#take my hands wreck my plans

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The “I could see you as my new addiction, you can see me as a secret mission” to “you kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” to “why’d you whisper in the dark just to leave me in the night” to “at least I had the decency to keep my nights out of sight” to “I loved you in secret” to “I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you” to “playing hide and seek and giving me your weekends” to “that's the thing about illicit affairs and clandestine meetings and stolen stares, they show their truth one single time but they lie, and they lie, and they lie a million little times” pipeline 🙃

[the-lonelybarricade]

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 3

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

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

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

“So—you still haven’t told him.”

Feyre kept her eyes held wide, careful to avoid stabbing them with her mascara wand, as she flitted her pupils to the corner of the vanity mirror and met her roommate’s disapproving stare.

Alis was leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed. Some evenings she neglected to leave the stern teacher role in her classroom, and over the last two weeks Feyre had begun to feel increasingly like one of her misbehaving students.

“There hasn’t been a good time,” Feyre said, returning to the delicate task of swiping the wand over her eyelashes.

“Mmhmm.”

Feyre grip tightened on the tube of mascara. A slew of defensive words rushed to the back of her tongue, but she held them, enduring another of Alis’s incredulous hums as she stepped into the room. She wasn’t one of Alis’s guilty students and she wasn’t going to act like one, even as Alis began surveying the diamond-studded hairpins Feyre had spent the better part of the morning arranging, the dissected makeup bag that hadn’t been touched in weeks, the elegant dress laid on the bed.

That was where Alis ended her inspection. The midnight gown was still in its protective casing from the dry cleaners, a new addition to Feyre’s closet. Alis pulled at it, and the plastic hissed as it slid over the bed—as if warning, begging Alis not to venture any further.

“And the art show this evening hasn’t had any influence on your decision?”

Feyre capped the mascara and whirled to face Alis, who held up the dress the way a lawyer might present a piece of incriminating evidence in court. Both the dress and the art show were a gift from Tamlin—an apology and a peace offering in one. It was his way of showing that he was ready to take her art career more seriously. Or at least, that was what he’d told her at the cafe, when she’d suddenly lost all nerve to tell him the truth.

“I’m not using him for the art show, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Feyre snapped. “It’s just…” her shoulders slackened. “He was so excited for this, Alis. He’d already paid for the venue and invited his colleagues. I couldn’t tell him no and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to start another fight.”

Feyre faced the mirror and it took all her self control not to cringe. The concealer had covered up the worst of the dark circles, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion glazing over her eyes. Maybe it was all the changes in her body, but recently she’d just felt so… heavy.

With a sigh, Alis dropped the dress back onto the bed and approached Feyre from behind. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Feyre at last saw behind the mask of the stern teacher, to the concerned friend who clasped her on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m worried about you, Feyre.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice scraped along the cusp of breaking. She swore that even her own reflection winced at the lie.

Alis clucked her tongue. “You’re trying to handle all of this by yourself.” When Feyre said nothing, Alis added, almost desperately, “Let us help you. If not me, then someone else.”

Besides Feyre and Alis, there were only two people who knew of her pregnancy. Two people that she had been admittedly avoiding since she’d blurted the truth to them outside the cafe. In a typical Mor fashion, Feyre had been bombarded with texts over the last two weeks, each of them cheerfully dancing around the pea-sized elephant in her stomach.

All but one.

I respect you and my cousin enough not to meddle. This baby stuff is between you and him and no matter what happens, I support you unequivocally. I just want to say one thing, then I promise I’ll never bring it up again:

Rhys is a really good guy, Feyre. You can trust him.

Anyway, you want to grab brunch this weekend? Bottomless virgin mimosas?

Feyre was fairly certain that a virgin mimosa was just orange juice, but it made her heart feel light enough that she’d pulled up Rhysand’s contact details and nearly sent him a message. But once it was typed out, her thumb waivered above the keyboard, and regardless of how hopelessly she willed herself to press send, her body resisted.

She’d only met Rhysand twice now, but each meeting had felt more akin to a collision, knocking her violently off her predetermined path, leaving her unmoored. Unsettled. It was too soon to see him again, when she was still barely keeping afloat the wreckage of their last encounter.

And if—when—she told Tamlin, he would almost certainly take issue with Feyre and Rhysand having any kind of relationship, no matter how platonic. In the long run, it was better to keep him at arm's length. Wasn’t it?

“I have my first midwife appointment tomorrow,” Feyre said, because she thought that might appease Alis enough to let this go. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Alis beamed and squeezed Feyre’s shoulder, hard enough that Feyre had to swallow a yelp, but that was Alis—unrestrained and a little heavy-handed, even in her affection. “I would love that.”

Feyre forced a smile. She’d never liked going to the doctors, and in truth simply making the appointment had been a nerve-wracking experience. There was no bump on her stomach yet, and besides the morning bouts of nausea and the wearing exhaustion, she could almost pretend she was the same Feyre she’d been eight weeks ago.

But an appointment made it real.

Bearing all of that to Alis felt impossible. She wished she could do this alone, so that no one would feel burdened by the weight she was carrying, heavier and heavier each day.

“You know,” Alis said, tone a little too casual. “They might want to know about the baby’s father tomorrow—his medical history, what his involvement will look like. It might be worth reaching out to him to make sure you have those details.”

Fuck.

“Right. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll, uh, try to call him later.”

Alis took enough pity to leave Feyre alone after that. But her words lingered, and Feyre spent the next hour staring blankly at Rhysand’s phone number, the sequence of numbers now so familiar she might have been able to recite them from memory. When she finally willed her thumbs to move, they tapped the letters out slowly, every word foreign. She repeated each sentence back, deleting the one that sounded awkward or clumsy or too inviting.

Hey, she eventually settled with. This is Feyre. I’m having an art show tonight at Brush and Chisel. 8 pm. Would you and Mor like to come?

Feyre hit send before she could think about how absurd it would be to have Rhys and Tamlin in the same room. But there was no taking it back. The message was read almost immediately, and Feyre’s panic set in when a small typing bubble popped up with little hesitation.

Rhysand: Sounds wonderful. We’ll be there.

Feyre: Please don’t say anything to Tamlin about… you know

Rhysand: He doesn’t know?

Feyre: Do you want me to revoke your invitation?

Rhysand: No need—my lips are sealed. Looking forward to seeing you again, Feyre darling.

Feyre: No calling me that, either.

Rhysand: No? What would you like me to call you, then?

It was close enough to the flirting they’d exchanged at Rita’s that Feyre thought he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he was trying to wind her up by forcing her to recall the different things he’d called her that night. Feyre darling… Baby… Good girl. The memory of them was making her cheeks feel warm, a sign she might have made a terrible mistake inviting him.

Feyre: Just call me Feyre.

Rhysand: Is that what your friends call you?

Feyre: I wouldn’t say we’re friends yet.

Rhysand: Well in that case, would you prefer I call you something more formal? Miss Archeron?

Feyre: Feyre is fine.

Rhysand: That she most certainly is.

Feyre groaned and resisted the urge to chuck her phone away. This was the man that Mor vouched for as a really good guy? One who couldn’t even control himself for five minutes?

Feyre: If you can’t behave yourself tonight, then I don’t want you there.

Rhysand: I assure you, I will be on my best behavior.

Somehow, that wasn’t very reassuring to her.

-

“Are you feeling nervous, Feyre?”

“Hmm?”

Feyre drew her eyes away from the double glass doors that comprised the venue’s entrance. She’d been staring absently at their reflection, but realized that Tamlin was leaning into her, his hand positioned supportively against her back—his touch was searing now that she was aware of it, though she couldn’t say how long it had been placed there.

He smiled, as though her response were answer enough. “I think it’s normal to be nervous. This is a lot more people looking at your art than you’re used to.”

That wasn’t empirically true. Outside of her instagram account—which had enough traction to keep her regularly commissioned—Feyre displayed her art fairly regularly in street art shows on the Rainbow. This was her first time displaying her art in a proper gallery, however, and perhaps two months ago she would have been nervous.

Presently, Feyre’s bandwidth on things to be nervous about was running low. There were only so many fears that could plague her mind at any given time, and occupying most of that real estate was the itty-bitty issue of her pregnancy and the baby daddy she’d so stupidly invited to the art show.

By comparison, what Tamlin’s business associates thought of her art was of trivial concern, particularly when they didn't even bother to speak to her. It was clear, by the firm handshakes and tactical segues into business deals, that most of the people in attendance were here to impress Tamlin.

“But hey,” Tamlin said, gliding his hand across her back until she was completely folded into his arm. “Hart was just telling me how much he loved that mountain piece. I think he might make an offer.”

Before she’d tuned out of the conversation, Hart had also been telling Tamlin how keen he was to get his investment proposal signed off. Conveniently, the mountain piece was also the only one in eyesight, and Feyre felt more like a corporate gift basket than a respectable artist.

Feyre didn’t say that, though. She smiled and said, “I love that piece.”

Tamlin hummed, as if he agreed. “Why don’t we go get a drink to calm your nerves?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay—”

“Come on, we’re celebrating!” Tamlin used his arm to urge her forward, guiding them both towards the open bar near the front entrance.

The bar was strategically placed, Tamlin claimed, because people were more likely to make impulsive purchases with a drink in their hand. Feyre couldn’t fault his logic, though she’d prefer for her art to be sold of its own merit and not because the buyer was drunk and trying to impress his boss.

“Really Tamlin. I’m not in the mood to drink.”

“You’re so tense, Feyre. A drink will help.”

Across the room, Feyre met eyes with Alis, who quirked a black brow when she saw where the two of them were headed. She took a step towards them, then stalled, and Feyre thought for a horrific moment that Alis was going to let her get buried alive in this hole she’d dug herself.

“Feyre!” Squealed a familiar voice.

Mor didn’t wait for Tamlin to step out of the way before she became a blur of red and gold, barreling towards her Feyre as if this was the first time they were reuniting in years.

She was squeezing so tight that Feyre’s responding, hi Mor, came out a little breathless.

“Mor,” Tamlin said. He’d taken a step away, either to give them space to reconnect or simply because he didn’t want to risk brushing arms with Mor. “Good to see you again.”

“Tamlin.”

Mor, by virtue of being her college roommate, was once privy to every fight and minor frustration between Feyre and Tamlin. As a result, she never tried to hide her dislike of Tamlin, nor did he give much effort to do the same in return. A polite cough behind Mor’s back prompted the tall blonde to peel herself away from Feyre and pivot to reveal Rhysand, who was withdrawing his hands from the pockets of his formal black trousers to extend one of them outward. Towards her.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“This is my cousin,” Mor filled in, brown eyes twinkling. “Rhys.”

Tamlin chose that moment to turn to the bar and order two double vodka tonics. Feyre wasn’t sure which struck her with greater panic—how to evade drinking without raising Tamlin’s suspicion, or how to shake Rhysand’s hand without feeling like her whole world was shaking with it.

“Feyre,” she said. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “It’s good to meet you, too. Thank you for coming.”

Rhys continued holding her hand a beat too long. “Thank you for inviting us. I’ve heard you’re a very talented artist.”

Drinks now in hand, Tamlin shouldered himself back into the conversation, pointedly holding a glass towards Feyre so that she was forced to let go of Rhysand’s hand. She accepted the drink with an exaggerated smile.

“Tamlin,” he said gruffly to Rhys, not extending a hand. He slid a possessive arm around Feyre’s shoulders—a statement that none of them misunderstood. “Feyre’s boyfriend.”

“Well met,” Rhys said cordially. If he was intimidated by Tamlin’s slow and evidently unimpressed assessment, he did an excellent job at hiding it.

Seeing it was her job to play mediator and hostess, Feyre saw her chance to kill two birds with one stone. “Can I get the two of you a drink?”

Mor’s answer was an immediate chirp of, “Wine, please.”

“She means a bottle,” Rhysand clarified.

Feyre laughed. “Oh, I remember. We’ll start with a glass for now, but I assure you there’s plenty more where that came from. What about you… Rhys?”

It was only his name, she told herself. Why did speaking it feel so intimate? She could still feel its shape on her lips from when she’d panted it into his skin, RhysRhysRhys—

Did he remember it too? Is that why he studied her for a moment, eyes turning a shade darker, before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m the designated driver, so it’s going to be sparkling water for me.” He glanced down at the vodka in her hands. “But do me a favor and ask them to put a lime wedge in it? I like to blend in.”

“Sure,” Feyre said, taking a step towards the bar. This was her chance to untangle herself from Tamlin and trade out her vodka for a sparkling water, too.

Or—that was the plan. Until Tamlin decided to follow, grabbing her elbow and seizing the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “He gives me a bad vibe.”

“You just met him,” she whispered back, irritated and not trying to hide it.

“I work in business,” he deflected. “You get good at reading people quickly.”

Feyre resisted the urge to roll her eyes as they came up to the bar. She repeated Rhys and Mor’s orders, noting with frustration that when the drinks were finished, Tamlin was the one who insisted on carrying Rhysand’s. She reminded herself that his fears weren’t unfounded—she had slept with Rhys after all, and she couldn’t deny that there was chemistry between them, even now.

Fortunately Rhys was unruffled, and he accepted the drink from Tamlin with a gracious thank you that really sounded like I’m the bigger man and I know it. Tamlin’s posture went rigid, and Rhys’s lips quirked, all smug satisfaction for getting under her boyfriend’s skin. Gods, what had she been thinking putting them in the same room together?

“Tam!” Lucien called, turning away from a small group of Spring Corp executives midway across the room. He made a gesturing motion with his hand. “Come here, Andras just came up with a brilliant new pitch for the Hybern deal.”

Tamlin pressed his lips together, surveying his present company like he didn’t trust leaving Feyre alone with them. And yet, he decided that was preferable to dragging Feyre along to whatever ad hoc business meeting was taking place at her art show.

“I’ll be just one moment,” he said, pressing a kiss to Feyre’s temple before he joined the group of well dressed men. The reprieve from his surveillance was short lived, however, given that he positioned himself at just the right angle to keep Rhys and Mor in his periphery.

It would have been less mortifying if she didn’t glance over to Rhys and see the way his smile flattened, having observed the same.

“He seems charming,” Rhys said.

“He…” Feyre struggled for an explanation that could possibly justify his behavior. “He’s just a little stressed. He really wants tonight to go well.”

“Funny,” Rhys said, leaning his shoulder closer. She found herself leaning in too, nervous he was about to say something she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I would think that at an art exhibit, the artist would be the one worried about the night going well.”

“I…” Feyre didn’t know what to say. “I do want tonight to go well.”

Rhys raised his hand, fingers brushing over her white-knuckle grip on the vodka tonic. Heat jolted through her, and she resisted the urge to snap her hand back. Any sudden movement would surely draw Tamlin’s attention.

He pitched his voice into a whisper. “How do you feel it’s going so far?”

That was when his hand slid around the glass, gently easing it from her grip. And before she could summon any protest, or speculate as to why he’d decided to pry her drink away, he smoothly pressed his sparkling water into her vacant palm.

It all happened in the space of a second. Feyre was blinking, still processing what had happened, as Rhys leaned back and took a sip of the vodka tonic with a remarkably straight face. Between the lime wedge and the small, carbonated bubbles, their drinks looked identical. He winked, and she knew that he’d planned it this way. From the moment he’d overheard Tamlin’s order.

Feyre could have slumped in relief, were she not hyper-aware of the jade green eyes on her not ten feet away. She ducked her face into the glass of sparkling water to hide the laughter threatening to burst from her lips—it was the first genuine smile she’d managed all evening. All week, really.

“It’s starting to look up,” she said, once she managed to regain her composure.

She meant it, too, though she wasn’t quite ready to unpack the implications of that. Was she a horrible person, inviting him here? The list of things she was lying to Tamlin about was beginning to feel ever-growing. Insurmountable. Her mood quickly soured as she glanced down at the glass in her hand and realized it was just another deception. Someone had come to bail her out this time, but how long could she keep digging this hole until it buried her alive?

“Good,” Rhys said.

His eyes were dancing with a mirth that didn’t feel touchable any longer. Even if his grin was the infectious, wicked sort. The kind that could persuade a saint to deal with the devil. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, skimming the pieces on the back wall.

He jerked his chin towards the displays. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Feyre turned to consider them, though she already knew the answer. “Guess.”

A challenge. One he looked delighted to accept. As a group, the three of them drifted closer towards the art so that Rhys could study each of them with the intensity of a student expecting to be quizzed on their meaning.

Tamlin didn’t return until they reached the final piece. His expression was tight, though Feyre couldn't tell if that was the result of the conversation with his colleagues, or the fact that Feyre had wandered outside his line of vision. Knowing her boyfriend, it was likely the latter.

“What have I missed?” He asked.

“We’re trying to guess Feyre’s favorite piece.”

It was Mor who answered him, given that her cousin was far too busy studying the landscape before him—a hazy clearing of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else besides a curious pair of wolf-like eyes watching from the shadows.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Tamlin said, pointing two pieces down to a hand scooping incandescent water from a pond. The one she’d titled The Pool of Starlight. “That one’s her favorite.”

Feyre elbowed him for ruining the game. She might have done so more gently, if he’d actually guessed correctly. Tamlin offered her an exasperated look that said, What did I do wrong this time? Her tongue burned with the urge to correct him, but she said nothing, suffering the glance Mor and Rhys exchanged with each other. A shared disappointment of a game ruined, and something more. Something that left embarrassment itching up her neck.

Rhys glanced towards her alleged favorite painting and nodded good naturedly. “I understand why. It’s a beautiful painting, Feyre.”

Again, Tamlin’s arm fell over her shoulders. And he said, “That one’s not for sale.”

“Tam.”

He ignored her, continuing, “Feyre painted it as a gift for our four year anniversary.”

Mor muttered under breath, “Four years my ass.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?”

The whole room quieted for a stagnant beat, as Mor contemplated her response. Feyre widened her eyes, trying to silently plead with Mor to let it go. It didn’t matter that in those four years, they’d spent as much time broken up as they had in a relationship. What mattered was surviving the night, the week, the year ahead.

Mor tipped her chin, and as her red lips curled into a flat smirk, Feyre felt her stomach plummet.

“I said—”

A waitress stepped towards them, brandishing a platter full of mini quiches in offering. She was staring at Rhys, expectant. As if he’d been the one to call her over. He offered her a broad smile as he plucked one from the tray and promptly handed it to Mor.

Then he innocently looked towards Feyre and Tamlin. “Quiche?”

The smell of cooked eggs and salmon invaded her senses as the waitress swiveled the tray towards them. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and Feyre tried her best to swallow it as she politely shook her head.

“No thanks,” Tamlin said, his voice flat.

The waitress stepped away, wafting the smell under Feyre’s nose a second time. Nausea lurched violently in her stomach, refusing to be ignored.

Even Tam noticed the look on her face. He leaned towards her with a frown, pressing his palm into her shoulder. “Fey? Are you alright?”

Feyre feared that if she tried to speak, her stomach would upheave itself right then and there. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head before she turned and dashed for the bathroom.

The gallery became a blur of color and ambient sound. She thought she might have heard her name being called. Guests lobbed curious glances towards her as she brushed past, heels clinking urgently against the smooth concrete. The bathroom door swung open beneath her palms, and she didn’t spare the time to lock it before her knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet.

She hated this. The puking. The way her eyes watered and her body trembled and the sounds of her retching bounced endlessly off the walls. If anyone was waiting outside, they’d doubtlessly hear it.

Feyre panted as the first wave subsided. She knew that wasn’t the end, could already feel her stomach turning in preparation for the next unforgiving torrent of nausea. Was this how it felt to be at sea, so lost and unsteady, with nothing to anchor her besides the cool press of the filthy bathroom floor?

She hunched as the next onslaught began, grasping onto the porcelain bowl, already imagining the bath she was going to take in disinfectant once she got home. Over the stomach-curdling noise, she heard the bathroom door creak open.

Feyre’s hair was pulled away from her face a moment later.

“It’s okay,” Mor soothed. “I’ve got you.”

She traced a delicate hand along Feyre’s spine, up and down. Feyre shut her eyes as she heaved into the toilet, grateful that it was Mor who had come, and not Tamlin. Or worse—Rhysand.

“It’s like we’re in college again,” Mor teased.

Feyre felt too wrung out to laugh. But when the nausea finally ebbed, she managed a shaky smile over her shoulder. “Usually I was holding your hair back.”

“Glad I get to return the favor.”

The memory ached. Three years wasn’t a long time, comparatively, but the Feyre who’d once sat drunk and giggling in public restrooms with Mor felt like a completely different person to the one she was now. It was more than time that separated them—more than motherhood, too. Back then, she had been so carefree, so full of light. And now…

She was trembling like a newly born fawn trying to rise to her feet. Mor slid a supportive hand beneath her elbow, her other hand still holding Feyre’s hair away from her face as they shuffled towards the sink.

Everything that was once simple now felt like a million steps. Twist the faucet. Pump the soap. Lather her hands… Over her shoulder, Mor watched it all with a pinched expression. She didn’t need to say anything; Feyre could still hear Alis in the back of her mind. I’m worried about you, Feyre.

Noticing she’d been caught, Mor took to coyly searching through her clutch, murmuring, “I think I have a pack of gum somewhere…”

The tap stopped running. Feyre stared at her friend in the mirror, how her blonde brows pinched together as she feigned an intensive search. And then Feyre looked at her own reflection. At her wide eyes, gleaming with unshed tears. And she finally admitted the truth to Mor, to herself.

“I’m scared.”

Mor’s mouth popped open. “Oh, Feyre,” she whispered, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.

A great, gasping breath shuddered through Feyre, the final resistance before her foundation cracked, and every wall crumbled to dust. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing into her friend’s shoulder while Mor held tight, the only thing keeping her tethered.

Now that she’d let the words loose, she couldn’t stop. “I’m going to be a mom.”

“You are,” Mor whispered, swaying them back and forth. “You’re going to be a great one.”

“I don't know anything about being a parent.”

“No one does. It’s the kind of thing you learn on the job. And you—Feyre, you have always been exceptional at adapting to everything life throws at you. Even this.”

Her lower lip trembled. The question came tumbling out of her, broken and small. “Did I make the right choice?”

“There was no right choice,” Mor said. “There’s just the choice you made, and the one you didn’t.”

Mor leaned back to swipe her thumb along Feyre’s cheek, chasing away the tear tracks and smeared mascara as best she could.

“Though, you know what I think?” Mor’s brown eyes shined under the fluorescents as she held Feyre’s gaze. “I think that one day, you’re going to look back on this moment, and you’re going to be so happy that you decided to become a mom.”

Feyre sniffled, pressing a palm to her stomach as she attempted to imagine a future Feyre who was confident about this choice. Happy. “And Rhys?” She ventured. “Does he really mean it, about wanting to be involved?”

Mor didn’t hesitate, not for one second. “He does.”

Her eyes drifted towards the door. Tamlin and Rhys would be waiting on the other side. She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel mortified by the thought of the two of them together, stewing in hostile silence. If she was lucky, Tamlin had already dismissed this whole ordeal as female dramatics and was entertaining more of his colleagues without paying any mind to her absence.

Luck wasn’t exactly playing in her favor recently. Feyre’s eyes shifted to the hopper windows on the back wall, contemplating if she could squeeze her body through one. “What do you think my chances are of sneaking out?”

Mor followed Feyre’s gaze and pursed her lips, assessing the windows like she were truly calculating the feasibility of such an escape. “I don’t think those windows open all the way.” Her eyes slid coyly back to Feyre. “So… Tamlin—”

“Don’t start.”

She couldn’t handle another lecture about telling him the truth—not now.

But where Alis clicked her tongue and gave disapproving looks, Mor only laughed and patted Feyre on the shoulder. “Fine, fine. Just let me handle this.”

Mor didn’t give her an option to refuse. Which was just as well, because Feyre would have spent the entire night holed up in the bathroom if Mor didn’t pull her by the wrist.

“Wait!” Feyre dug her heels, trying to slow the too fast approach towards the bathroom door. “My makeup—”

“You look beautiful.”

A lie. Feyre looked like a trainwreck in a pretty dress. Not that Mor gave her time to do anything about it as she pushed the door open and announced to the two men standing on the other side, “Feyre has food poisoning. I’m taking her home.”

“I’ll grab our coats,” Rhys said.

At the same moment, Tamlin said, “I’ll take her home.”

He shifted, trying to peer at Feyre where she stood at Mor’s back, but her friend stepped into Tamlin’s line of vision. Her voice was flat. Unyielding. “You’ve been drinking.”

“So what? I’ll call us a cab.”

Feyre took a deep breath and stepped around Mor. “Tam.” Those bright eyes pinned her in place, seeing far too much. She knew it was obvious that she’d been crying, and his jaw tightened as he processed the lie, and the way she silently begged him not to push. Not yet, not here. “I need someone to stay here and make sure the art show isn’t a complete disaster.”

He contemplated this for a moment, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he looked to Mor, then to Rhys. He released a heavy sigh. “I’ll come by once it’s over.”

It was like standing on a frozen lake and watching it crack beneath them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They both knew what was coming. It had always been precarious, this thing between them. Never simple, never clean.

Mor looped her elbow through Feyre’s. “Come on,” she urged, rushing them towards the front entrance before Tamlin could change his mind.

The stares of Tamlin’s colleagues followed them as they went. Rhys peeled off to collect their coats, allowing Mor and Feyre to make a swift exit into the liberating embrace of Autumn. The cool breeze pressed against her flushed skin, and Feyre drank it greedily, feeling the air cut a path all the way to her lungs. Finally, she could breathe again.

Rhysand emerged a moment later, two coats hanging off his arm. And Mor chose that moment to look up from her phone and say, “Rhys, you go ahead and take Feyre home. The night’s still young for me.”

“Mor!” Feyre whispered, horrified at the prospect of being alone with him. So much for not meddling.

“What?” She asked innocently, though the look she exchanged with Rhys was nothing short of conspiratorial. “Between my wine and Rhys’s vodka, I have the perfect pre-Rita’s buzz.”

Rhys didn’t seem at all surprised by this news, nor did he seem the least bit phased by the prospect of being alone in a car with Feyre. He simply walked Feyre to his car and opened the passenger door. As she slid into the leather seat, he called to Mor, “Do you want me to at least drop you off?”

“No.” The blue light of her phone lit her grin, and she giggled, looking down at the screen as she said, “I have a ride.”

“Emerie?” Rhys asked, raising a brow.

Mor bit her lip, offering no confirmation one way or the other. With a shrug, Rhys shut the passenger door, leaving Feyre briefly alone in his immaculate car, which smelled vaguely of leather and plastic and… and—him. It had been eight weeks, and Feyre still couldn’t get over the way he smelled.

She took a moment to compose herself, to prepare for being alone with him for the full twenty minute drive to her apartment. Whatever further words he exchanged with Mor, she couldn’t hear. But she could see the way he was smiling, and when he glanced at the car over his shoulder, she had a feeling they were talking about her.

Oh god.

The driver's door opened, suctioning all of the air and replacing it with the site of his obscenely handsome face. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, Feyre darling.”

She was majorly fucked.

[laracrofted]

[polariseeker]

take my hand and wreck my plans

a drarry fanfic by polariseeker (AO3)

Draco stared at him, stormy grey meeting emerald green. He squeezed Harry’s hand, dropping his head with a sigh. He was exhausted. He didn’t want to fight the Dark Magic, or the feelings he had for the man in front of him, anymore. Draco was tired, he just wanted to sleep and let the wretched Mark take him.

But he couldn’t do that, not when Harry was looking at him like he was the most perfect thing in the world.

getting back together, post-war, hurt/comfort, living together. TW for suicidal ideation and self-harm.

link to the fanfic

link to the playlist

[beargyufairy]

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

Dazai talking about how he misses kunikida in the new manga chapter has me back in my kunikidazai brainrot and I’m here to say Willow by t swift is their song

[luvcentral]

How am i supposed to function normally when he looks THIS GOOD

[gaysails]

d*sney’s little mufasa prequel looks sooooo shit but unfortunately they got me

[oscarkelfbom]

[riacte]

i strongly associate willow by taylor swift with two things: firstly, treebark; secondly, the blockage of the suez canal in 2021

[greedbent]

An innocent envelope waits atop Kaz’s desk. Attached to the outside is a single rose: thorns still intact along the stem, with petals as black as night and speckled with subtle flecks of silver that make the bloom shimmer even in the dimmest light. His name is written on the front in a delicate, looping script. Along with small doodles of flowers and birds in the margins, the letter inside bears the same writing:

Kaz, I hope this letter finds you well! The shop has been keeping me especially busy lately. A few weeks ago I received a special order that required growing some rare breeds of flowers; I swear, I have spent all hours of every day since in the greenhouse, working hard to make sure that every flower is perfect! Of course, the effort was well worth the end result. These roses made me think of you the moment they bloomed, so I simply had to send one to you. I do hope it has made its way to you safe and sound.   I know you are also quite busy, but I would love to see you again soon. I am nearly finished with a new painting—perhaps I could show you, when you can spare the time? If it is not too much trouble, of course.  Please take care of yourself.  ~ Spring

@howthesleeplesswander || screaming crying throwing up

The first thing Kaz Brekker felt was foolish.

Like he was some poor young sod gawking at women in the street, tripping over himself when one looked his way, burning bright red in the face as she giggled and passed him by. He felt bare. He felt exposed. He felt unnatural, as if his coat wasn’t hanging right, one sleeve too long or too short, one little thread out of place that he just couldn’t find. He felt . . . in that barest flicker of a moment, less like Dirtyhands and more like Kaz Rietveld: that boy off the farm; that boy who had been so naive, so innocent, so blind—

All because of a damn rose sitting there on his desk.

He swore the thing would’ve been giggling wryly at him—just like the women at the Menagerie—if it could. Somehow, he wondered if the silence was worse. —just as much as he wondered how utterly insane he had to be to wish flowers could talk.

Like he said: He felt foolish.

When Kaz set foot in the Crow Club, Rotty had told him a message was waiting for him. When Kaz had asked what it was or who it was from, the man had pursued all manner of distractions to excuse himself, mumbled something quick about it being better that Kaz see it himself, that he didn’t want to intrude— Basically, a whole blundering bunch of useless information that eventually ended with Kaz doing just that: seeing what the podge was blithering about and what sort of bomb was waiting for him in his office.

Well, he hadn’t been too far off the mark. It wasn’t a bomb, but the way Kaz froze in his steps and lingered there in the doorway would make anyone think that was the case. Eventually, he at least had the mind to shut the door behind him. And, another eventually, he made his way over to the desk on pathetically cautious steps he was glad no one was around to witness wobbled.

He read the note. And then he read it again. And then a third time, in case the first two weren’t enough. Somewhere in the process, Kaz had taken a seat, and as his eyes pored over that elegant, beautiful script, his fingers idled on the rose’s stem. The thorns didn’t bother him through the gloves. And even if they did, he was sure he wouldn’t have noticed. 

I would love to see you again.

He tarried on—no, he stumbled over—that phrase with each pass.

Please take care of yourself.

A similar effect, surely. Though, for some reason, the sentiment summoned an amused little twitch to his lips, that which nearly bled into a full smile by the time he’d finished what could have been the tenth reread. Kaz almost folded the letter back up, thumb gliding gingerly over one edge, but he hesitated. He glanced back at the fittingly black flower—These roses made me think of you. . . . That foolish hum of something not-so-novel, but old and nearly forgotten warmed his skin: maybe, just maybe, his cheeks, specifically.

But, foolish or not, Kaz let the letter rest open on his desk.

He leaned back with flower in hand, perusing—no, memorizing—the petals like they were a very part of the girl who gave them to him.

And he decided, tomorrow, to everyone else but her, he’d be occupied.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 1

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

-

Or; the one where Feysand gets knocked up from a one night stand. A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023 Day 3: Family.

🌶️🌶️🌶️ ahead!

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist

-

Maybe, in hindsight, the third tequila shot had been a mistake.

The first one, though, had been strategic. Feyre had come to Rita’s that night with a purpose, and that purpose had rattled her to the bone. Her hands were shaking when she sat at the bar, and she frowned at her phone screen, watching the words as she struggled to keep her grip steady.

If she was going to do this, she needed a drink. An ounce of liquid courage that burned down her throat, bloomed in her chest and spread to her fingertips, loosening her body. It didn’t ease the tremble in her hands, but that had more to do with the small green text bubble that she’d been staring at since she got here.

Got stuck in traffic. I should be there in five x

Feyre set the phone on the bar so that she could run her palms over the black bodycon she’d squeezed herself into, hoping to erase the evidence of the sweat gathering in her palms. She was nervous. Of course she was nervous. She hadn’t done anything like this in… years.

It was Alis’s fault, really. Several nights ago, she’d discovered Feyre hunched over on the bathroom floor, sobbing into her hand as she sorted through nearly a thousand couples photos on her phone—again. It was the third time Feyre and Tamlin had broken up, which marked it the third time Feyre was erasing any evidence of him off her phone. The final time, she swore, well aware that the photos still sat in a hidden folder on her phone since she hadn’t summoned the courage to delete them permanently.

“Maybe you should go out,” Alis had suggested. “Meet someone new. Do something fun and impermanent.”

“Impermanent?” She’d blinked past her tears to force Alis’s frown into focus. “Do you mean like… a one night stand?”

Alis had shrugged. “I think it’d be good for you.”

Feyre had sat on that suggestion for a week, torturing herself with all of the usual post break-up rituals. Unfollowing him on instagram, archiving all the couples photos on her profile, stalking everyone in Tamin’s likes. And when Tamlin had posted a series of pictures of a barbeque from the weekend prior and Feyre had swiped to see her ex-boyfriend with his arm slung proudly around Amarantha’s waist—the girl he’d sworn she didn’t have to worry about—Feyre decided that maybe Alis was right. Maybe she did need to do something to help her move on from Tamlin permanently. She needed to find someone who could help her have fun, purge him out of her system for good.

In a surge of courage that Feyre now partially regretted, she had sent a text to her old college roommate.

I want to get drunk and slutty this weekend. You down?

Drunk and slutty? Feyre, did someone steal your phone? Kidding! You know ‘drunk and slutty’ is my legal name, of course I’m down! For real though, is everything okay?

Tamlin and I broke up.

Well, fuck him! Let’s go to Rita’s and have the drunkest, sluttiest time at his expense.

It had been years since Feyre had been to Rita’s. Mor and Feyre used to go to the nightclub semi-regularly when they had been living together in college, but Tamlin wasn’t very interested in nightlife and Feyre had stopped going shortly after they’d started dating. She’d stopped doing a lot of things, actually.

But she wouldn’t think about that now. She was here to forget Tamlin. She was here to get drunk and throw herself into the crowd of writhing bodies, losing herself in the music that he would have undoubtedly complained about.

She had forgotten how loud it was in Rita’s. Music thumped through the overhead speakers, set to such a high volume that Feyre could feel the bassline vibrating in her chest, elevating her already racing pulse.

“Feyre!”

A bright-eyed woman came racing up to Feyre, her long blonde hair swishing behind, falling just above the scoop of her backless red dress.

“It has been too long,” Mor declared, not waiting for Feyre to stand from the bar stool before she barrelled into her side. It helped that Mor was tall, especially in heels.

“It’s good to see you,” Feyre said—surprised by how much she meant it. “You look incredible, by the way.”

Mor’s red lips stretched into a smile as she ran her eyes over Feyre. She gave a low whistle. “Look who’s talking. You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to get drunk and slutty. What are we having?”

“Tequila,” Feyre answered, fingers pinched around her empty shot glass.

“Really?” Mor scanned the crowd, lips pursed. “I was thinking I’d like a brunette.” She turned back to Feyre with a roguish smile and winked. “Tequila will do for now, though.”

If they were going to be dancing, Feyre was definitely going to be needing another shot. Usually by the time they’d made it out to Rita’s in college, they had already spent the evening nursing their low-budget alcohol that had tasted more like motor oil than whatever label had been slapped over it. Dancing hadn’t been an issue then, but that was a time when Feyre had felt freer.

At least now, she could afford a drink at the bar.

Or two.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Mor said, leaning against the bar after ordering a round of shots from the bartender. “I invited my cousin to join us.”

Feyre had a vague memory of the stories Mor used to tell about her cousin—one of her closest and only family members. It was good that Mor had invited someone else. Feyre had every intention of going home with someone tonight, and it was a relief to think she wouldn’t be abandoning Mor in doing so.

“The more the merrier.”

Mor grinned. There was a mischievous glint in her eye as she accepted the shot glasses from the bartender and passed one to Feyre. “To slutty new beginnings,” she said, raising the shot glass in the air.

With a short laugh, Feyre clinked her small glass against Mor’s, and together they knocked back their heads to down the numbing liquid. It didn’t take long after the heat hit the back of Feyre’s throat for Mor to grab her by the wrist and drag them both into the center of the dance floor.

The transition was difficult for Feyre at first. Her body was too stiff and there were too many people. It was difficult to keep from brushing shoulders with the other dancers while she tried—and failed—to copy Mor’s graceful movements while also keeping time with the upbeat music. Eventually, Mor laughed and grabbed Feyre’s hand.

“You’re thinking too much!” she called over the loud ambiance. Raising Feyre’s hand over her head, Mor twirled her in place, then tugged Feyre’s back to the front of her body. Mor’s hands fell to Feyre’s hips, flush against Mor’s as they swayed back and forth.

“Don’t look at what I’m doing,” she whispered into Feyre’s ear. There was a sensual scrape to her voice that caused Feyre to suppress a shiver. “Close your eyes and listen to the music. Move your hips against mine—does that feel good?”

“Mor!” Feyre whispered with a sharp laugh. Heat was rising to her cheeks, but she obediently shut her eyes and focused on the music. “Are you trying to teach me how to dance, or seduce me?”

Mor hummed impishly. “Can I not do both? I thought we were embracing our sluttiness tonight.”

“I’m going to end up wanting to go home with you,” Feyre said, only half teasing. She leaned back into Mor and raised her hands into the air, allowing her friend to guide their rhythm. “Everyone else is going to pale in comparison.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Mor’s voice was pointed enough that Feyre’s eyes fluttered open. A pair of striking eyes met hers, shining violet against the red lighting of the dance floor.

“Oh my—”

“Good luck,” Mor purred into her ear, before giving Feyre a soft push towards the purple-eyed man cutting towards them.

His lips were twisted into a devious smile, one that was eerily reminiscent of the friend who was rapidly disappearing into the crowd, gone before Feyre could scramble after her. Dancing couples closed into the space she left, pushing Feyre closer to the dark haired stranger.

“Hi,” she whispered, hoping he would blame her breathlessness on the dancing. “I’m Feyre.”

“Hi Feyre,” he said, flashing her a cat-like grin. “Care to dance?”

Feyre hadn’t even realized she had stopped. “Of course,” she said, though the music had become a distant white noise.

Embrace your sluttiness, Feyre chided herself, thinking of the way she and Mor had just been grinding against each other. With a slow, steadying breath, Feyre stepped closer to him. He was so tall that she could just barely wind her arms around his neck, and she was suddenly grateful she’d opted to wear heels despite how her feet were already aching.

His hands fell to her hips, warm and broad and far too respectful, considering she’d just pressed the entire front of her body against his.

“What’s your name?” She tried to mimic the way Mor had spoken to her just a moment ago—low and husky, sensual like the fragrant smoke blowing over the hard-tiled floor.

“Rhysand,” he said. “But my friends call me Rhys.”

“Rhys,” Feyre echoed, letting her tongue linger on the word, the same way she wanted to let it linger over the brown, tattooed skin she saw peeking through his black collared shirt. Why did that name sound familiar? She dropped one hand to his elbow, pushing it forward so that his hand slid around the curve of her hip and landed firmly on her ass.

“And what do your lovers call you, Rhys?”

“That depends,” he murmured. Those decadent eyes darkened, dropping to her mouth. “What would you like to call me?”

Daddy? She thought, feeling her entire body heat at the suggestion. That was clearly the tequila talking. Ordinarily, she would never dream of saying something like that out loud and now the word hung dangerously on her tongue.

She nearly said it. But she wasn’t that drunk yet.

Instead, Feyre took a solid moment to compose herself. Rhysand was staring at her expectantly, hardly dancing despite how their hips were flush and his palm pressed into her ass. She liked that he was patient, waiting to follow her lead, taking only what he was being freely given. More green flags than she was expecting from a stranger she’d picked up at a club.

With a face and body like his, she thought surely he must possess some significant shortcoming. At the very least, she expected he had to be a massive prick. But that didn’t matter. Because she wasn’t looking to marry him, or even have a conversation with him. He could be a self-absorbed asshole for all she cared, because after tonight she was never going to see him again. Which meant she could be bolder, say whatever she whatever—be whoever she wanted.

Feyre leaned up, curling her finger around his biceps to steady herself so that she could press her lips to his ear. “Tonight, Rhysand, I want to call you mine.”

He had to shout over the music to be heard. “Yours?”

“Yes,” she crooned, starting to feel the alcohol loosen her body, urging her to be brave, to be reckless. “Tonight, you’re only allowed to dance with me.”

The scent of his cologne tangled in the air, dark and heady like a raging ocean storm. There was no greater freedom that Feyre could imagine than throwing her arms open to the embrace of whipping wind, feeling the sea-spray in her hair and letting the riptide carry her to the vast horizon. At least for tonight, she wanted to drown in him and emerge someone new. Someone carefree and wild who couldn’t remember Tamlin’s name or why her heart was fractured.

Tonight, Rhys was hers. And she was his.

“Are you the jealous type, Feyre?”

From the way he posed the question, Feyre had the sense he found that appealing.

“I don’t like seeing people touch my belongings,” she said, playing into her new role. A seductress—an entirely different woman from the dull, caged-in Feyre who had walked through the door under an hour ago. “Unless that doesn’t apply to you?”

“Oh, Feyre darling,” Rhysand pulled away so that she could see the full extent of his grin. “I was yours from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

-

They’d hardly stumbled through the front door when Feyre’s back hit the wall. Her dress was already hiked up her hips. The hem had first slipped up when she’d wrapped her legs around Rhysand’s waist as they were coming up the stairs, and the hand he’d edged along her inner thigh certainly hadn’t done anything to help.

The fabric had been ungodly short already. Or at least, that’s what Rhysand had complained to her throughout the last several hours she’d spent grinding her barely clothed ass against him.

He said it one more time for good measure, gasping it against her lips—”This dress is going to kill me.”

“Then take it off.”

“Believe me, I have every intention of seeing you undressed,” he said. His eyes dipped to the cleavage spilling out to tops of the v-shaped neckline. He groaned, ducking his head to leave a trail of nipping kisses along the edge of the seam. With his face practically buried in her chest, he growled, “But first, I’m going to fuck you with it on.”

“Rhys—”

“Right here,” he interrupted, rolling his hips forward for emphasis. “Against this wall.”

His erection was thick, pressing through his trousers so that she could feel its shape perfectly against the soaked lace of her underwear.

Her response was compulsive and utterly reluctant. “I have a roommate.”

His head snapped up, rising from her chest to search her face for a moment, before he flashed her a shameless smile. “Better hope you can keep quiet, then.”

Oh, holy forgotten gods. Feyre’s muscles clenched at the idea—of the ways that he could help her to ensure she stayed quiet, picturing those large hands wrapping over her mouth. Or better yet, her throat. But they were both drunk, and likely incapable of staying quiet, and she was going to say more to protest, but he cut her off by slipping a hand between her thighs.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, at the same time Feyre whimpered from the feeling of his thumb swiping against her clit. “Have you been this wet all night, Feyre?”

Yes. It was a show of extraordinary self control that she hadn’t asked Rhysand to take her in one of the alleyways behind Rita’s, like she’d contemplated doing several times when he’d been slowly grinding against her ass and whispering absolute filth into her ear.

Filth like describing what he was doing at this very moment, sliding her underwear down her legs.

He asked, almost casually, “Do you think you’ll need something to help you stay quiet?”

Surely he wasn’t suggesting…? Feyre bit her lip, feeling an anticipated thrill spike through her.

Trying her best to summon the seductress from Rita’s, she asked, “I think that depends on how confident you feel about your own… skill set.”

Rhysand clicked his tongue. “So bratty, Feyre.” He’d managed to slide her panties down her legs now, and she watched in disbelief as he balled them in his fist and raised the wet, crumbled fabric to her lips. “Open.”

She stared for a moment, unblinking, realizing that she’d never actually tasted herself before—except for the rare moments she’d been kissed after someone had gone down on her. It had never been unpleasant, but it had always been brief, accidental.

As if sensing her train of thought, or merely observing her hesitation, Rhysand licked her arousal off his fingers and smiled. “Don’t worry, darling. You taste exquisite.”

A bit dumbfounded, Feyre obediently parted her lips, allowing Rhysand to slip the balled up underwear into her mouth. The cotton stuck to her tongue, wet and tangy from her own arousal.

“Good girl, Feyre,” he said, stirring something dangerous and exhilarating inside of her. His thumb and forefinger squeezed against her cheeks, as if feeling the space the underwear took up in her mouth. “Do you taste how wet you are? So eager to be fucked.”

Her cheeks were heating up, embarrassed and aroused and trying to wade between those two conflicting feelings. No one had ever talked to her this way in the bedroom before. They weren’t even in the bedroom, and a strange part of her was getting off on the idea that Alis could walk out and find them like this, with her underwear in her mouth and a stranger praising her for being such an eager slut.

Rhysand’s fingers returned to her pussy, gliding through the wetness to tease at her entrance. She gasped, the sound smothered against her underwear, as he slowly slid a finger inside her, then another, sliding them both to the knuckle.

“Fuck,” he swore again. “I usually like to—I wanted to make you come first. On my fingers. But you’re so wet, Feyre. I think I could fuck you just like this. And I could put you on my tongue afterwards.”

Feyre’s head fell back against the wall. She bucked her hips forward, hoping her meaning was clear—just fuck me already, you asshole.

He laughed, hurriedly dropping a hand to his belt buckle to free himself from his trousers. She watched, saliva collecting in the recesses of her mouth as Rhys pushed his pants down just enough to free himself. He took his cock into his fist, pumping the thick length with two casual strokes before he adjusted himself at her entrance.

Feyre dug her fingers into his shoulder. She didn’t think any partner had ever been as big as he was, and it had been almost three months since she and Tamlin had last had sex.

“Is this what you want?” Rhys asked, pausing with his flushed head right against her cunt. She could feel it throbbing against her—or maybe that was her own ache building, so unbearable at times throughout the night that she’d barely resisted the urge to beg him to just bend her over one of the tables at Rita’s.

She thought of the last tequila shot they’d had before they left, how he’d poured the salt line against her throat, the way his tongue had scorched a path over her skin.

With a small, exasperated huff, Feyre ground against the head of his cock, trying to fuck herself on him if that’s what it would take.

That earned another cruel laugh. “I guess that answers my question,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. “Pretty, needy thing.”

Then, with her head still spinning from his praise, Rhysand thrust his hips forward. Feyre’s hands turned to fists against his shirt.

“Oh, fuck,” Rhys choked out, all of his suave confidence suddenly forgotten.

Feyre was forgetting everything, too. Like how to breathe. There was no room for air in her body anymore. It was being squeezed out of her, escaping in a single, surprised gurgle as she became aware of every nerve, blazing white-hot while her body searched for a way to accommodate the space that Rhysand was demanding.

The wall at her back became a cool, solid extension of his body, caging her against him, leaving no space to squirm away as the head of his cock pushed into a group of nerves that had Feyre clenching around him, desperate to escape because otherwise she would scream and surely wake up Alis. Rhys felt it, because his eyes went wide, and a moment later one of his large hands was covering her mouth.

His eyes were dark, the color of the night sky when the moon was swallowed whole. “Right there?” he asked, stilling his hips, lingering against the spot that was causing splotches to dot her vision.

Feyre’s head lulled back, wondering if she found a version of euphoria that was so pure, it bordered on pain. She started babbling nonsense around the underwear, rendered into wet and smothered sounds against his hand while she began writhing desperately against him, grinding his dull head against that cluster of nerves over and over—until she was drunk on it, on him, on the way he swore softly beneath his breath and whispered, “That’s it Feyre. Use me. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

He allowed her a moment to chase her own pleasure, his full lips splitting open in awe, eyes half-lidded as he watched her grind her hips. Then, he started meeting her with slow, precise motions, keeping himself directly in that spot so that he was fucking her there, forcing her to come undone with every tortuous roll of his hips.

“Gods, Feyre,” he panted. “You should see yourself like this. You’re so beautiful. Letting me fuck you in your little dress. You’re so—” he halted, their hips flush together so that he could grind against that spot in one slow, deliberate movement that had Feyre heaving, spluttering against the underwear and his hand as she felt herself tighten around him. “Fuck, you’re so perfect.”

Her nails bit into his skin. She knew it must have hurt, but he only groaned, saying nothing in protest as she slid one hand into his hair and tugged. She wasn’t even certain what she was trying to tell him. Fuck me or harder or don’t stop. Or just please.

Please, please please.

It didn’t matter. Rhysand’s breathing was ragged, practically as undone as she was as his hips continued their onslaught. The momentum pushed her into the wall with every thrust, resulting in a dull thumping noise that nearly drowned out the sound of their slapping skin, or her gushing arousal, or the wanton moans he smothered with his palm.

His pace staggered a bit, and she thought he must have been close because he opted to drop his hand from her mouth in favor of rubbing her clit. She could feel her own drool against his fingers, wet as he circled them between her thighs. Some of it was still dribbling over her chin, but the mess that she’d become was the last thing on her mind while she bit down fiercely on her underwear in an effort not to scream.

Feyre didn’t know how to tell him that she was going to come. She tugged on his hair, a low whine building in her throat.

That must have been enough, because he whispered, “Oh, Feyre—baby, I know. Look at me, darling.” It was an effort, but she pulled her head upwards, meeting his burning violet eyes. “Such a good girl. You’re going to come for me, yeah?”

She nodded, knowing her eyes were as wide and wild as his own. Feyre didn’t know why, but in the midst of the surge of pleasure ratcheting up her spine, she felt suddenly tempted to reach up and brush aside some of the hair that was plastered to his forehead. She wanted to see his face, memorize the shape of his mouth as it slackened into an open ‘o’, moments before he leaned forward to kiss her—undeterred by the drool or the underwear or her desperate gasp for air as the mix of sensations threatened to drown her whole.

Rhysand groaned. The vibration lingered on her lips, then rippled, the final push to topple her over the edge. Feyre jerked her hips, uncertain if she was trying to escape or chase the ecstasy violently crashing over her body, causing every muscle to contract. Rhys kept her still, kept the rhythm of his fingers steady even as his own pace faltered. He gasped into her mouth, driving his cock deeper before his body stilled and she could feel the distant, pleasantly warm sensation of his release.

For a moment, the hallway went starkly quiet, disturbed only by their ragged breathing. Their chests rose and fell, brushing idly against each other like the sea over the shore. Eventually, Rhysand was the first to move—pulling his fingers from her clit so that he could push them into her mouth and pry the underwear free.

It made a horrifying squelching sound as the fabric hit the floor. Feyre met his eyes, mortified, but his lips were already stretching into a smile that immediately chased away her concern. He thought it was funny. That tugged a small smile to her lips too, and then they were laughing softly together as Rhysand errantly swiped his thumb over her chin, wiping away the excess saliva.

“Do you think we woke up your roommate?” he asked.

“If not, we can always try again. In my bedroom, this time.”

Rhys grinned. His hands slid down to support her weight so that he could pull them away from the wall. “Which door is yours?”

-

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit—Shit!”

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Feyre?” Alis called. “Everything okay?”

“Just a minute,” Feyre called, in a voice which betrayed that everything was most definitely not okay.

She raised the small, digital stick closer to her face out of some misguided hope that the double lines were just a trick of the light. There was no way she was actually pregnant. She was on the pill, and she’d been taking the doses mostly on time.

Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic—

“Shit.”

[titsbeauvillier]

NYRangers: Ryan Lindgren 🎯

[whenthegoldrays]

“willow” lowkey a Joseph and Mary song

[hudbannonarchive]

in my not giving a fuck about spn era but listening to willow rn and uh. have you guys ever heard of salmondean.

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

I don't think we talk about Willow by Taylor Swift enough