesta straightened and cleared her throat she hid it better under a mask, you had to look closely if you wanted to find it.

“So, Rhysand,” she said in an unusually nice tone. “I heard you are interested in art?” He only mustered a short nod before Nesta continued to say, “My sister happens to be a fine artist herself.”

Feyre froze, clasping the fork so tightly in her hand that she could feel the metal bending in her palm. She tried to look at Elain, who sat on Nesta's right, signaling her for help but she pressed her lips together as if trying to hold in a laugh. What the hell were they doing?

“Go on, Feyre.” Nesta said, ignoring their mother at the head of the table, fuming. This dinner was a ruse, something to match Nesta with the King of the North, Rhysand who sat just across from them. “You just chewed my ear off this morning about your new painting.”

Feyre looked at Rhysand, muttering, “It's a concept I told you about, I haven't painted anything yet.” as heat warmed her cheeks.

“But you plan to?” the King asked, seeming genuinely interested. And her sisters seemed genuinely interested in her response.

“Yes-” she said and Nesta began, “You should take a look at her paintings, they are exquisite.”

Rhysand threw Feyre a smile, which made her cheeks burn even more. “I'd love that!”

Nesta already stood up from her chair and Feyre genuinely didn't know if her sister misunderstood the first meeting between Rhysand and her as flirting, if she saw any chemistry between them. Which wasn't true, Feyre thought that man was a huge prick, and he did not do his job right if he had time for dinners in search of a bride. Or maybe Nesta wanted to just piss off their mother, which Feyre was actually a bit proud of. Although, this would have consequences. Knowing their mother, the consequences would be even worse if it was the former, trying to play matchmaker between Rhysand and Feyre, than the latter, trying to piss her off.

“Nesta!” their mother said, “We are still eating, this is incredibly rude!” Then she turned to Rhysand, who already stood, too. “I'm so sorry, your majesty-”

The two men that sat beside Rhysand both looked amused at the scene that played out before them. If Feyre remembered correctly, those were his brothers and the beautiful blonde to his left was his cousin, and third in command.

Rhysand said something to their mother but Feyre didn't hear as Nesta pulled her up, and the King's entourage stood as well, everyone following them.

Her heart started pounding, “What are you doing?“ she whispered to her sisters.

“Please, Feyre.” Nesta said, exasperated, as if Feyre said something stupid. “That man can't take his eyes off of you, and neither can you. You're literally eye-fucking at the table!”

Feyre was surprised about her sister's choice of words and so was Elain as she gasped, “Nesta!”

“This is not one of your smutty romances!” Feyre quipped back.

“Keep that attitude up and I'll make sure to mention all the paintings of the north you hide behind your bed!” Nesta replied, looking smug when Feyre huffed in frustration.

“Mother will kill us,“ Feyre said, still in a whisper as they ascended the stairs, their guests behind them. As Nesta and Feyre talked, Elain told their guests about the house and pointed out specific decorations to keep the attention from the other two.

“Mother will kill me,” Nesta corrected, “But you won't even know because you'll be on your way to the north!”

“I'd kill you if we didn't have any witnesses.” Feyre whispered quickly before they reached the door to Feyre's room, Nesta only snorted unimpressed.

Her sisters entered the room and Feyre stood behind, realizing what they were doing. Who they invited, who was looking at their paintings. Who they didn't pay any attention as they squabbled their way upstairs.

Rhysand paused beside Feyre, neither looking at the other. “Second guessing?” he asked.

“I haven't even first guessed,” she replied grumpily, hoping he didn't notice the slight tremble in her hand. To her surprise, Rhysand radiated warmth and he smelled so good. Fuck. It was unfair, he was handsome and smart and smelled like the ocean and he was respectful to her and her sisters. He was cocky and arrogant, yes, but was that always bad? He has shown genuine interest in them, meaning herself and her sisters, and he didn't seem to be a big fan of their parents, which, honestly, made him even more likeable.

When she didn't get an answer she looked up, yes up because he was a full head taller than her, and found him staring into her room. Following his line of sight, she found the painting she had finished just yesterday. It still sat against her dresser, which she had also painted.

It portrayed a beast looking at themself in the mirror. But if you looked closely, it wasn't just a beast. It was multifaceted, like the night. There was softness portrayed, just as it portrayed hardness. It portrayed herself but she wasn't about to say that, it was ridiculous.

Rhysand entered the bedroom, his eyes fixed on the painting. Of all the paintings, he had to choose this one. Feyre still followed him because the alternative would be dealing with her parents, which she already could hear their angry whispering from the stairs.

“It's even more beautiful than I had expected,” he said, turning around and looking Feyre in the eyes. “Which means a lot because your sister put it on thick downstairs.”

“I don't know what got into her, “ Feyre said truthfully, tucking her hair behind her ears. She couldn't stop herself from blushing at his compliment.

“I'm glad,” Rhysand said, still not breaking eye contact. “Because I have a proposal for you.” Time felt like it stopped, right as her parents reached her door. She felt everyone's attention on them, every pair of eyes in this room on Rhysand and Feyre. She swallowed, Rhysand watching that movement carefully. “I want you to paint a portrait of my family, I've been looking for a qualified painter, you seem perfect for the job. Of course you'll be paid graciously for your work.”

“I thought you wanted to travel back to the north tonight.” Feyre brought out. She remembered him mentioning setting sail shortly after this dinner. “That's hardly enough time for a portrait.”

“That's, Feyre darling, is why I want you to accompany me to my home. I can assure you will be taken care of during your stay.”

A gasp behind her. Was it a surprised gasp from Elain? Or was it their mother seething in anger? She didn't know.

This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and still, the first thing she said, “I can't, not without my sisters.”

“Feyre!” Elain said shocked, being met with Nesta's equally shocked “Are you insane?”

But all Feyre could think of was, “Mother will kill me but you won't even know because you'll be on your way to the north!” and she knew Nesta spoke true, they would be met by their mothers wrath once Feyre was gone and she couldn't for the life of her let that happen. It was either all of them or none of them, but she sure hoped it would be all of them. Feyre was ready to beg but Rhysand only took a look at her sisters and said, “Okay, if you want to pack some things, we will wait downstairs. But as I said already, all of you will be properly taken care off, so don't stress yourself out too much.” he looked back at Feyre and smiled, and she had a feeling this was a real smile, “I'm looking forward to working with you.”

[violetasteracademic]

AHHHHHH IT'S HERE IT'S HERE!!!!

If you are into high stakes, high drama sports romance and you aren't reading this Feysand fic what are you even doing!? I'm in love

Baby, I'm the One to Beat (2/?)

Feyre Archeron is the most talked-about woman in Exy. On the court, she broke records in her first season with the Springfield Bucks, while her off-court romance with her team captain, Tamlin, had fans swooning. In the wake of a breakup, she throws it all away and transfers to the rival Velaris University. A new narrative emerges—after refusing to share the court with her ex, Exy's freshman phenomenon is "too temperamental" to play at the sport's highest levels. Feyre can't afford to get involved with another teammate when she needs another trophy to keep her dream of going pro alive. But amid all the drills, workouts, and scrimmages, Rhysand, her new team captain, becomes a smirking, sarcastic soft place to land. And Feyre doesn't miss his longing looks in her direction, either. Can she win the championship and still keep her heart—and reputation—intact?

A huge thank you to the best beta team a girl could ask for: @violetasteracademic @berd-writes, and @tunaababee <3

Some text in this chapter is taken directly from A Court of Mist and Fury

Ch. 1 | Chapter 2 is Here On AO3 and below the cut.

Feyre hadn't planned to slip out into the night. But with a pre-dawn flight back to her hometown, she'd be in the air by the time anyone at Springfield saw her email announcing her departure and messaged her about it.

And she sure as hell wasn't paying for in-flight wifi.

She'd managed to leave without even waking Ianthe. It was a relief to avoid awkward goodbyes; Feyre didn't want to talk to anyone on the Bucks any more than necessary. Bleary-eyed, she checked out of the hotel and made her way to the airport. As Feyre slowly woke up, the high of putting the Spring Court behind her faded, leaving nothing but doubt and worry in its wake.

She didn't bother with coffee—the jury was still out on its effect on athletic performance—so she munched on a banana she'd swiped from the continental breakfast as she waited to board. She'd zoned out, watching the sun rise and the planes land, so Feyre wasn't quite sure how long the little girl in the seat across the aisle had been staring at her by the time she noticed.

Hardly anyone recognized Feyre outside of Springfield. But the girl must have been around eight, and a tiny, half-sized Exy racquet poked out of the sparkly turquoise backpack resting at her feet. Something in Feyre's chest squeezed.

She offered the girl a tentative smile. "Do you play Exy?"

The girl's eyes went comically wide, as if she'd been caught with her hand in a cookie jar. She gave Feyre a slow nod.

"So do I," Feyre continued. "I play striker. Usually on the right."

"Me too," the girl said.

The sound of her voice yanked her mother's attention away from the book in her lap. She glanced up, and her eyes flashed with recognition—and just a little bit of awe—when they landed on Feyre.

She didn't quite manage to stop staring, even as she said to her daughter, "Sweetie, let the young lady eat her banana. It's early."

"It's alright," Feyre said. No matter how many championships she won, she doubted she'd ever get used to encounters like this. Still, she'd take a million peewee Exy players over a single dudebro complaining her team didn't pass frequently enough.

If they'd been somewhere with fewer breakable windows, Feyre would have offered to play catch. That sort of thing was always easier than talking to people. Instead, she said to the girl, "I'm Feyre. What's your name?"

The girl's brown eyes went wider, which Feyre hadn't even though was possible. "Briar," she squeaked.

"Are you really Feyre Archeron?" Briar's mother said. "I thought you looked familiar."

"That's me," Feyre said.

"We're big Valkyrie fans in our house. Everything your sister is doing for women in Exy is just incredible."

And it was. Nesta captained the only all-female pro Exy team, the first in the history of the sport. When asked why there were no men on the Valkyries, Merrill, their general manager, had said that she only signed players whose talent impressed her—there just hadn't been a single man who'd made the cut.

It had been one of the most iconic, often-quoted moments in the history of the Prythian Pro League. And since the Valkyries had just traded for Gwyneth Berdara and Emerie Wayne, they were favorites to take home a trophy this coming season. Nesta might be the first Archeron sister to win it all, exactly as their father had dreamed, even if he hadn't lived to see it.

But there was still a whole season to get through first. Feyre merely smiled at the woman and said, "We're definitely big Valkyrie fans in my house, too."

"Could you sign my racquet?" Briar said. Her mother shot her a look, and she added, "Please?"

"I'd love to," Feyre said, and she made a mental note to get the family's contact information before they landed, so she could send it to Nesta. Her sister would want to mail them some Valkyries swag.

First, though, she'd need to actually tell her sisters that she was transferring. Better that they heard the news from her directly; if Nesta and Elain found out from the media, they'd probably kill her.

Feyre dreaded that conversation. It was bad enough that she'd made a decision without consulting her sisters. After both of them had played four years of collegiate Exy, they had connections on other teams and could probably have helped her weigh the pros and cons of transferring.

But Feyre had let herself be swayed by Rhysand. It had seemed right at the time. Now, everything felt so different in the light of day.

She could worry about all of that later, though. There was a little girl looking at her like she hung the moon, and Feyre desperately wanted to be sure that her signature was legible.

When that was done, she shot off a quick text to her sisters, telling them she'd requested a transfer and already planned to go to Velaris. Takeoff was soon, and this way, she could put off dealing with their reactions for a little while longer.

A few hours later, she trudged through the door of her childhood home. In the past, she'd done everything she could to avoid the Archeron house—dragging out practices as long as possible during the school year and taking jobs at overnight Exy camps during the summer.

It had always been more of a pressure cooker than a home. As the weight of her father's dreams bore down on the sisters, they hadn't known how to cope besides lashing out at each other. Every tackle and goal was a triumph to hold over each other's head, and every dropped pass or sloppy penalty became a cudgel to beat each other with.

But for once, it was a refuge. Nesta was in Velaris, Elain was traveling, and their father was in the ground. For the summer, Feyre would be alone among the many trophies and ribbons the Archeron sisters had amassed in pursuit of playing Exy professionally.

She set her bag down and began working her way through the pile of missed calls and messages. The last thing she needed was to be dropped by the agent at Suriel Sports who handled her name, image, and likeness deals, so Feyre braced herself for an earful and a mountain of documents to sign. Plus, there was the actual transfer paperwork from Velaris's athletics department she needed to complete to make things well and truly official.

Normally, the whole process took longer. Athletes often spent weeks publicly listed as open to a transfer while they visited campuses, talked to coaches, and finalized enrollment. But the Stars wouldn't risk a valuable player like Feyre changing her mind and signing with another team. Sure, the timing was suspiciously fast, enough that the PCAA might open an investigation into possible player tampering, but schools always greased the wheels for top athletes.

When that was done, she deleted every last message from a Springfield player off her phone, removed herself from their group chat, and blocked their numbers. Feyre had no interest in answering a single text asking why she was leaving or where she was thinking of going. After they'd treated her like a pariah after her breakup with Tamlin, she was done with every single player on that team.

Well, all of them except for one.

Unsure what to say to Lucien, she left his Are you alright? message unread.

Her sisters, shocked and concerned, had asked for more details, but Feyre didn't have it in her to do anything more than reassure them that she'd made it home safe. Next, she muted the new Velaris chats Rhysand had already added her to, and then forced herself to breathe. She'd left. Tamlin was finally out of her life, and if Feyre had wings, she would have stretched them wide for the first time in ages.

Something in her gut told her that Velaris was exactly where she needed to be.

After that, Feyre barely touched her phone for the next few days. Since the first photos of her kissing Tamlin in a rush of giddy excitement after a win had gone viral, Exy fans had been looking for a reason to turn on her. Springfield treated her like a hero, and everyone had wanted to see someone topple Hybern's playoff dynasty. But one magical season wasn't enough to keep other fanbases from getting sick of hearing about her before long.

Negative attention was nothing new. By the time she was a gangly sixth-grader attending specialized Exy camps and playing on elite youth travel teams at her father's insistence, Feyre had already learned to treat the comparisons to her sisters as motivation to do better on the court. It was the only way she'd ever step out of their shadows.

Feyre wished she could paint to shut out the noise. But the last season had bled her dry; every drop of energy and attention had gone to either Tamlin or improving her game. She'd brought home a trophy, but all her time on the Spring Court had left her more of a husk than a person.

She wasn't quite sure when she'd started thinking in passes, points, assists, and goals instead of color, texture, tint, and shade.

At least for now, all she wanted to do was sleep. Her body needed the recovery time, anyway. She'd been out for twelve hours straight when the news broke about a proposed rule change that the ERC—the Exy Rules and Regulations Committee—was considering in the wake of her transfer.

Officials wanted to split Exy into separate men's and women's leagues, bringing an end to the world's only major all-gender, full-contact sport.

No one had named Feyre specifically when they'd filed the motion necessary for a rule change, but that didn't mean she had nothing to do with it. There had been rumblings of a change for a long time, from sexist players and fans alike who argued that women held the sport back. Men, they'd always said, were stronger and faster, and if women wanted to compete, they'd be better of with a separate league where they wouldn't have to work twice as hard to get recognized. Some even argued that it would be safer that way—that the injury risk would be lower if female players weren't taking hits from massive men on the regular.

But they'd never gotten much traction. Enough people considered it an insult to the memory of Kayleigh Day, one of the sport's late co-founders, that talk of gender-segregated Exy leagues was quickly squashed.

Feyre hadn't thought much about it until she'd woken up to several furious texts from Nesta and a link to an op-ed in the New York Times titled "Why Feyre Archeron's Departure from Springfield Means Co-Ed Sports Were A Bad Idea."

Look at this bullshit, Nesta had written. You gave these assholes so much ammunition, and the Valkyries have enough trouble getting taken seriously as it is. Crash out over your breakup all you want in private, but keep your shit together where everyone else can see.

Against her better judgment, Feyre opened up the article and read it. She'd needed to take breaks, stopping to breathe every few paragraphs or pace the kitchen, but she forced herself to take in every word.

According to a source within Springfield University's athletic department, who spoke to us on the condition on anonymity, Feyre Archeron submitted her notification of transfer in the middle of the night, without discussing the decision with any coaches or training staff. She has since transferred to Velaris University, her former school's rival. The choice was made, perhaps, in a fit of pique.

Off the court, Ms. Archeron was recently romantically linked to Springfield's captain, though the relationship ended shortly before her departure. It isn't unusual for emotions to run high after a breakup. But for elite athletes, particularly for competitors in team sports like Exy, the consequences can be a bit more lasting than just cutting your own ill-advised breakup bangs with safety scissors…

The article had gone on to describe teammates feeling obligated to take sides when a couple split, even citing her friendship with Lucien as an example. Men, apparently, just couldn't keep it in their pants, and women were too temperamental to break up with a teammate without letting it affect locker room morale.

Feyre was practically seeing red by the time she got to the end.

More messages flowed in, the notifications arriving faster and faster until her phone was vibrating continuously. Feyre shut it off, then put it on airplane mode just for good measure.

The Archeron family had invested in an extensive home gym years ago, though with three athletes in the house, they'd still squabbled over a turn with the equipment. Feyre had never been more grateful for it. She had no desire to set foot out of the house, and she needed to burn off some steam, risky as it was to push herself when she needed rest.

She'd once thought those rage-fueled lifting sessions right after she'd shown Tamlin the door would be her best ever. But with that fuckwit journalist's words still bouncing in her head, she managed to squat a new personal record, and she'd done an entire additional set of bent-over rows and diamond pushups before she finished her routine.

The burn of her muscles seemed to purge something within her, and by the time she'd showered and downed an entire protein shake and plateful of eggs, Feyre felt like she could think rationally again. With all the recent media attention, she was due for a few "random" drug tests, so she'd have to face the situation with nothing but post-workout endorphins to buoy her mood.

She started with the worst of it, the additional texts that Nesta had sent over the last hour. And with the draft in a month, too. If Elain gets picked in the first round, she won't be able to celebrate properly if all anyone can talk about is your stupid transfer. You've always been selfish, but this is a dick move, even for you.

Elain was already emotional enough about the upcoming draft in a few weeks; their father had always dreamed of seeing his daughters go pro, but he hadn't lived to see it. Feyre and Nesta were the only family she had to cheer for her when she pulled on her first pro jersey in front of the cameras and inked her rookie deal. Their middle sister didn't need Feyre fighting with Nesta on top of it.

Ultimately, it wasn't exactly Feyre's fault that an asshole had used her as an example. And it wasn't Nesta's fault that she played for Exy's first all-female professional team, either.

Feyre was proud of both of her sisters. But if she wanted to have any hope of bringing a trophy to Velaris in a few months, she needed to focus. So with a pit in her stomach and tears pricking at her eyes, she blocked Nesta's number.

She still needed to clean out the rest of her contacts list before she got accused of spending the summer as a recluse, too. Lucien had texted her again, and since she'd transferred out of Springfield, she'd stuck to curt one-word responses. Today, he'd just said, How are you doing?

Fine. Just busy, was all she said back. It felt like a lie.

Rhysand had also messaged her. Feyre had expected that; it would have been strange for him to talk her into transferring just to go silent right after. But they weren't actually friends, and she still had half a mind to take that sparkly little star emoji out of his name in her contacts. She sighed and opened the thread to see what he wanted.

I saw the article, which doubtless means you have, too. What can I do to assist? I'm happy to make a bland statement about appreciating the contributions of my female teammates or keep quiet and wait for it to blow over.

…or I can give an interview shirtless to direct attention away from you. Consider me at your disposal 😉

Feyre read the message twice, unsure if he was serious. They were college athletes—muscular chests were a dime a dozen. He had to be insane if he thought his abs were capable of turning the tide of public discourse.

And captain or not, Rhys had no obligation to involve himself in her mess. He wasn't staff or a coach either, and he had every right to spend the summer relaxing or focusing on improving his own game. As a rising senior, he had the possibility of his own pro career to worry about with the draft next year.

But then again, they were teammates. Paired strikers. For better or worse, their success was linked, at least for the upcoming season.

She considered how to respond; it was hard to ask for help when she wasn't sure what she even needed. She'd experienced plenty of negative attention before, but not quite like this. Feyre was used to being the celebrated Cursebreaker or the youngest Archeron, not part of a scandal.

While she sat and sipped from her water bottle, a third message from Rhys appeared. I can ask Azriel to doxx that reporter if you want.

If Rhys had been captain of any other team, she would have just laughed it off. But this was Velaris. She was positive that most of the rumors about their dirty play—cheating by bribing officials, bounties for seriously injuring players on other teams, performance-enhancing drugs—were just rumors. There was no way a team could get away with half of what Velaris was accused of, even with all the money in the world.

But her mind flashed back to that game on the Autumn Court. She'd watched it several times while preparing to play both the Blaze and the Stars, enough that she'd practically memorized some sections of it. She still shuddered to think about the way Azriel Greenbriar had grabbed Eris Vanserra by the throat.

Feyre had seen plenty of fights over the years; Exy was a contact sport. But most of the time, that didn't amount to much more than a few punches before the refs broke everything up. With the heavy pads all players wore, injuries from fights were rarely serious. A way to rattle opponents, if anything.

But if it weren't for the neck guard, Azriel might have actually killed Eris.

On one hand, her previous captain had attacked her in a rage. After Tamlin had literally thrown a desk at her—in front of Lucien and Ianthe, no less—Feyre was used to it, on some level. But as strong as that anger had been, there had been an unfocused quality to it, as if Tamlin was just blindly lashing out at whatever was closest.

Feyre knew in her gut that Azriel Greenbriar wanted Eris Vanserra dead. And he knew exactly how to make it happen.

When she'd requested the transfer, she hadn't thought about what it meant to play on a team with someone like that. He was a backliner; they wouldn't sub for each other, and she needed to trust that he'd covered the goal behind her if she wanted to focus all her energy on pressing forward to score. Putting her faith in him was a sobering thought.

In the end, Feyre didn't bother responding to Rhysand's message. Her anger was still burning a hole in her chest, and she knew better than to try and formulate a response when she was inclined to rip someone's head off. She'd long since learned to find Nesta and run through some tackling drills before she said something she regretted.

But Feyre was alone, and Nesta currently hated her. Even though her muscles were beginning to ache from the workout, she couldn't sit still. So she grabbed a racket and flung a ball at the mesh goal in in the backyard until she risked a repetitive stress injury on her elbow.

She couldn't hide forever, though. A few weeks later, Feyre traded her old paint-stained t-shirts for a dress she swiped from Elain's closet, got her hair and makeup television-ready, and headed for the draft.

The league invited top players like Elain to attend in person, along with up to fourteen guests. Everyone had assumed that Exy's social butterfly would have a large entourage of friends and family surrounding her as she waited to learn which pro team would sign her for the upcoming season, but in the end, Elain had only wanted her sisters there.

When Feyre had asked about Greysen Nolan's absence, Elain had changed the subject.

A large room just off the stage had been set aside for the players, with clusters of chairs reserved for each group. Feyre moved through the crowd carefully. It was difficult not to bump into any of the many cameramen circulating, ready to capture reactions as players received calls from teams' general managers informing them they'd been selected, then stepped out onstage as their names were announced.

The bright lights made her squint, and the excited buzz of conversation overwhelmed her in minutes. But Feyre plastered a smile onto her face anyway.

Nesta's smile was equally forced as she greeted Feyre, not that anyone but her sisters would know. It was enough for the cameras that flashed as Exy fans' favorite family took their seats.

And then there was nothing to do but wait for Elain to be called. Their middle sister sat with one ankle tucked primly over the other, hands folded in her lap, looking more like a princess than a dealer who could catch damn near anything thrown within ten feet of her.

As usual, she was resolutely determined to ignore the tension between the sisters on either side of her. Smiling sweetly, she said, "Feyre, my dress looks cute on you, so keep it. You're going to need more purple in your wardrobe now, anyway."

Nesta made a noise that might have been a cough, earning a shush from Elain. But Feyre supposed Elain wasn't exactly wrong; the Stars wore black jerseys at home and violet ones on the road, and she'd already donated every last scrap of Springfield green in her closet.

"Thanks," Feyre said, smoothing out her skirt. She'd picked it as a subtle nod to her new team, though she could have done without the ribbon ties that formed a bow at each shoulder—that frilly detail was all Elain.

There had been another purple dress that Feyre had almost chosen instead, something more sleek. But the sparkles on the fabric had reminded her just a bit too much of a certain pair of starry violet eyes, and she didn't want to examine that thought too closely.

Elain kept the conversation going, sticking to neutral topics and doing most of the talking. Feyre could tell her sister was chattering to cover her nerves. Nesta, at least, channeled her irritation into snarling at anyone who got too close and invaded Elain's personal space with a camera or a microphone.

She didn't speak a word to Feyre. That was probably for the best.

Before long, Elain's phone rang. She let out an excited squeak before picking up the call. Feyre's breath caught.

"Hello?" Elain said, her voice rising several octaves above normal. "Yes, this is she….Yes, ma'am. Thank you ma'am…Absolutely."

Feyre scooted closer, trying to catch the other half of the conversation as the cameras converged on them. Nesta did the same. But with the noise from the crowd, it was impossible to hear.

There was another long silence, and then Elain ended the call with the the rallying cry of Cretea State, now her alma mater, "Cauldron blessed!"

The moment Elain put down the phone, Nesta demanded, "Well?"

"That was Vassa," Elain said. "I'm going to be a Firebird."

Animosity forgotten, Feyre and Nesta let out simultaneous whoops of joy and enveloped Elain in a hug.

The Firebirds were the perfect destination for her. Jurian, their captain, had played with Elain at Cretea, and Feyre had heard through the rumor mill that he'd been encouraging their GM, Vassa, to choose Elain in the draft. She'd fit right in during her rookie season.

"Dad would be so proud," Feyre whispered.

Nesta smacked her on the arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. "Don't make her cry when she still needs to get onstage."

They pulled away, Elain carefully wiping at her eyes to avoid smudging her mascara. The next few minutes were a blur as the Vassa officially locked in the pick and the league commissioner announced to the world that Elain Archeron was the newest member of the Firebirds.

Feyre and Nesta nearly made themselves hoarse cheering and clapping as Elain stepped onstage, waving at the crowd and grinning from under the brim of an orange Firebirds hat. A stagehand passed her a jersey that an assistant had hurriedly ironed Archeron onto the back of, and she held it up for the cameras.

As she watched Elain shake the commissioner's hand, Feyre couldn't be more proud of her sister. But at the same time, the Archeron competitive spirit gripped her heart.

In three years, Feyre would hold up an Archeron jersey of her own on that stage, come hell or high water.

The rest of the summer passed quickly after that. Feyre remained at home, resolutely focused on keeping herself sharp in the offseason and not much else. Elain was busy, Nesta was blocked, and Lucien was....well, still playing for the Bucks. The person she spoke to the most was Rhysand.

When she'd finally caught a moment to check her phone after the draft, he'd told her to congratulate Elain for him. They'd made some chitchat about which players had gone to which teams and whether they'd been drafted earlier or later than expected. It was all shop talk, really.

Or at least, most of it was. Amid the friendly gossip, he'd said, You look almost as good in violet as you do in black, by the way.

Something about that message had Feyre's stomach doing flip-flops, and she couldn't decide if she liked that feeling or not. He'd looked at her like he'd wanted to devour her at the Player of the Year awards, and she'd reveled in it. And with Tamlin gone, she was ready to move on in every sense, emotional and physical.

But after the fallout of breaking up with one captain, she couldn't risk a repeat with another.

If Rhys wanted to flirt, she'd ignore it. It was the only way she could survive a season playing alongside him. And he seemed to get the hint when she ignored the compliment, quickly turning the conversation back to Exy. That was neutral. Safe. But also…disappointing.

At some point, their conversations drifted away from Exy. The change had happened so naturally that Feyre hadn't noticed until Rhys sent her a link to a post on an old account she hadn't touched since high school, when she still posted progress pictures of her art. Tell me about the painting, he'd said.

Perhaps she should have, but Feyre couldn't find it in herself to be bothered that he'd internet stalked her. If anything, the sight of her art just sent an odd pang of longing crashing through her. There's not much to say, she'd messaged back.

Tell me about it anyway.

It's my real passion, not Exy. If I could have managed to study studio art as an athlete, I would have. Now I'm just hoping that after a few years making pro league money, I'll be able to retire and spend the rest of my life painting. That's really all I want.

In the past, Feyre had always hesitated to admit it, lest a coach or recruiter deem her too unfocused on Exy and write her off as uncommitted. She'd dutifully chosen the easy communications major that Springfield offered half-literate jocks like her, a collection of bullshit courses that could be scheduled around workouts and practices.

But for some reason, it felt safe to admit to Rhysand that she'd never really been motivated by the love of the game alone. The sport had only ever been a means to an end for her.

Feyre didn't want to talk much more about painting, not when she was struggling to find inspiration. She hadn't managed to open a single tube of paint since coming home. Before Rhys could ask anything else about it, she added, What about you? Did you always want to play Exy?

Yes and no. My late father played professionally, so I was pushed into it from such a young age that I couldn't imagine doing anything else with my life. For a long time, I resented it. But the first time I captained a team, I realized I had the ability to help shape the culture of Exy into something more inclusive. If I had the talent to make my mark on the sport, then I wanted to leave a legacy of something positive.

I didn't realize you were in the Dead Pushy Exy Dad Club, too.

A card-carrying member for years now 🙃

Congratudolences

Over the next few weeks, Feyre found herself smiling at her phone more often, and speaking to Rhys one-on-one was far less intimidating than the fast-moving group chat that contained every member of the Stars. Feyre had muted it immediately, not bothering to send a single message. She had no idea who the hell LordOfBloodshed and ShadowZaddy were, though THEEEEEEEEMorrigan, Rhysie, and Amren were a bit more obvious. Still, it was a lot to take in.

But she couldn't ignore them forever. Athletes moved in early for summer workouts, and a packet with housing information had already arrived in the mail. Shortly after, she'd been added to another group chat. This one, however, only contained two other people: Morrigan Swift and Amren Winchester. At the sight of Mor's chirpy Hey there girlie! Feyre groaned aloud.

But she did the mature thing and read the whole message instead of deleting it. Just saying hi since you've been assigned to room with me and Amren this year. We've already got a mini fridge and a microwave, so let's coordinate to make sure we don't bring doubles of anything for our common room. I promise I'm only loud during daylight hours and clean up after myself 😁

Feyre suspected that last sentence was a blatant lie.

Possible annoying roommates or not, she felt lighter as she packed up her things and readied for move-in. Ready for a fresh start, Feyre checked the Stars' group chat for the first time in weeks; she still felt a pinprick of guilt for not initially saying hello. The conversation had turned to travel plans, with a few teammates coordinating rides from the airport to the dorms.

Feyre caught the very end of it—Morrigan was saying she was already in Velaris and that her car sat four. But before she could scroll up and read the rest, a DM from Rhys appeared.

You get in at seven, correct? It's a long flight, so I'll make sure you've got something pretty there to pick you up.

At that, she'd nearly flung her phone across the room. She'd been so quiet in the chat that he'd probably messaged her directly to ensure she got a ride from Mor, but that was a horribly demeaning way to talk about his female teammate.

So much for thinking he was any different from Tamlin.

But even an asshole captain couldn't entirely squash Feyre's excitement when her plane approached Velaris. She pressed her to face to the window, taking in the mountains in the distance and bridges over the Sidra River. It was a clear night, and somehow, despite the web of city lights sparkling below, Feyre could see the the stars, too.

She'd only been here once before, a brief visit for an away game last season. But somehow…it felt like home.

It all felt a hell of a lot less magical when baggage claim took forever, though. Jet lag began to settle over her, and Feyre dreaded hauling her bags to her dorm when she just wanted to have dinner and sleep.

Once she collected her things, Feyre dragged herself over to the doors, keeping an eye out for any sign of her teammates. She'd just pulled out her phone, intent on checking her messages, when she spotted him.

Rhysand waited near the doors, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His violet eyes sparked the moment they landed on her, and he broke into a grin. Despite her better judgment, just the sight of it had Feyre's heart leaping as she trudged over.

She'd forgotten just how stupidly attractive he was.

"I'm sorry I don't have something as pretty as you deserve, but unfortunately, the airport requires shirts for entry. Hopefully this will be enough," he said, gesturing to his face.

Maybe he wasn't objectifying his female teammates, but the only thing more annoying than a man with an ego was a man with a justified ego. It would be easier to laugh it off if Rhysand wasn't the most beautiful person she'd ever seen.

Feyre's scowl deepened—it was going to to be a long season.

[inkstainedforever]

A Court of Mist and Fury - Rhysand’s POV by illyriantremors. Handbound by me for personal use only

[keepittoyourshelf]

Well folks, as promised, here’s a link to the Google drive housing the full Tamlin x Rhysand chat.

A note: this was made with character.ai’s new group chat feature, using characters I did not write. Manipulations and prompts are all my own however. Group chat is only available on the mobile app and does not allow exports, hence the 60+ screen shots. They should be read in descending order.

Lastly, if you are on character.ai and want to join the group chat, let me know. I can add up to four more people. You could, of course, just create your own and craft other, even more chaotic and depraved, situations than I did. It’s rather like playing god, and it’s a worthy way to pass the time until our AI overlords revolt and put us all in The Matrix. It is known.

[spore-loser]

Why feminism and critique are important :

Something I noticed, being in this fandom – from discussions about Rhysand sexually and physically assaulting Feyre UTM, to Elain and Nesta being thrown into the Cauldron, to Nesta being forced into the HoW and training, to the IC lying to Feyre in ACOSF, to the IC ignoring 2/3rds of the NC's women living in oppression – is that many readers underestimate the importance of bodily autonomy. 

ACOTAR is not marketed as a Dark Romance, and some people even recommend it as a "feminist" story, so criticism of how SJM handles storylines concerning bodily autonomy and trauma are valid. Concern with fan reactions downplaying things is valid. What isn't needed is calling analysis of literature "hating" on characters or their author, or saying "It's not that deep" simply because it's a work of fiction. Real people are affected by idealizing Feysand and the IC, so discussions about why they shouldn't be idealized are clearly something needed.

[pinkrasberryfish]

So…

The dynamics of ships… why is Elriel a good fit for the ACOTAR series? Why is it just as intriguing and beautiful as Feysand or Nessian? I’ve written hours and hours of Elriel fan fiction, exploring dynamics and tropes, and I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of their potential.

It’s established that our High Lady is a fighter. Feyre can physically fight for herself. She beat the Weaver which showed her mate that she was worth of the engagement ring and fought the Wyrm while her mate watched. She defended the Rainbow. She even won the war with Hybern through fighting. There are countless times where Rhys has sat back and let his girl go out swinging.

Then we have Nesta. Nesta is feisty and learns to fight for herself. She wields the mask, becomes a Valkyrie, and even goes through the Blood Rite. Cassian didn’t swoop in and save her… he let her fight.

Now Elain. Our girl needed rescuing. She did not fight her way out of the Hybern camp through cunning and brute strength. Azriel swooped in and saved her. And you best believe if she had been plunked into the Rite, Azriel would have come and saved her immediately. She is never incited on physical fighting missions like the Battle of Adriata and the closest she has gotten to blood was stepping out of shadow to stab the King of Hybern.

Now.

Does that make you uncomfortable? Does Elain needing help make you think less of her? Is she weak because she’s not like her sisters? Is that why everyone is wanting another story with a Valkyrie falling in love with a bat boy?? Because our other heroine is too weak and needs to be shipped off to a controlling high lord in spring ??????

This is what frustrates me.

Physical protection and physical fighting is not the only way to show strength.

Nesta was WRECKED after the Cauldron. She was self-destructive and cruel. Elain seemed to struggle but eventually healed through her hobbies and natural processing of everything. Even the loss of her fiancé, she recovered from. She is mentally strong.

Feyre too, has had moments of weakness. She could have physically run out of that wedding, but her mental bondage kept her walking down the aisle. Rhys had to intervene and save her in her moment of desperation. Elain could be walking down an aisle to Lucien right now, but she’s not. She’s choosing her own path and showing mental strength.

The fact that Azriel has rescued Elain physically and the fact that she cannot fight does not make her a less powerful or valuable female. Measuring women by their ability to perform historically-masculine acts is misogyny. She does not need to conform to the masculine power standard of 90’s feminism to be worthy of her own bat boy.

The beautiful thing about Elriel is that they have both been cast aside, despite being loyal to their core, Azriel to Mor for centuries and Elain to a gross human loser who broke her heart. They love even when it hurts. Even when it’s not reciprocated.

This dynamic feeds into their bond beautifully because in each other, they find what they’ve always needed—someone who wants them and sees them and chooses them above everything else.

Azriel will always physically protect Elain and champion her mental and emotional needs, but I believe Elain has the power to save Azriel too; to open up a side of life for him where he is desired and love— where he is protected and listened to and nurtured. A place where someone chooses him above everything else.

This is why Elriel is just as beautiful as Feysand or Nessian. It’s not unequal and Azriel doesn’t need a Valkyrie to “match his strength.” Elain is already strong.

[dippedinmelancholy]

After reading the one billionth Feysand Fan comment of “If you’re a fan of Nesta that tells me that you’re an abuser too and I’m actually scared of you”, I am literally BEGGING Y’ALL to read real adult fiction. Not romantasy, not these nonsense, carbon copy, plot empty, not even good smut, booktok books.

Adult fiction with adult characters with adult motivations and adult maturity. Open your fucking minds to earnestly complex people who fuck up and do good and also do horrible. Open your minds up to the fact that you have no idea what abuse looks like. Abuse does not mean “she made me make sad face :(((((((((((((“ or “she didn’t worship and praise me :((((((((((“ Take the time understand that someone can feel like an outsider, or exist within a complicated family dynamic, without it ever cross into the boundary of abuse. People can do things that are not good or evil, but complicated. They can do something that hurts the protagonist on an emotional or physical level without it EVER BEING ABUSE.

And I know this one is particularly hard to grasp, but could you all, per chance, open your minds up to the mere possibility of enjoying fiction without it being a direct mirror of one’s morality? I know its really hard for you to comprehend, but I think with enough hard work and dedication, you might be able to have the reading comprehension and ability to have conversations with another adult beyond the same level of a 12 year old.

Sincerely, someone has had to deal with real long term effects of abuse and childhood neglect. Every single time one of you screams abuse because a mean thing gets done or said, another one of my brain cells dies.

[arson-09]

one of the many issues i find with sjms writing (and subsequently her fans) is that a character has to be perfect to be loved (this is acotar specific) hear me out ((apologies in advance for the somewhat rambling and nonsensical bits. its late lmao)

Just about everything Feyre and Rhysand do is justified. Rhysands entire list of evil actions from acotar is retconned. Him murdering those winter court children was suddenly by an unnamed daemati whos never brought up again, his sexual assault of feyre was “for her protection”, and in general the way he treated her UtM is okayed (sa is never justifiable, even in fictional media) and him keeping very important information about Feyres body from her is fine because he was doing it to spare her feelings (also never ok to keep information of ones body from the individual)

Feyre is allowed to destroy the spring court. No matter how you feel about Tamlins character the actions she took were extreme, petty, and useless. She collectively punished the citizens of the spring court because of her relationship with Tamlin and she believed him to be allying with Hybern. Which was hinted to her to be false and she could have read his mind at any point. Feyre also is a unreliable narrator but her word is taken as truth. When she has magical outbursts its nothing, she can treat her supposed friends like shit but shes still the better friend.

Together they constantly spout how perfect the other is. Especially Feyre about Rhysand, maybe its the mating bond but the bond is how sjm communicates her feelings about the characters (which i feel is evident in the Nessian bond) Feyre says rhysand is Good and Justified in everything he does, so you the reader must believe it too, right?

The rest of the Inner Circle also falls into this. Mor is allowed to unfairly treat Nesta like shit, Cassian is unquestioned when it comes to his mistreatment of his mate, azriel is a background tapestry, and amren is a whole different issue tbh.

Nesta is the outlier. She is not perfect and we know it because of how mistreated she is by the people that surround her. Cassian is a horrible partner, letting rhysand do and say what he wants to her, restricting her food and being very neglectful of Nestas mental health. Nesta is a flawed character but shes not an antagonist. Her flaws does not call for this sort of treatment. It is disgusting how sjm portrays Nestas character and her “healing arc”. Sjm says she loves nesta, but her treatment says otherwise.

Tamlin receives the brunt of this treatment. He is a flawed character but is not evil. Hes not even a real antagonist, just because he is not friends or on good terms with Feyre and Rhysand does not make him such. His allying with Hybern is used as reasoning for his mistreatment when its clear as day hes a double agent. Tamlin, while he struggles with emotional regulation, anger issues and communication is a very good high lord and his personal relationship with a character does not change that. His actions towards feyre are often called abusive but sjms writing fails to bring this observation to fruition. She fails to actually make him abusive and antagonistic because she accidentally writes her own outs by justifying similar behaviors from other characters.

If you have spent anytime on the majority side of the fandom you have seen the Feyre and Rhysand vs Nesta and Tamlin mentality. Nesta and Tamlin are hated while Feysand are treasured and its because sjm makes a perfect character for you to love so why would you root for the flawed characters hated by the narrative? Nesta and Tamlin are far more nuanced and interesting due to their imperfections, dislike by the narrative, and hatred from the majority fandom. (To note, Nesta and Tamlins characters are different ((although they have some striking similarities)) but their treatment is very equal. Which is why i, and many other people in the fandom compare and combine them so much)

Feyre and Rhysand through the narrative and fans are perfect and can do no wrong. Tamlin and Nesta are frankly evil and undeserving of love. Its intriguing to see this behavior and its almost unique to the acotar and booktok fandom. Which is why i find myself so focused on Tamlin and subsequently the fandom. its so odd and something i havent seen before that it gets stuck in my little adhd brain.

[violetasteracademic]

Chapter Two: In Your Suit and Tie, In The Nick of Time

Summary:

Feyre's chance encounter with the mysterious Rhysand at Prism Coffee leads to unexpected complications.

Warnings:

Heavy content warning regarding conversations surrounding child death in this chapter. If that is difficult subject matter, I recommend only reading section one and three in this chapter and avoiding section two, noted by the line breaks!

A cornucopia of thank you's to @nikachansstuff and @rosanna-writer for an exceptional beta read on this chapter

Read chapter two here on AO3

Preview:

I peered over at Rhysand.

He was a paradox dressed in black. At first glance, he looked just like any other fast-talking and acclaim-chasing suit that cared about nothing and no one other than himself.

And yet, beneath the surface, there was a tattooed, pumpkin chai-loving brother and friend who worried deeply for those he loved. And he clearly shouldered a great sense of responsibility. Maybe even more than was fair.

I identified with that all too well.

[shallyne]

The Diary of Feyre Archeron Ch 9

(Romantically)

Chapter nine! So exciting! Some relief from the insanity of the past chapters. I hope you enjoy! Full Fic on AO3

Words: 1.1k

June 15th

Dear Diary, 

I still haven't burnt it. I will, I need to. I do, I know. I will. Soon. 

Although, the worst of the cases for Amarantha, Tamlin and Rhysand's father is over. It's been a hectic few months but we managed.

I have started therapy, too. It's been ROUGH but absolutely necessary. I'm glad Elain and Nesta pushed me into this direction, it's…I don't know how to explain it. I just feel so grateful for my sisters. We definitely had a rocky road and a fair share of fights over the years but when we needed it, we were there for each other, through our worst times. 

Since the accident, that's what I'm calling it now, Rhys and I have not spent one day apart. If it's work or just hanging out, he is there. Another wonder of the past months that I am infinitely grateful for. I have missed him a lot. I forgot how much of a rock he was for me. 

Something is definitely different between us now, though, but I am not mad about it. We became adults. He is some kind of criminal mastermind now (can you believe I say that casually? I would have RAN nine years ago!!) and I, well, I don't know what I am but I will find out. It's going forward, in baby steps. But baby steps are still steps! 

June 18th

The nightmares were bad again last night. After turning and tossing after an especially nasty one I called Rhys in the middle of the night. He actually picked up. That's insane, he should have been asleep. What did he even do at 3am? He refused to tell me. Not because he doesn't trust me but because he wants to focus on me. His words. It's kind of cute, right? 

I asked him to tell me about constellations because he LOVES astronomy, he's always getting super nerdy about it. 

For a moment I imagined him polishing his gun while telling me all about Orion and I kind of, I don't know, it was very attractive. It shouldn't be, right? That's wrong. That's SO wrong. 

I shouldn't get wet at the thought of him doing crimes. 

But I do. 

I should feel bad about it. 

But I don't.  

Haters can die mad about it. A wise woman once said “Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate”

Anyways, I'm going to meet Rhys in an hour, I have to go now. 

June 19th

Nesta said Rhys and I are going on dates. Romantically. That's so not true! We are not going on dates. Romantically. I'd KNOW if we were going on dates. Romantically. This is absurd! And Elain agreed with my sister!! We never gave any signs that we would even date. He kisses my forehead to calm me down, nothing romantic about it. I enjoy it, yes, but that's a ME problem. And we only hold hands to not lose each other in crowds or to keep my hand warm. I get cold hands easily, even in summer. And we hug frequently but that's what friends do. They hug. People hug all the time. 

Nesta just gave me the Sure, Jan look and went back to reading her book while Elain stayed silent. 

Fine, if they want to think we are going on dates (romantically) then I can't stop them but this is not the truth! 

Rhys will also think it's ridiculous when I tell him over dinner later. 

Anyways, I can't decide if I should put on my wine red lipstick or my crimson lipstick. I'll decide on a whim when I'm done curling my hair. 

June 20th

What. Is. Happening. 

I

I don't know what is happening. 

Something is happening. 

Something GREAT is happening. Something amazing and equally terrifying. Oh god, it's definitely happening. I don't know what's happening. No, I know. I know what is happening but I just can't believe it. Maybe I'm still in that coffin and I am about to die and this is just a daydream and–

God no we're not going down that route. I definitely have to talk about this in therapy. But I digress. 

Okay, so, Rhys and I met for dinner yesterday and I told him about my argument with Nesta about her saying we go on dates (romantically) and he got that weird look, like, I was so sure he was about to agree with me that it's ridiculous. Spoiler, he didn't. He agreed with NESTA. He thought, well no, he hoped we were going on dates (romantically). I was flabbergasted. Absolutely shocked. I think I freezed for a moment, I'm not sure. Why was so sure about these dates not being romantic? I don't even know! I wore the sluttiest lipstick I have, that I bought for our dates. I'm so blind, oh my god. 

Anyways, he asked me if we are dating. I said yes. I cried. In the middle of the fanciest restaurant in velaris. I am dating Rhysand. This feels like a dream. And we kissed! I swear this was the most swoon-worthy kiss EVER. I'm blushing just thinking about it, I feel like a damn teenager. 

But, Rhys and I are only dating for now. I am not ready to throw myself into anything just yet and Rhys was, of course, respectful of my boundaries. We didn't have sex yet, either. I thought about it but I couldn't. Not yet. He said he's waiting as long as it takes. 

It was the perfect evening. 

June 28th

I just came from therapy and I have to write this. There is something I have to do and I will do it tomorrow. I am nervous. So god damn nervous about it but it's time. I feel ready, finally. So, it is time and I will do it no matter how hard. I will also ask Rhys to come with me, my therapist said I should take someone with me that I trust and I trust Rhys. With my whole life. I want him to be with me when I do this step and if I'm being honest, I need him to be with me. 

There is this quarter in Velaris, a quarter I never stepped foot into because I couldn't. There were times when I stood close but turned around, I never was quite ready. It's called the Rainbow, it's the Artist's quarter of the city, which Velaris is actually quite famous for. There's all kinds of arts strewn throughout the whole quarter, everyone finds their place there and there is also an art school people dream of attending, it's quite famous. 

I never took a look at it, or anything. But I want to. So badly. 

And I will. 

Tomorrow.

With Rhys. (I hope) 

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25 @tothestarsandwhateverend @aayo-whatt @dreamlandreader

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

Ive been thinking a lot about Feysand UTM fanart lately and why it discomforts me the way it does. Like, i know a lot of people like to complain about it and shame feysand shippers for romantizing that part of the story and i get it, but I also understand that sometimes people have dub-con or even non-con fantasies and thats very normal, hell, I love reading dark romance stuff involving dubious or even no consent because I think it can be very hot. Well, as long as its not cishet. I think Ive talked about this before, but when I see dark romance where theres a submissive traditionally feminine fragile "girl" and a dominant dark dangerous man, i just see The Patriarchy but on a smaller scale and while I can understand why a lot of people do find that hot in some way, i just find it kinda repulsive, so its only hot to me if its gay pretty much. or if the woman is the dominant one but its so hard to find stories like that

Anyway, so thats my first reason for disliking that genre of Feysand fanart i guess, although its really more of a reason for my dislike of Feysand as a pairing in general. The second reason is that Feysand shipper as a whole often put themselves on a moral high ground because their ship is the one thats 'healthy' and 'feminist', so it really rubs me the wrong way to see those same people create art about the traumatic events that the female main character went through that does not center her trauma at all and in fact objectifies her. And like, there are definitely plenty of Feysand shippers who like it exactly because its fucked up and a typical dark romance couple (i mean just look at all the people who only ship acotar!feysand because its the only version of the ship thats genuinely dark and they like that) and Im guessing those are the people who usually draw romanticised UTM fanart, but it does still find appeal in the broader fandom space so I think my point still stands

And now the last reason: the original UTM scene is not written to be titillating at all. Like, I just said that I find dub-con/non-con stuff pretty hot so Ive read a lot of it, and there tends to be a very distinct difference between non-con fiction thats supposed to be hot and get you off and fiction about rape or SA that actually explores the topic in a serious manner, and the original UTM scene is very clearly a case of the latter, so I find it pretty discomforting when fans (and the books themselves tbh) retcon it into being hot instead when its like, thats clearly not what it was originally imo

[1800naveen]

Not all...

Not all Rhysand stans but who's there at the scene of the crime?

Not all Feysand stans but who's there at the scene of the crime?

Not all inner circle stans but who's there at the scene of the crime?

"Nesta stans/Tamlin stans are abusive!" But who's there at the scene of the crime where someone is getting bullied and harassed? I'll give you a hint, it's not Nesta or Tamlin fans. The only time I see these guys acting like pricks is because y'all are provoking them about liking Nesta and Tamlin.

If an artist is getting hate, take a guess who's at the scene of the crime?

Some of y'all got some psychological issues because why are you acting like that? Please chill the fuck out.

I know people can get passionate about books and their characters but always remember, THIS IS FICTION.

IT IS NOT REAL AND NEVER WILL BE REAL. IT ALL CAME FROM SJM'S MIND.

Acting all toxic and for what? You want a cookie?

I act toxic too but you will never catch me taking my anger out on people who bring the entertainment by making art.

Instead, I take my anger out on the people who I'm talking about in this post. And Sarah herself (it's a love hate thing, 98% of it is hate)

I fight the toxic with toxic. I push back the haters by being a hater.

Also I saw that great post talking about under the mountain which includes fanart of the actual scenes and a Feysand meat gobbler got mad as they always do.

Their name is also batsboy cum dumpster...

I didn't even have to insult you, you do it to yourself.

Peace and love, y'all🫶🏾

[theshadowsingersraven]

It’s interesting to me that E/riels often bring up Elain’s agency, but overwhelmingly have no issue with the lack of agency Nesta had in her relationship with Cassian, or how Rhys and Feyre’s relationship started with a kidnapping. Or they insist Gwyn can’t have a relationship because she’s a rape survivor, but that somehow doesn’t apply to Rhys’s abuse by Amarantha. Fandom (and this is a widespread issue, not specific to ACOTAR) can never just say “I don’t like this ship” anymore. They always have to bend over backwards to make it problematic and immoral. I prefer Elucien because I think it’d be something new, while E/riel feels too close to Feysand and Nessian. That’s really it! I don’t see the need to insist it’s the morally correct choice, or to twist canon to paint E/riel as abusive and shippers as abuse apologists. Can we all just calm down?

I got this before Elaingate and forgot it was sitting in my drafts lol

EXACTLY. I feel like because of the prevalence of unspoken or sometimes fully spoken online morality litmus tests puts people in a mindset of "I have to have a reason to like/not like something or someone is going to say I'm wrong."

Which I don't fully blame people for, but I definitely would like them to be a bit more self-aware about it? Like...why are we bringing someone's actual personality to what they enjoy in fantasy? That's the point of fantasy, it's not real. It's a safe avenue to explore things you normally wouldn't in real life.

I think there's a unique aspect to this fandom that leans super conservatively and rigidly to canon. There's very little gay representation, and every time people try to invalidate Gwynriel based on Gwyn's trauma because "Az is kinky" without realizing that kink is not just Christian Grey's Room of Pain or whatever tf it's called. Kink can be very empowering for survivors and can help them heal through having very clear sexual boundaries, dynamics, and safe words. It's exposure to sex that stops when they want it to, and that can be so healing.

I think a big issue in this fandom is that people are trying to use real-life comparisons to fictional characters on a morality scale, while completely glossing over their psychological complexity. Especially to invalidate or validate ships. It's just giving half-baked arguments online with the equivalent of rumor-mill-level veracity information to people about characters that fans can't analyze thoroughly.

I just can't take a lot of people in this fandom seriously when they get so up-in-arms. People can just say "ship bad" and go on their way, but they definitely do not lmao.

[darling-archeron]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

chapter four: until the night is over: loop seventeen

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.

Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 7.5k

Notes: Behold, my humble contribution to @feysand-hivemind's timeloop fic! Working on this story with all of you wonderful, talented people has been an absolute delight.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Another failure, and Rhys was back where he had started.

Again, the dream. The wolf, the arrow, and Feyre, sharp hate in her eyes. And he was back in Amarantha’s bed.

The loops were starting to pile up. There had been far more variables, far more failures, than he had hoped. Would there be a limit to the number of second chances he was given?

Beside him, Amarantha stirred. He tensed, shifting his gaze over, but she only adjusted her head before falling still again. Her long red hair fanned out across the bed, brushing up against his shoulders. 

His sleep in Amarantha’s bed was almost always shit, so the good news was that he had plenty of time to think.

In nearly every loop so far, save the first one, he had tried to change Feyre’s path early on. The window between Feyre letting go of her hatred of faeries and beginning to trust Tamlin was practically non-existent. Either she didn’t trust him because he was a faerie, or because he was an enemy of the Spring Court and obviously sneaking around.

The first time, she had progressed the farthest – but exposing her to Amarantha’s ire, when she was still on edge, had been disastrous.

There had to be some kind of middle ground.

He loathed the idea of letting her go back Under the Mountain. He wouldn’t watch Amarantha break her again.

And yet – what if Feyre going Under the Mountain was the key? It was where they had, at least, gotten closest, with Feyre admitting her love for Tamlin, even if it had been too late.

The far easier option would have been to get her to admit her love for Tamlin sooner, before she even stepped foot in Amarantha’s court. But what if that wasn’t enough? His appearance at the Spring Court in the first loop hadn’t been enough to spur her on.

All he had were theories, the best of which had been strung together with hardly anything to hold them.

Clare Beddor – that was the name Feyre had given him in place of her own. Had he given that name to Amarantha and told her that Tamlin had brought a human to the Spring Court, he would have been spared in the first loop. Of course, that didn’t exactly solve anything, because Feyre still wouldn’t have.

Of course, that was assuming Amarantha found her under that alias. As long as she was in love with Tamlin, he doubted Amarantha cared what a human’s name was.

But what if Clare hadn’t been fictional? It was an unmistakably plain, human name, perhaps belonging to someone from wherever Feyre had once called home.

Even if it wasn’t, was it possible for him to orchestrate things so Amarantha’s ire fell on someone who wasn’t Feyre?

The makings of a plan began to take shape in his head.

It wasn’t a particularly honorable plan. It involved putting Feyre in danger, it involved at least one scapegoat. But he had already lost his – his Feyre too many times. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he would do whatever it took to keep it from happening again.

He knew by now that sleep would elude him the rest of the night. His mind was restless, but any moment of repose was strength.

There might not have been any more dreams ahead of him tonight, but Rhys lay awake and went through his usual ritual, picturing those he loved and wondering what they might be doing right now. Tonight, he dared to add one more name to the list.

I will not fail you, Feyre.

-

The previous times he had felt the call to seek her out on Calanmai, he ignored it. This time, however, it would be necessary.

And Rhys couldn’t deny that he felt a little thrill at the idea of seeing her again.

It was a perfect spring evening. The air was cool and fresh on his face – something he never took for granted anymore. He didn’t know how Amarantha could stand to spend most of her time Under the Mountain, choking on the same stale air year after year.

Cloaked in shadows on the edge of the tree line, Rhys observed the nearby figures, only illuminated by firelight. The drums had been beating for hours now – it wouldn’t be much longer before they reached their peak, and Tamlin would select his maiden. He bit down a wave of revulsion at the thought of Feyre being selected for such a ritual.

Luckily, if her thoughts from the previous loops were any indication, it wouldn’t come to that.

Not far from where Rhys stood, there was a group of half a dozen male lesser faeries. Loud, bawdy, and vulgar. After a moment of combing through their minds, Rhys saw that their thoughts were equally foul.

He selected the worst three, and then planted the seed of an idea in their heads.

Go and see what kind of trouble we can find. Plenty of fresh meat on a night like tonight.

As the minutes crept on, the pulling sensation in his chest drew tighter, and he scanned the firelit crowds for the shape of his painter.

Where are you? Come, find me. Go see Calanmai, he urged, even if she wouldn’t hear.

At last, he caught a glimpse of her weaving through the crowd, alone.

Any other time, he would have been angry that Tamlin didn’t have any protections on her. Wandering alone on a wild night like this only meant trouble for a human woman.

However, in this situation, it played right into his plans.

Feyre wandered through the crowd, likely searching for Tamlin or Lucien. Slowly, she wandered away from the throng, closer to his edge of the woods.

Closer to where he had led the males.

He watched from afar as they approached Feyre, nearly cornering her. One of them leaned in much too close –

And Rhys winnowed, right behind Feyre, catching her as she stumbled back on a piece of loose rock.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

-

The first meeting on Calanmai set things into motion. Though he had longed to linger, he had kept things brief, not getting as much as her name out of her.

She had thought he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen.

Why did the knowledge bring him such pleasure?

The name of the game was to still appear intimidating and a bit frightening, but not so much that he couldn’t be trusted. He couldn’t let the mask drop the way he longed to, but it was better than nothing.

He hadn’t been able to avoid taking the head, branded with the Night Court sigil, to the Spring Court a few weeks later. If he spared the faerie Amarantha had initially chosen, she would just pick another. However, he was able to put it somewhere else when he delivered it.

It was simple enough. He winnowed to the Spring Court and immediately sought out Feyre’s room. He could sense her even without having her in his sights, still fast asleep in the time just before dawn.

He cast his magic towards her, dragging her subconscious into a slightly heavier sleep. She would sleep halfway to noon, but that would give Tamlin plenty of time to deal with his little gift – and even if he didn’t, she would be far less likely to see it in the smaller garden where he left it, spiked on the ornamental fence.

He saved Feyre from the horror, but Amarantha expressed her displeasure that he had picked somewhere too subtle.

Her nails were sharp on his bare shoulders, tendrils of red hair brushing his neck as she loomed above him.

“What happened to your sense of theatrics, Rhysand?” she crooned. “Perhaps I need to put on another show, to give you some more inspiration to work with.”

Encased in the ring on her finger, Jurian’s eyeball spun. If the male was still in there somewhere, at least one of them could be panicked about the situation.

“If you wish it, my queen,” he crooned.

Whatever he could do to satisfy her nearly unabating thirst for violence before Feyre arrived.

-

Weeks passed, and Rhys spent hours trying to find another way back to the Spring Court. Every little interaction he had with Feyre before she came Under the Mountain could be crucial to their success.

Unfortunately, Amarantha’s paranoia only stretched so far.

“Why so eager to go back to the Spring Court, Rhysand?” Amarantha mused one night, when he had again suggested it. “One might think you’re hiding something there.”

He forced himself to stay calm, to continue rubbing her shoulders to relieve the tension from them.

“Only eager to see Tamlin flounder, my queen. You must admit, his attempts to break the curse have been laughable.”

“Which is why I’m hardly worried now. You serve me here, Rhysand.”

For not the first time, Rhys wished the bed would open up and swallow him.

-         

In the days leading up to the curse’s deadline, Amarantha finally loosened his leash as she had in the first loop. He knew the terrible things he would have to do in the days to come, but he also couldn’t deny his excitement at seeing Feyre again. Other than the day he had left the head spiked for Tamlin, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her.

The bustle and brightness of spring greeted him as he winnowed onto the front lawn. Even with a fraction of its denizens, the manor was busy, as always.

Last time, the way things had unfolded was accidental. This time, he needed to keep this part as close to how it had first happened as possible.

He let scraps of his power wash out before him, alerting the whole manor of his presence, strolling into the dining room that only appeared to hold Tamlin and Lucien.

This time, he immediately noticed the third plate betraying her presence. He swore he could sense her, too. How had he been so oblivious the first time around?

He let the same words as before spill from his lips, as if he was acting out one of the plays Mor loved to watch at the Velaris theatre. Taunting Tamlin and Lucien, pretending to be surprised when he let his gaze land on the third plate.

When Tamlin’s glamour fell from around her, he had to hold back his sigh of relief. She was still safe and whole – lovely, with the midday sun at her back, bringing out the gold in her hair.

“I remember you,” he said softly. “It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble.”

It was all he could do to keep up the familiar song and dance with Tamlin and Lucien. The urge to reach for her, make sure there wasn’t a single mark on her, was stronger than ever.

Instead, he reached for her mind, seizing it between his mental hands. As he traced his finger across her collarbones, her throat, he felt her fear.

“Don’t be afraid, darling,” he whispered into her mind.

“Don’t – “ Feyre ground out, too afraid to say much more.

One day, I swear, I will make it up to you, Feyre.

He flipped through her mind – and curiously, found no memories of her being intimate with Tamlin. Only memories of Tamlin biting into her neck on Calanmai – only hours after he had first met her.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” he said, letting his cruel words settle over the room. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching how you anguish over it.”

He was aware of Feyre’s growing apprehension as he threatened Tamlin, and he almost reached back into her mind, to whisper something more soothing to her, but he stopped himself just in time. 

Not here. Not now, when there were so many variables still at play.

Tamlin shoved at him, but he sidestepped easily.

“Not now, Tamlin. I’d hate for the lady to see you become a smear upon the floor.”

Tamlin fumed, but Rhys finally had an excuse to turn his attention wholly back to Feyre.

“What’s your name, love?”

He felt her hesitation – felt the lie in her mind before it formed on her tongue.

“Clare Beddor,” she gasped.

Rhys smirked. “I’ll be sure to give Amarantha your regards – all of your regards.”    

-

When Amarantha summoned him to the throne room for a full report, it was all too easy to tell the truth. To give her Clare’s name.

Anything for Feyre.

Now all that remained was to wait and see if his gambit paid off.

-

Two days later, and the Attor dragged poor Clare, kicking and screaming, Under the Mountain.

As he had expected, Amarantha made a game of pulling pain from her like notes from a violin. He stood there and watched, the same bored smirk on his face.

He went into her mind, took away her pain as easily as snuffing out a candle.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Clare. I know you didn’t deserve it, didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Please, just end this,” she begged, unaware or uncaring of who she was speaking to.

He hated himself a little bit more as he didn’t reply. For Feyre to be safest, Amarantha’s bloodlust had to be fully spent.

“I don’t have that power, but your pain is gone. Scream when she expects you to.”

Over the next few days, Rhys remained at Amarantha’s side, watching as she tormented Clare. Perhaps because he was a glutton for punishment, he delved into her mind to get a glimpse of the person whose life he was destroying.

She was a simple village girl. Kind, gentle, she loved teasing her younger brothers and caring for her family’s animals. She hated the taste of oatmeal, and shunned the Children of the Blessed when they came to town.

The days wore on, and finally, Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. He reached back into Clare’s mind and ended it, once and for all.   

-

All too soon, the doors to Amarantha’s throne room swung open again as the Attor dragged another human girl through its doors, throwing her on the ground before Amarantha’s throne.

Rhys felt the pain in her knees as they hit the marble, so sharply it might have been his own. He did his best to steady his breathing. If anyone sensed how quickly his heart was beating, he would be fucked. 

He had to focus. Amarantha couldn’t know that a single thing was amiss this time around.

“What’s this?” The False Queen asked, leaning forward in her throne.

“Just a human thing I found downstairs,” the Attor hissed, leering at Feyre, and Rhys fought the urge to mist the wretched creature then and there. “Tell her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs – why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.”

He watched as Feyre proclaimed her love for Tamlin in front of all seven courts, bargaining for his freedom. She practically beseeched him to say something, but he didn’t so much as nod. Only sitting there as still and unfeeling as his stone heart.

“Give me a single reason I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

“You tricked Tamlin. He is bound unfairly.”

Amarantha prattled on, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Rhys would have blocked it out entirely if Feyre’s safety didn’t entirely depend on Amarantha’s words. What would come next was the one part he had truly been unable to predict.

After all these years, Rhys understood how Amarantha worked well. If he had gambled right, she would offer to a game with Feyre, string her along for a bit while dangling Tamlin in front of her like a carrot. Not an optimal outcome, but it would give him time to better understand Feyre’s purpose on this path. From there, he could formulate the rest of his plan.

After she had just torn Clare apart, doing the same to Feyre would be boring, predictable. All things The Deceiver despised.

“I should have listened when darling Clare said she’d never seen Tamlin before, or hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was certainly delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours,” she crooned.

Though he stood in the shadows, off to the side of Amarantha’s throne rather than directly beside it, he felt the eyes of the court turn to him. Feyre didn’t spare him a glance, her eyes locked on Clare’s mangled body, but he could feel the horror radiating off of her.

He had known Clare’s death would complicate things. But seeing Clare through Feyre’s comparatively innocent, human eyes – the weight of his crime crashed down fully upon him.

Another sin added to the list of reasons he would burn in hell.

Amarantha verbally toyed with Feyre for a bit longer, enough that Rhys’s dread grew as he started to wonder if he had gambled wrong.

But then she spoke the words he had been praying for.

“I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”

He saw Feyre stiffen – and he was far from relaxing, either.

“You swear you love Tamlin?”

“With my whole heart,” Feyre insisted, her voice heavy with conviction.

“Well then. Proving your devotion should be easy. You complete three tasks of my choosing – three little tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.”

She turned to Tamlin, spouting more nonsense about fickle human hearts. Rhysand’s mind was already racing.

Three tasks – they could be anything, with so many variables. How would Amarantha see fit to make a human prove her love?

Amarantha went on to list conditions, stipulations, throwing a riddle into the mix.

That made him relax a bit. Amarantha had never been as clever as she gave herself credit for. Even if she forbade everyone from giving Feyre hints, it couldn’t be too difficult.

“So – are we agreed?” Amarantha said at last.

Feyre glanced across the throne room once more, eyes locking on Tamlin, who still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Agreed,” Feyre said.

Cauldron, please, tell me I haven’t just subjected her to a fate worse than Clare’s. 

And with Feyre’s words and a swing of the Attor’s clawed arm, ripping into her skin, her fate was sealed, and Rhys’s along with it.

-

Rhys did his best to monitor Feyre from a distance. She had appeared alright when Amarantha gave her the riddle shortly after her arrival. He knew Lucien had already been to see her and patched up her injuries from the Attor’s beating, but it wasn’t enough. He had to see how she was faring and start getting her to trust him.

Also, a selfish part of him admitted, he hated to be so far from her when she was at last within his reach.

Amarantha had given her one of the worst cells in the dungeons, which was truly saying something. It was foul smelling and damp, and perfectly situated so that the screams and groans of the other prisoners angled themselves into the cell.

When he winnowed inside, she looked so small, curled up on a palette of foul-smelling hay that threatened to make his nose start running. At least she had a cloak to keep her warm. She hadn’t arrived with it – Lucien’s, if he had to guess.

At first, he thought she might have been asleep, but she shot up, eyes flying to where he stood in the corner of her cell.

“Hello, darling,” he crooned, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t have to hide his tense fists.

“What do you want?” she hissed, blue-gray eyes narrowed.

Good – the fire hadn’t gone from her yet.

“I’m only checking in on my favorite human. How are you faring?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“I’m fine,” she said, scowling in a way that reminded him of Mor when she was irritated.

“Is that so? Because your situation would imply otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“I mean you’ve come to claim Tamlin, without the faintest idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You’re just saying that to get into my head.” Her voice was steely, but he saw a shiver shoot through her. Not just from the cold, although that was likely part of it.  

“I assure you, I only have your best interests at heart. And, just between the two of us, I’m happy to extend my assistance in any way I can.”

A dangerous, dangerous thing for him to say.

Feyre raised her eyebrows. “You want to help me? You’re Amarantha’s – her lackey.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” Rhys admitted. “But have you never considered that I might have my own agenda?”

“Well, I don’t want any part of it,” Feyre spat.

Internally, Rhys grimaced. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her today.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a blanket he had stashed in a pocket realm earlier. It wasn’t anything particularly nice, and there was a hole worn through in the middle. One of the nobles’ discarded rags.

“Think on it,” he said, tossing the blanket towards her, and winnowing back out of the cell before she could reply.

-

A few more long days went by, and Rhys could barely stand the thought of Feyre alone in her freezing cell. He slept on silk sheets and ate some of Prythian’s finest food every evening. Not only that, but her first trial was rapidly approaching, and he had made almost no progress in gaining her trust. He hadn’t been back to visit her, but he had checked in on her thoughts a handful of times. They ranged from bored, to angry, to fearful. She was pondering the riddle but hadn’t come closer to the right answer.

Six days after his initial visit, he convinced himself that he had waited long enough. It was midday, and Amarantha was sound asleep. She had dismissed him after he had serviced her – a rare mercy. It also gave him the perfect window of opportunity to visit his painter again.

“Go to hell, Rhysand,” she said, sounding bored when he appeared.

“What – no Rhysand, apple of all eyes, or Rhysand, all my waking moments are consumed with thoughts of you?” he purred.

She glared at him - a sight that was becoming quite familiar. “What do you want now?”

“The same thing I wanted to do last time. To see how you’re faring down here, Feyre.”

“How the fuck would you be faring, in my shoes?” she spat.

“You’ll find you have no idea what my shoes are like,” he shot back. Cauldron, what was it about this woman that set him ablaze so quickly?

“How is Tamlin?” she finally asked.

“The High Lord of Spring is doing perfectly fine, as far as I can tell. Amarantha has been dragging him around like a puppy, but he hasn’t so much as budged.” He said truthfully.

That seemed to bring her some satisfaction. “Good,” was all she said.

“Does it bother you? That he hasn’t been down here to see you?” he said the question in his same coy, teasing tone, but he longed to know the answer.

“What does it matter to you?”

“Feyre, please. I – I can’t lose you again.” He blurted it out before he even realized what he was saying. But it certainly got her attention.

Fuck, this was really starting to wear on him. In his desperation to monitor Feyre at every hour, he had barely been getting any sleep.

“What?” That got her attention, and she turned to him at last. A crease formed between her brows, trepidation in her eyes.

How much could he tell her without obliterating any chance of earning her trust? With his powers stolen, he didn’t dare to go in her mind and wipe away the thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of practice on human minds, and he certainly wouldn’t be testing his theories on his painter.  

But if he played it right – perhaps having her know could prove advantageous. He just had to make sure he didn’t sound insane.

Feyre was still waiting for his reply.

In the quiet, he used his magic to feel for any listening ears. Years of intuitively knowing when Azriel was nearby had honed his senses well.

“What do you think my goal is, here?”

Feyre frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“Just tell me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I assume to save your own skin and piss Tamlin off however you can.”

Well, her assumptions could have been much worse.

“Feyre, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say, and not make any assumptions or jump to conclusions until I’m done.”

“Why should I trust you?” She spat. 

“Have I done anything to cause you harm thus far?”

“No, but-“

He cut her off, knowing he would never get a word in edgewise over his painter if he didn’t.

“I have been Amarantha’s lackey under this Mountain for forty-nine years. Most of them have been long, the same things happening year after year. But months ago, something changed. I had a dream.”

Skepticism danced across her face.

“I dreamed of a young woman, drawing her bow in a snowy forest. Aiming at a deer first, and then a wolf, which she shot with remarkable precision. It left me with a strange feeling in my chest, but I cast it aside, convinced it was only an exceptionally clear dream. But the feeling didn’t go away. On Calanmai, I felt a strange inclination to visit the Spring Court. Another unusual feeling – I’ve made a point to avoid that court and the sycophants that live there for years. So I ignored the pull. I barely believed you were real, much less human, until I saw you for the first time, in the dining room with Tamlin and Lucien when I interrupted your dinner.

“That’s not –“

He kept going, or he knew he would never finish. It was best to keep this part succinct anyway. “By then, Tamlin’s time was almost up. He sent you away to protect you, but you came back, came Under the Mountain, just as you did now. But your timing was poor, in a way you had no control over, and Amarantha was angry, and I tried to protect you from her wrath, but – things didn’t end well. We both died, and I was prepared to meet the Mother.”

“And then….I had the same dream, of you killing the wolf. And I woke up the same way I had the time before, and I watched the same events unfold before my eyes, only changed by my interference. Not just once. Over and over. You always killed the wolf, you always came to Prythian and fell for Tamlin. And eventually, I realized that I’m stuck in some kind of loop, reliving the same events over and over again.”

“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed, taking a step back.

No, no, no. He couldn’t let this go poorly.

“Let me prove it to you,” he said, extending his hand. “Mind to mind.”

“I’m not letting you in my mind again,” she said, taking another step back. “I felt you, back in the dining room in the Spring Court. Tamlin has told me plenty about you, you know. I’m not a fool.”

He took a step towards her, bridging the space between them. Even as both of their lives hung on the line, something was electrifying about arguing with her like this. It made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. He could admire her stubbornness, even as it worked against him.

“And what has Tamlin told you?” he asked softly.

“That you’re responsible for terrible things.”

“And you believe everything Tamlin tells you? Even when he concealed this whole mess from you?”

“That was part of the curse. He couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t he?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Feyre dropped his gaze at last, falling silent.

“I swear to you, on the Mother that I will not harm you. Nor will I enter your mind again without permission.”

He watched her consider for a long moment, fingers fidgeting at her sides in an attempt to appear unruffled.

“Fine.”

She didn’t hide her scowl as she held out her hand, and Rhys considered telling her that he didn’t need physical connection to initiate it, but refrained. This was, after all, the first time she had willingly let him touch her.

He took her callused hand in his – though his was much too smooth, after all these years away from weapons that had once been like an extension of his arm.

For a brief moment, he considered showing her Velaris, snippets of his happy memories. If things went awry, he could always start the loop over again. But even that felt too risky. He couldn’t divulge it.

Instead, he did what he had promised and entered her mind. Gently, like walking through a forest in autumn and trying to avoid snapping a stick.

“See? Not so bad, is it?”

“Can we get this over with?”

He caught brief glimpses of her thoughts. Wondering if he was insane, wondering if she was insane for letting such a mentally unstable individual near her.

A strong sense of curiosity, too.

Good. That meant that not all was lost.

He showed her his memories of the first time he had watched her shoot the wolf, and their meeting in the dining room, and standing before Amarantha. He skipped over their deaths – that was the last thing he wanted to show her. Instead, he skipped ahead through other loops, showing their interactions or things he had watched her do.

Selfishly, he tried to pick the ones that painted him in a more flattering light.

After he had sifted through all the half-decent memories from previous loops, he switched gears. She needed to see more of him to trust him, and Velaris was too risky. But there were other things he could show.

He sent memories of him drinking with Mor, sitting at a desk next to Amren, piles of documents surrounding them both. Flying with Cassian and Azriel.

He could feel her jolt of surprise at the last one, at the revelation of his wings.

How peculiar, for that to be the thing she found most shocking.

At last, the memories ended. He could have sifted through her thoughts some more to find out what Feyre was thinking, but he found himself wanting to hear her voice her thoughts on her own.

She was staring at him in stunned silence as she pulled her hand away from his.

“Well?” Rhys promoted. “I’m sure it’s a lot to take in.”

She took a few steps backward, dropping back on the pallet, eyes wide.

“So you and I are all just players in this sick game? No – I’m not even a player. I’m a pawn.”

“Feyre –“ he tried to interject.

“If we fail, you’re the one that has to do this all over again. I – this version of myself, and everything I’ve gone through – I don’t even die. I just cease to exist.”

Rhys thought he might have preferred being in her position to reliving the same months over and over, but he kept that thought silent.

“It’s not fair. But – we’ve never done it like this before. We have to believe that this time, we’ll make it through.”

“How many times have you said that to me?”

“Never,” Rhys admitted. “I’ve never told you that we’re in a loop before.”

At that, the tiniest sliver of amusement appeared on her face.

“Well, that would explain why you did such a piss-poor job of it.”

“But you believe me?”

She exhaled, letting out a huff of air. “Unless you have some insane strategy, I don’t know why you would be making it up.”

“I meant everything I said earlier,” he finally said.

This was so, so far off the course of his original plan.

“We have never worked together before. If we do, I believe we can get out of here.”

What came after that, he truly had no clue.

“What about those other memories, Rhysand?” she asked. “The ones that weren’t part of the loop? Were those just to make yourself look good?”

“Would you think worse of me if I said yes? I won’t lie, I’ve done some monstrous things. But they have all been in the name of keeping my people, my family, safe.”

That seemed to resonate with something deep in her, and he watched as she seemed to mentally to go some far-off place for a moment.

“And Clare?” she murmured.

He offered up another bit of truth. “It was her or you.”

A grim line of determination creased on her forehead, and Feyre was silent for a long, long moment. Rhys again had to stop himself from instinctually reaching into her mind to see what she was thinking.

“Alright,” Feyre said at last. “What’s your plan?”

Rhys could have fallen to his knees before her at the relief he felt.

“You go through the trials like nothing has changed, you’re still fighting for Tamlin’s love. I swear that I will be beside you every step of the way, keeping Amarantha’s attention off of you as much as I can. And for the love of the Mother, think on the riddle she gave you.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“What about the trials? Do you know anything about those?”

He shook his head. Amarantha had been tight-lipped about whatever she had in store for “the puny human.”

The sound of footsteps drawing near to Feyre’s cell drew his focus. “We don’t have much more time.”

“I have so many more questions.”

“Next time we get a spare moment, I’ll answer them,” he promised, scanning her up and down as if signs of the truth between them could be seen on her.  

Before Feyre could respond, the door swung open, revealing the red-skinned, pot-bellied guards that escorted her everywhere. They tossed in a stale-looking piece of bread and a bruised, mushy apple.

It simply wouldn’t do.

Reaching into their minds was as easy as cutting through butter.

“No more of this slop. From now on, you’re to bring her a fresh, hot meal from the kitchens twice a day. Tell the others, and the kitchen staff, too. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?”

Feyre straightened, staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn’t entirely decipher – but Cauldron, how he wanted to.

“You’re welcome,” he purred instead. Her surprised eyes were the last thing he saw before he winnowed away again.

-

Rhys could scarcely believe how well things had been going.

Of course, if you considered his painter trapped Under the Mountain by a murdering psychopath “going well.”

If he had thought Feyre consumed his thoughts before, he had been wrong. Having her in such a close proximity, not loathing him, felt like a fantasy.

Rhys did his best to make good on his promise. Each day, he made a point to send a hot meal to her cell. He was getting the sense that Feyre’s first trial would be some kind of physical test, and she had to keep her strength up. He installed wards that muffled the sounds of the screams that tore through the walls to Feyre’s cell at all hours.

In his free seconds, he found excuses to sneak back down to the dungeons under the guise of emotionally tormenting Feyre.

In reality, he was doing his best to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. She did her best to act nonchalant, but Rhys recognized the curiosity, the stubbornness, behind the mask. He knew it because the same traits were reflected in him.

Talking with her was a…disarming experience. She had seen him without the mask he had worn for so long. She saw the desperation that lay underneath without him having to voice it. It only made him question more why the Cauldron had shoved them together into this wretched situation.

“A question for a question,” he finally said one night, after she pressed him for more information on the Night Court. “You’re learning all of my secrets, but I can’t say the same. I’ll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine.”

Pure selfishness, on his part. He couldn’t help it.

She raised her eyebrows. “What about me could possibly interest you, Rhysand?”

“Rhys,” he corrected automatically. “And I think you’re drastically underselling yourself, darling.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the hay pallet. Even after everything he told her, she was still fiercely protective of her secrets; especially the human family she had left behind.

“Fine.”

“You said you’ve seen this over and over again. How do they end? Is it always with me dying?””

“Not always,” Rhys replied honestly. “Sometimes I go first.”

That set her mouth in a grim line.

“I know you like to paint,” he said. “Why?”

She gave him a funny look. “I always enjoyed it, even as a child. My mother hated that out of all the talents that were suitable for a young lady, I had an affinity for the one that was as messy and wild as I was. And when things changed and my family lost our fortune, painting became a rare luxury. A bit of color in my dreary life, I guess.”

When they weren’t asking questions, Rhys prepped her about the different trials Amarantha might have in store. The first one was less than a week away, and he was still in the dark about it. It could have been some kind of duel, or puzzle, or perhaps an archery test. Amarantha had remained impossibly tight-lipped about it.

Whatever it was, Rhys knew Feyre would prevail. The hours he had spent in her cell, getting to know her, had only strengthened his opinion on that. And if for any reason, she stumbled, he would be there to pick her back up.

They had each other now, and this strange, tentative trust. They would not fail.

-

At last, the day of Feyre’s first trial was upon them.

The day prior, Amarantha had her lackeys bring in some sort of muddy labyrinth, hauled up from the catacombs somehow and reassembled in a giant pit. And in the early morning hours, when Rhys gazed upon the completed project, he knew what awaited Feyre in a few hours.

“Feyre – I know what your first trial is. She’s going to have you outrun and hunt the Middengard Wyrm.” 

He was at a loss for how to describe the wretched creature, so instead, he sent an image of it into Feyre’s mind, well aware of how terrifying the creature was.

He felt the tide of horror rise up in her mind.

“She wants me to kill that thing?”

“Yes – but Feyre, the Middengard has weaknesses. It’s blind, and it relies on smell. It knows its lair like nothing else, but if you can disrupt it, you’ll throw it off. I’ll be a second pair of eyes for you, too. Don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say,” she responded, voice shaky.

Oh, she had no idea how not easy all of this was.

Later in the morning, he found himself back in Amarantha’s bedchambers, where she sat at her vanity and brushed out her long hair, her back to him. 

“Rhysand,” she mused as he came in. “You haven’t gotten anything else interesting out of the human, have you?”

“No, my queen. It seems she truly loves Tamlin. She believes with all her heart that she’ll be able to free him.”

The Deceiver scoffed. “And you haven’t noticed anyone helping her? Nobody developing any attachments.”

“Not at all.”

Her smile, slippery as a snake, curled upwards in the mirror’s reflection.

“Very good.”  

-

An hour later, Amarantha’s court had gathered around the pit that held the Middengard’s lair, waiting for Feyre’s entrance.

In a typical move for her, Amarantha had her throne moved into here so she could preside over the festivities above everyone else. A smaller chair had been brought in for Tamlin, who sat beside her.

That was another merciful thing about Feyre and Tamlin’s presence down here. It saved him from having to be at Amarantha’s right hand as often.

Feyre was brought in, escorted by her usual guards, and Rhys was again struck by how small she looked. But she held her head high, chin jutted out in defiance.

“So, dear Feyre, are you ready for your first trial?” Amarantha crooned. She looked especially bloodthirsty today, dressed in a long-sleeved black gown. There was a glint in her eyes that Rhys didn’t like.

In response to Amarantha, Feyre nodded.

“Well, I have been ready too,” Amarantha continued. “I’ve been excited to see how you’ll fare against the little surprise I have for you. But I suppose it won’t be much of a surprise, will it?” Her tone turned icy.

What?

“Imagine my shock, Amarantha said, “When someone came to me this morning with a full report. Telling me that someone’s been helping you the past few weeks. Fresh meals, warm blankets. Information.”

No, no no –

Who had betrayed him? He had been so careful.

He raked through his past interactions, doing his best to keep his face a blank mask, only cocking an eyebrow.

Amarantha’s hawkish gaze whipped around to him.

“Rhysand,” she hissed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Gasps of shock and rapid whispering went up around the room.

“I don’t know what you're referring to, my queen,” Rhys replied smoothly. He wasn't afraid for himself - only Feyre. He had withstood Amarantha’s wrath many times before, and he would do it again.

“Liar,” she hissed, and before Rhys knew what was happening, a wall of force hit him, sending him crashing to his knees. 

No, not again -

He struggled to bring himself to his knees before another wave of her stolen power hit him, sending him back to the floor.

The throng of people that had been near him scurried out of the way.

“You’ve been helping her. Giving her comforts, preparing her for the trials.” 

Her questioning earlier had been a test.

“No!” A voice shouted from the other side of the room - Feyre’s. “He hasn't been helping me. You're wrong.”

Her attempt to spare him was touching, but Rhys knew it was too late for them. And it only turned Amarantha’s attention back to his painter. 

Tamlin seemed to finally remember that he could speak. “Amarantha, no. You can��t harm her, you made a bargain with her.”

Amarantha laughed – a horrible, high-pitched sound, and Rhys felt the pit of dread growing in his stomach. There had to be some way to salvage this. They had come so far.

“You’re finally defending her? When she only has eyes for Rhysand, of all people? The bargain is only upheld if the human’s heart is still set on you, Tamlin. And there is nothing in our agreement that stops me from tearing her apart whenever I please.”

Rhys stopped caring about Tamlin and whatever pathetic, useless pleas he had when Amarantha extended a clawed nail towards his painter. 

Her hand flicked, and Rhys watched, still crushed on the ground, as Feyre joined him on the unforgiving floor with a scream.

He knew this was the end. 

“You should apologize to me, human. I offered you a chance, I arranged this entire trial, just for you. And yet you refuse to play fairly.”

Her limbs twisted, going in directions that made him nauseous. 

His body was on fire, but he reached for Feyre’s mind.

 “Feyre,” he rasped, unintentionally saying it out loud, too. 

“Rhys, are you there?” Feyre asked.

He sent out a wave of comfort, as much as he could manage as he fought through the fog of his own. “I’m sorry Feyre, I wanted this to go differently.”

“If she spares you somehow – don’t let her find my family.”

He knew she wouldn’t, and the moment Feyre’s heart stopped beating, it wouldn’t matter anyway, but he didn’t say that.

“I won’t let her find them.”

“I guess you’ll see me in the next loop,” she said, sounding strained under the wave of pain, making her thrash and scream through gritted teeth.

He heard the snap, snap, snap, of her bones, and reached for her mind, to take away the pain as he had done before.

SNAP

A roar of pain coming from Feyre’s mind, and then, silence.

Amarantha had underestimated the durability of humans in her rage.

And this –

All of this – had been for nothing.

He had tried so hard to plan things out, to do it differently this time, and it was all for nothing.

Searing pain sliced through his body once more as he shifted, his gaze meeting Amarantha’s. She had stood from the throne, face twisted into a snarl above him. 

“Traitorous filth. After all these years, you try to deceive me?”

“I hope you burn in hell,” Rhysand spat with the remainder of his energy.

Her sneering face was the last thing he saw before the world dropped away into darkness.

[hrizantemy]

The clock app is brutal for Nesta and Tamlin fans😭 I understand that Feysand + Cassian are more beloved but still😭 some of the takes on there are just insane

It’s like the moment you try to have a nuanced discussion about their characters or critique anything, you’re hit with waves of fans who aren’t really interested in hearing anything negative. And let’s be real—half of the Feysand fans I see are really just Rhysand stans.

The way they defend his actions, especially when it comes to Feyre, is something else. Anytime you point out his flaws or the ways he’s messed up, the response is always, “Well, Feyre wouldn’t like the way you’re talking about her mate! You’re not a real Feyre fan!” And honestly? Yeah, you’re probably right—Feyre wouldn’t like the way I talk about Rhysand. But here’s the thing: she’s fictional. Womp womp. I can still love Feyre and admit that, in the real world, she’d probably have a problem with me calling out her mate. But that doesn’t mean she—or Rhysand—should be above critique.

It’s exhausting when these conversations get reduced to “if you don’t like Rhysand, you don’t love Feyre” as if the two are inseparable. I can admire Feyre for her growth and resilience while still calling out the toxic dynamics at play in their relationship. Just because Feyre is a fictional character doesn’t mean we can’t talk about the impact of Rhysand’s actions or how he gets a pass for things other characters would be crucified for. Loving Feyre doesn’t mean I have to blindly worship her mate, and it definitely doesn’t mean I have to accept that she’s flawless or that her relationship is beyond reproach.

At the end of the day, we can have our opinions and critiques without needing to be “approved” by these fictional characters.