"Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes" @illyrianrhys - Tumblr Blog

Mar 17, 2019

hangovers with copious amounts of disquietude (feyrhycien)

This is part 13 of the Completely Inappropriate Series. You can find the masterlist, here.

Warnings: super pompous title, mucho alcohol regrets, mucho regrets in general, dark secrets arise, fantasising some bloody murder, MORE alcohol, i know, the alcohol culture is strong with this fic, gym sessions?!?! hitting the town, foreboding, listen this chapter may be shitty but bare with

serious warnings for talks of depression

dedicated to @rhysands-highlady cos she a queen

Imma leave a proper authors note at the bottom, because I know how long this has taken to get up so reaaaaaaaaad my friends.

Feyre had her fair share of disastrous Saturday nights, but this was up there. It was among fighting her mother at Nesta’s wedding reception and blacking out one too many times on Uni nights out.

She managed to extricate Lucien’s shirt from his torso just before he retched back into the toilet.

Rhys appeared in the doorway to the downstairs bathroom, two glasses of water in hand. Like the saviour he was.

“Drink up, darling,” he said.

She took the glass and downed the whole thing. For the whole drive home, she actually dreamed about water. And the death of Beron and his sons. Besides the point.

Lucien moaned, but Rhys was already there, crouching beside him and placing a wet flannel on his forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucien slurred.

“Stop that,” Rhys said darkly. Feyre noted that he had been on edge for the whole ride home, solemn and silent. Feyre further noted this was his killing calm.

She wasn’t quite sure what exactly set Lucien off, only that as she entered the grand dining hall, she was met with Rhys and Lucien standing too close amidst a sea of murmurs with their heads bowed together. She blamed the 4 glasses of wine for making her piss for a lifetime and the floor look like a hopscotch because she obviously had left at a very bad time.

Rhys had ushered them out so quickly after that, that Feyre barely had time to assess the situation, only glimpsing the cold fury that was Beron on the front stage, the sneers from Eris and some other inconsequential brothers, and the utter devastation of Lucien’s mother.

And so an hour long car ride home consisted of consoling an unconsolable Lucien while her other boyfriend was obviously plotting murders in the driver's seat. She had only been given a summed up series of events since then. And to top it off, she twisted her fucking ankle in her stupid fucking heels on the mad dash to the car because quite frankly, Feyre was blooming sloshed.

She had never loved someone enough to share their pain like it was her own. But here she was, her insides twisting as she looked at Lucien, at the turmoil in his head. The trauma he had been through.

She wanted to cry because what the fuck else could she do.

“I’m done,” Lucien choked out, leaning his cheek against the toilet seat.

“For now,” Rhys said. “Come on. Bed.”

***

After forcing his boyfriend to sip half his water, Rhys managed to undress and tuck himinto bed.

The night had been harder than he expected, and that was excluding the ending. Rhys realised there were still things that Lucien had never told him. He never knew the details. He could guess at the extent of abuse from the few examples here and there, and the scale of his PTSD which Rhys often saw manifest. But Lucien being drunk that night, and his actions, revealed far deeper wounds than he had ever anticipated. And Rhys felt murderous to the point that he weighed a kitchen knife in his hand while waiting for the kettle to boil. Then remembered the feeling of using one only to then recoil.

He found Feyre still sat on the floor against a cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, legs stretched out in front of her as tears streamed down her face.

“Feyre?” he asked, crouching at her feet. He picked up the ankle that she twisted and examined it for a few moments. She still had her heels on. Either she was too drunk to take them off or she had grown extremely fond of the shoes that she liked to refer to as the pretty death contraptions.

Rhys took matters into his own hands and gently undid the straps, cautious of the slight swelling of her right ankle, before slipping them off her feet.

“Why are you crying, my love?” he said after her too long period of silence. He met her glistened eyes.

“Lucien,” she said simply. She shook her head. “I want to kill them. The ones who hurt him.”

“I know. I do too.”

Feyre assessed him for a moment, like she she was stripping back his skin.

“We could,” she whispered, eyes widening.

“Hmm,” Rhys mused.

“Why are you backing out on me, you were professing your need to murder them the whole night.”

As much as Rhys wanted to indulge on his drunk girlfriend’s fantasies...

“Because there’s a difference between intent and the actual act of doing. Trust me. Besides Lucien will already hate me as it is.”

Perhaps Rhys revealed too much because Feyre was now wading through her wine senses to try and decipher him. So he stopped her by grabbing her waist and helping her to her feet. She fought back a wince.

“Rhysand,” she whispered, assessing his face. “What do you mean by-”

He picked her up in one swift movement and moved quickly out of the bathroom.

“If you intend to shut me up by sweeping me off my feet, then think again you bloody twat,” she said.

Rhys couldn’t help but smile as she reluctantly wrapped her arms around his shoulder and neck. But it rapidly disappeared as his girlfriend glared into the side of his face.

“First off, Lucien will not hate you,” she said.

“I did out him in front of the entire English aristocracy,” Rhys replied, cringing at his panicked decisions. He really should have just dragged Lucien out of there.

“Now that is a hyperbole, I doubt any formal honorifics were there. Only filthy rich white people who moan about immigration while being prescribed Viagra from their Indian doctors. Oh and they go the Ascots and shoot some pheasants on the weekends.”

Rhys placed a foot on the bottom step of the stairs and eyed Feyre’s face. Sometimes he wanted to record some of the things that came out of her mouth to continue to appreciate them.

He made it to their bed and sat Feyre on the edge. Thankfully, Lucien had already succumbed to sleep. She grabbed his wrist before he could escape.

“Rhys,” she said softly, looking up at him with those fucking eyes.

“Let’s get this off,” he deflected, reaching for the zip on the back of her dress.

“You’ve killed someone before haven’t you?”

Rhys exhaled slowly, barely able to confirm it. His eyes flickered to Lucien’s sleeping form. He had never told him.

“Just one person, yes,” he whispered. He winced. Just.

There were certain times in Rhys’ life where he found himself in inescapable positions. Standing here in front of Feyre, confessing the blood that stained his hands was one. The other was repeatedly pressing a kitchen knife into the gut of a stranger two years ago.

He still didn’t know the affiliations of his hitman to this day. Financial crime was a sticky business, especially when it involved rich men wanting to stay rich off their stolen money.

You’d think that Rhys wouldn’t feel guilty about killing the man who was pulling out a wire and standing over his bed in the dead of night, but alas, he was. Even after the John Doe inflicted three broken ribs and internal bleeding.

Rhys crouched before her and wiped his hand down his face. He would find it difficult to look at her.

Delicate hands touched his jaw and he dared to relent.

What he found in her eyes was no disgust. Just some self-affirmation. His girlfriend was weird.

“I’m not really surprised,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from a James Bond boyfriend.”

He let out a laugh, pressing his mouth into her hand to muffle it. He kissed her palm. Once. Twice.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” she whispered. “Not if you don’t want.”

“I’ll tell you and Lucien both when you’re not off your faces.” Or burdened with a traumatic past. Rhys was also far too tired to be talking about it. He just wanted to close his eyes to find momentary, blissful peace. One where he wasn’t fantasising about the death of his boyfriends abusers or reliving a dark memory that he happily shoved back into the blackened crevices of his mind.

“You may unzip me now,” she ordered, voice hushed.

Rhys stood again and smiled tiredly. “My pleasure.”

***

Lucien opened his eyes to then immediately close them again.

That act in itself felt like a monumental effort. The next step was opening them for more than a second.

With a daring glance at the clock, Lucien found it was almost midday. But he felt slightly better knowing that Feyre was dead asleep on the other side of the bed. Rhys seemed to have vacated a while ago.

Must have been a messy night.

He inched his way slowly to Feyre and cuddled against her side. He didn’t quite want to face the full force of feeling like utter shit the moment he stood up, so finding solace in holding Feyre was a much better alternative.

She started to stir so Lucien held her tighter, burying his face in her neck.

“No,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

“Luce?”

“No one’s home.”

“You’re awfully funny this morning.”

Lucien smiled into her neck and slipped his hands beneath her t-shirt to reach the warmth of her waist. “Hmmm.”

The taste in his mouth was stale and Lucien’s smile turned into a frown.

“What the bloody hell were we drinking last night?” he dared ask.

A pause. “Red,” she said.

Lucien froze. Slowly, he extricated himself from Feyre’s body and found his feet on uneven legs. He staggered to the bathroom, wading through the waves upon waves of dread overwhelming him.

“Lucien,” Feyre whispered, reaching for him.

He reached the bathroom, just in time for the fragments of memories to choke him.

And then he locked the door.

***

“Oi, focus Feyre.”

Feyre retrained her gaze on Cassian, who looked mildly pissed off after having to remind her for the upteenth time to stop looking over to exceptionally angsty boyfriend number 1, aka Lucien. Exceptionally angsty boyfriend number 2 was doing sit ups with Mor in the middle of the room as they talked in hushed breaths.

“Sorry,” she said, “Can you show me that again?”

They were in the private gym that Feyre and Lucien had been visiting every week to learn how to defend themselves. This week however, Lucien simply requested to punch something.

Learning self defense was much harder than anticipated. It involved quickness and preciseness, knowing where to force an elbow or the heel of a palm. She wanted to be a badass ninja type but that required too much work she was willing to let on. At least Lucien didn’t have much of a knack for the physical either.

But there he was, standing at one of the punching bags, red and sweating while Azriel, whom she had only met that day, stood by and gave pointers.

Cassian gave her a pointed look. “Are you going to listen this time or just stare at wannabe Rocky over there?”

“I’m worried about him,” Feyre protested softly. “He’s had a bad past couple of days.”

After Lucien had locked himself into the bathroom on that Sunday morning, she told herself that he just needed space and time. They had given him that, yet, a few days on, it was past the point where it was unhealthy. And that deep cloud of depression had consumed him to forge an impenetrable wall.

He wouldn’t hear about their suggestions to talk to someone, anyone. It didn’t have to be them.

And for the past few nights, despite their gentle prodding, Lucien would shake his head and go to bed. He would accept their affection and their physical comfort, but that was the extent of it.

She wished she could do more. Just being there for him didn’t seem like enough anymore.

“Come on, let’s take a break.” Cassian put a hand to her shoulder and guided her to a bench at the nearest wall.

She took a swig of her water. Instead of occupying every waking thought with Lucien, she turned her attention to Azriel.

“So, Azriel just seemed to pop up out of thin air,” she said, observing how attentive he was towards Lucien, the unruly hair, the aquiline nose.

“Yeah, he has a tendency to do that. He works mainly overseas.”

Feyre scrunched up her nose. “So he is more of the James Bond.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “You’re fucking weird Archeron. But yes. He is very valuable as our eyes and ears outside the UK.”

Before Feyre could press further into information she shouldn’t really know, Mor sauntered over, leaving Rhys lying flat out on the ground.

“He’s becoming less fit by the day. Tell your boyfriend to stop skipping his gym schedule,” she said, flopping beside Feyre.

Feyre assessed Rhys’ ‘unfit’ state. “Um, I guess I will have to take your word on that one.”

She patted Feyre’s knee. “I’ve been given the rundown. On why faerie Prince Harry over there is close to punching through that bag.”

“Yes,” Feyre sighed, unable to add anything further. She was exhausted by her own worry.

“Cocktails, Friday? I know where to get top notch sex on the beach, and it’s two for one!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal Mor,” Cassian said.

“Jesus, Lord, yes please,” Feyre said.

“Perfect, I’ll text you with more deets.”

Quite frankly, Feyre knew that getting smashed was a very unhealthy way to forget her problems but as she watched Azriel yank Lucien from the bag and examine his hand, she didn’t really give a toss. Girl time was necessary. She also needed to celebrate her last week at the Spring Court before returning to her own offices at Beyond the Wall. Which didn’t seem so exciting now.

Rhys approached, sweat clinging to his shirt and frowning at the phone in his hand. It was Lucien’s phone he was holding. He was only answering to Lucien’s mum and no one else. The first call that Sunday made Lucien instantly throw the phone at Rhys, whereby he told him to either destroy it or take care of it.

Rhys bravely took care of it.

“Who now?” she asked, she had took a glance at some of the messages Lucien had been receiving on his phone and almost hired a hitman. Rhys had caught her googling how to hire an assassin discreetly and laughed then cried out of despair.

“Eris again. Wanting to meet with him. Funny. There’s been no malice in his texts considering he was the main perpetrator of Lucien’s childhood of hell.”

Feyre put her head on Mor’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Set it up,” she said. “Then I will send Azriel in to James Bond the place down.”

Rhys guffawed and she opened an eye to find him truly offended.

“I thought I was your James Bond?” he exclaimed.

“I’ve reevaluated. You’re more of the Tom Hiddleston from the Night Manager.”

“Tom fucking Hiddleston from the pissing Night Manager?”

Feyre let herself smile. “What? He’s very attractive in that.”

“You’ve just demoted me. Yesterday I was Lemon Capellini with Caviar, today I am fish and chips from a 2 star chippy.”

“First off, Tom Hiddleston from the Night Manager is fish and chips from a 4 star chippy in a seaside town. Get cultured. And second off, I actually prefer fish and chips to fancy black fish eggs, much more filling, delicious and not too salty,” she pointed out.

“Much more filling, delicious and not too salty, wow, we have the words to be etched on your grave, brother,” Cassian said. “Also, you are both fucking weird.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes down at her but the soft smile on his face deceived him. “Despite the deepest of wounds you’ve inflicted upon me in this hour, I forgive you.”

Mor whispered into her ear, “Such fragile male egos you hold in the palm of your hand.”

Feyre smirked to herself, but it slowly dissolved she watched Lucien slip out of the main room.

***

When Lucien was 12, his mum took him to the doctors. She had noticed him withdrawing to silence. His attention slipping at home and in school. She had to wake him up herself for school because he would sleep through every alarm. And how he hadn’t opened his curtains for three weeks.

And the doctor had said, “Your son has depression.”

Then she wrote Lucien a prescription and told his mum to bring him back in a month. He watched his mum with tears in her eyes.

When he next returned, after a month of some little pills that made him sleep restlessly and dream about the very monsters that plagued his day, he lied about how they made him feel better because his mum was sitting right next to him.

And he kept that up every month. He had hid the medication by crushing it up and embedded it into the soil of his plant that he kept on his window sill. He had opened his curtains.

He had realised from then on, that he had a role to play. He couldn’t burden his mother any more than she already was. And he savoured every second that he lay in bed, to find solace in the never ending black abyss that lay behind his closed eyes.

And now, 15 years later. He earned to find that black abyss once more, every moment of the day, where he could just find instant peace.

He could see the guilt in Rhys’ eyes and the worry in Feyre’s and he just wanted it to stop.

He wanted to tell them that he was devastatingly ashamed. And exhausted by his own exhaustion. He hated how he forced Rhys into a difficult situation and he hated how Feyre was treated. He hated how terribly weak he was because he couldn’t find the words to describe how he was feeling and he hated how easy it was to fall back into the routine of self loathing, all from a moment of too much alcohol and pent up misery.

Lucien sat at a bench in the changing room and rubbed vigorously at his face with a towel.

His knuckles were numb but he ached from the inside out.

Azriel had been patient and corrected the numerous errors he was making due to his poor posture and lack of control. He knew that he was trying to prevent him from injuring himself, but he was tired by the simple social interaction all the same.

The door to the changing room swung open.

Feyre thrust a water bottle in his face. “You have drank only a quarter of this bloody bottle during this whole session of let’s go ham on this poor punch bag. Now you have to drink all of it right now, or I’m challenging you to a duel.”

He realised his girlfriend had a tendency for tough love.

So, he took the water bottle without argument and drank the rest. He was thirsty, he realised. It was strange how he sometimes had to be reminded to listen to his basic bodily needs.

When Rhys joined them and they both settle on either side of him, Lucien just wanted to slip into their warmth and affection and forget the rest.

This momentary peace was what he chased after day and night.

Rhys’ thigh pressed into Lucien’s and Feyre pressed her cheek into his shoulder and he was once again reminded that he could find solace in things other than darkness.

“I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” Rhys said, “But your mum really would like to talk to you.”

What instilled Lucien with never ending fear was the upset of his mother.

“I’m not sure,” he replied croakily. “Just let her know that I’ll get back to her at the weekend.”

He didn’t know if he’d stick to that promise but he wanted to. He just needed a little more time to cowardly hide away, and believe he lived in the realm where he hadn’t disgraced the family and created a black hole of drama.

For now, he needed to get his thoughts in order. Orientate himself whilst simultaneously dwelling in the grief of pre-Saturday Lucien. Where he was less of a complete and utter fuck-up.

He went through the stages of the counselling sessions that his 14 year old self endured. The CBT and the medication and the research. He never thought they worked, but that was because he was still stuck at home in perpetual fear of torment. But now, over a decade on, especially with the two people either side of him, maybe it would work.

So, with a deep breath, he said, “I do want to talk to someone, though.” His heart beat fast and his mouth turned dry and he realised that this was the first time he admitted that he needed help out loud. And he didn’t know whether it was as a result of the numb knuckles or the delirious exhaustion or something entirely different that spurred him on to do so.

Feyre nodded against his shoulder and slipped her hand into his left. “I support this decision.”

“I’ve got a couple of numbers you can call when you need,” said Rhys. “I’m proud of you for doing this.”

Lucien caught his boyfriends eyes and Rhys planted a soft kiss on his lips.

And that was that. Just a rushed thought exiting his mouth and all of a sudden he felt just a bit lighter, like the inclination was the step in the right direction.

They continued to sit like that in each others presence for minutes more, until Feyre said, “Are we nearly done here? We’re going to miss Pointless if we don’t leave now.”

Rhys snorted and Lucien smiled.

“Well,” Rhys said, brushing Lucien’s sweaty hair from his face. “Can’t keep milady from the noble Richard Osman, can we?”

No, Lucien thought, not at all.

***

Feyre knocked quietly on the office door and awaited a response before slipping inside, careful not to catch the attention of any other employees down the hallway.

Lucien eyed her from his desk, his hands paused mid air over his keyboard, “To what do I owe the honour?”

She waved a Stormtrooper lunchbox, “Rhys made lunch for us this morning.”

“It’s lunch already?”

“Yes, foxboy, do you think I was going to ever let you skip it? Yeah, no.”

She took her usual seat before his desk and opened the ridiculous lunchbox that took up half of her backpack but couldn’t refuse it because Rhys was looking so fucking pleased with himself for making egg and cress sandwiches tucked neatly into a stormtrooper lunchbox.

Don’t think of Rhys as a father don’t think of Rhys as a father

Dont

Think

Rhys

Father

“How are you feeling this afternoon?” she asked abruptly, handing Lucien his lunch.

“4/10,” he said honestly.

“Hey, that’s one point better than this morning, so whoop.”

Lucien shook his head with a smile, “Did you just whoop in my office?”

“I can whoop in the bedroom if you like too,” she winked, taking a messy bite from her sandwich.

A glitter entered Lucien’s eye. “You dirty little minx.”

Feyre found herself flushing. It had been a long week since they’d done anything. And there Lucien was saying things with a bedroom voice that made her thighs quake and very filthy images enter her head at 1:00 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. She focused on her sandwich.

That was another thing. Feyre Archeron was leaving the Spring Court today.

Her contract had finished and she was no longer needed to man the expansion projects now it had been distributed to the designated roles.

She was trying not to think too much of it. Because although she was escaping the confines of this dreaded office and the vicinity of Tamlin, she was leaving her best friend behind. As well as the ridiculous flirting and necessary alliance, the companionship throughout lunch hours and journey’s home.

Lucien seemed to catch her train of thought because he finished off his sandwich and rolled back his desk chair in invitation.

She obliged him and sat across his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck holding him close.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” she whispered.

He muffled a grunt in agreement and nuzzled closer.

“At least the world's biggest wanker will be off your back,” he said. “That’s all I care about.”

“Yeah, but now he’s going to be on yours.”

“He has always been on mine.”

“Yes, but tenfold.”

Lucien didn’t want to admit that she was right. His career prospects were certainly insecure considering Tamlin’s plans. Maybe he should begin job searching?

He hated change.

“You still have to debrief with Tamlin later?” he asked, slipping his hands beneath her blazer.

“Yeah we have a meeting at 4:00, then I will be done here.”

Momentarily distracted by the scent of her shampoo, Lucien sighed. He wanted to rejoice, but it was painful knowing that he wasn’t going to have her here to keep him going on a daily basis. She was his fuel and his motivation and the light between emails and coffee and frequent breakdowns.

Then he mentally berated himself for being selfish. Feyre needed out of here, for her own mental health, for her career and for her potential. It was stifling here.

“Feeling alright, foxboy?”

She turned his face to hers with gentle fingers. It was hard to concentrate with her lips so close and her eyes so piercing.

“Gonna miss me?” she teased.

“No,” he lied, then pressed his mouth to hers.

It was soft and sweet and so very blissful. It was a hot chocolate on a freezing night and slotting the final jigsaw piece into a completed puzzle.

Just as Lucien untucked her shirt at her back to slide a hand onto bare skin, Feyre pulled away.

He protested, “Hey, what’s-”

She adjusted herself on his lap, straddling his thighs with her own.

The chair creaked in warning.

“This seems like an extreme sport,” he observed.

Feyre reattached her mouth to his for a moment before pulling away once again.

“Do you want to?” she asked tentatively.

“What a silly question,” he said.

“I need a yes or a no.”

He let himself think about it for a moment. He was feeling somewhat functional today. Maybe it was the fact that Feyre seemed to be doing a good job of consuming every present thought. Maybe he just wanted to express the liberty of something as debauched as office sex for the last time.

“Yes,” he rushed out very quickly before finding her mouth again.

***

It was like a switch. One moment he was tracing fingers across her spine while he nuzzled her neck, the next he had her over his desk, fingers pressing into her over her trousers, his hand weaving into her hair. And he was hard and fast. His hands giving, then taking. His heart beat steadily against her back as his whispered sinful words into her ear that had her fingers gripping the edge of his desk. His hand found her mouth, pressing hard to suppress noises that escaped her mouth when he moved in just the right spot-

“You like that, angel?” he had murmured. “You filthy little-”

“Aloha, Feyre,” Mor clicked her fingers in front of her face. “You still computing?”

Feyre blinked.

“Her head’s in the gutters,” said Elain. “She’s always been like that.”

Feyre would have frowned if she hadn’t already had two cocktails. Instead she leaned back and said, “Lucien and I had office sex today.”

Nesta glared. “It’s a wonder that you managed to get any bloody work done.”

The original plan was for Mor and Feyre to hit the town and drink like Geordie Shore girls but with Made in Chelsea etiquette, but when Elain called that evening asking what her Friday night was going to entail, Feyre had to oblige.

So there they sat, in an uptown bar drinking over expensive cocktails even though they were 2 for 1, in a little booth with a dash of awkward silences.

It was the first time Mor had met her sisters. Nesta was stone faced like she was with her own fucking child and Elain was struggling to look at Mor for more than 3 seconds before getting all flushed. Mor was bubbly and friendly and the buffer between her and her sisters and depressing conversation.

“Another round?” Feyre asked. Mor had already motioned to the bar for a repeat. Sex on the beach for Mor and herself, red wine for Nesta, and a virgin mojito for a very pregnant Elain.

“It was also goodbye sex, was it not?” Mor said, returning the conversation to Feyre’s earlier escapade.

“We’ve agreed not to say goodbye, considering I’ll still see him everyday. Besides, it was too rough to be goodbye sex. Isn’t it supposed to be all lovey dovey?”

“Jesus,” Nesta muttered.

“It’s whatever you want it to be, my friend,” Mor beamed, patting her arm. She turned and looked into the crowd. “I’m jealous. I need a good shag. Not office sex but maybe some lucky bastard’s bed sex.”

Elain brightened to a deep red, sipping carefully at her cocktail.

Nesta glared at the middle Archeron sister.

“I need to go to the toilet,” Elain said softly, shifting on her seat.

Mor bounced up. “Me too! Let’s go.”

Elain looked exceptionally apprehensive as Mor took her hand and guided her out of her seat. Nesta and Feyre watched them walk away through the bustle of the bar.

“I never knew our sister had a thing for girls,” Feyre mused.

“Neither did I,” Nesta said.

When Feyre assessed her older sister, she found genuine hurt betraying her poker face.

“Hey,” she said. “The first person she would tell would be you. Besides, it might be pregnancy hormones. I think the whole planet fancies Mor, even just a little bit.”

Nesta frowned deeply.

It was a strange scenario that Feyre found herself in. Sitting in a London bar, opposite her eldest sister, drinking, talking about their sisters newly revealed sexuality.

It was...strange.

“How are you doing?” Feyre asked tentatively.

“Fine,” Nesta said, tracing her finger around her empty wine glass.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. That’s it. Now let’s talk about how perfect your life is now, shall we?”

“Jesus,” Feyre sighed, “What now?”

The drinks came, and Feyre took a sizeable gulp.

“Do you ever hear yourself?” Nesta snapped. She squeezed the stem of her wine glass. “Constantly on about how perfect your sex life is. How great your job’s going. How you’ve got two dicks to shove down your throat when you go home.”

Feyre almost snorted on her drink. “So much for a clean fucking slate. Have you managed to find that stick up your arse yet, or is it lost?”

Nesta sat before her, eyes icier in the dim light.

“My life isn’t perfect,” Feyre continued. “You know fuck all.”

Yes, a perfect life, with one boyfriend off saving the world whilst putting his life on the line working for satan, the other suffering from PTSD and depression working beneath a mini satan, with a backdrop of probable, no inevitable danger. Feyre’s anxiety had been the worst it had been in years and she had been sexually harassed twice by said mini satan. Her mother didn’t love her and her older sister could barely speak to her without spitting venom.

Wonderfully perfect.

“Go on then, enlighten me,” Nesta said. “Then maybe we could compare notes.”

“This isn’t a blooming competition Nesta! I thought we were going to try and rebuild.”

“Why should we bother, you don’t need me, and I sure as hell don’t need you. Simple.”

Feyre flinched. She stared at her older sister, waiting for her to retract the words but to no avail. It was a defense mechanism, she realised. This scolding fire that erupted from her mouth with eyes to match.

“Why?” she said. “Why are you like this?”

Guilt flashed on Nesta’s face.

Silence settled over them, yet their eyes remained locked until it seemed Nesta swallowed on something sharp and looked away.

“I’m supposed to be your big sister, but I’ve failed at that too,” Nesta said, eyes wandering in the distance.

Feyre couldn’t really refute that statement. Nesta had only looked out for one person in her life, and that was Elain. Feyre wasn’t allowed to join in on their sleepovers or listen to their music or use their makeup. Not their secrets or their jokes.

“Talk to me,” Feyre pleaded quietly. “Please, I want to help you.”

Nesta shook her head. “It’s too long of a story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“I’m very jealous of you, you know that?”

Feyre frowned. It was not what she expected to hear her sister say at all.

“I don’t understand,” she eventually said.

Her older sister sighed and downed the rest of her drink.

“You’re independent and happy, no kids, no shitty ex husband, fulfilling career; very fortunate circumstances.” Nesta shrugged.

Feyre opened her mouth to pry but Mor and her sister returned, Elain laughing and flushed.

For once, Feyre was annoyed at an interruption with her older sister.

“I fancy a dance,” Mor announced, thinking she was saving Feyre from tension.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” said Nesta quickly, “Come on, Elain. You must be ready to lie down.”

“Just because I’m pregnant, doesn’t mean I’m an invalid,” Elain protested. She smiled at Mor, “I haven’t been to a club in ages.”

“Elain, you’re not going to a flipping club when your 5 months pregnant.”

“It’s a gay bar,” Mor corrected, “And it’s Britney night.”

“Yes, because that makes a world of a difference,” Nesta snapped.

It was very normal to see Nesta revert to the overprotective big sister of Elain. Mor was unphased by Nesta’s animosity, however Feyre tried her hand at being the mediator for once.

“Just an hour or so, Nesta,” Feyre said. “She’ll be fine.”

Whether it was the wine, or Feyre’s reassurance or Elain’s insistence, Nesta seemed to relent.

Nesta’s previous admissions were niggling at Feyre’s mind. And she vowed to herself that she was to not give up on her eldest sister.

***

Rhys slid into the clean sheets and wrapped himself round Lucien. He kissed Lucien’s hair and neck, anywhere his mouth could reach.

It was strange, how an hour prior, Lucien was fucking Rhys into oblivion and now he was all pliant and cuddly and soft. They had been entangled for hours now, attempting to satiate Lucien’s sudden appetite.

They had changed the sheets and dusted the bedroom and cleaned the kitchen with a smattering of knees on carpets and cocks in mouths, exhausting themselves in the process.

Rhys desperately wanted to sleep. He had had a long day meeting with Amarantha’s associates, planning trips and then relaying intel back to his team. He may have let his eyes slip.

Only to be shaken awake by the incessant ring of the phone, Feyre’s ringtone.

Lucien was still rousing so Rhys grabbed it first.

“Darling,” he greeted.

“Hola.”

Rhys breathed a laugh. “Where do you need picking up, senorita.”

“A&E,” Feyre hiccuped.

“Ah fucking hell, what the fuck happened?” he exclaimed, suddenly wide awake.

“Chill chill chill,” she laughed, “I’m kidding.”

“Jesus, don’t joke about this shit Feyre, giving me bleeding heart attacks. Where are you?”

The instant shot of adrenaline at hearing her say A&E dissipated, though now he just wanted her home to make sure there wasn’t a mark on her.

“I’m at my flat, accidentally got an uber here. It’s bizarre though,” she said quietly. “My door was already unlocked. And I always lock my door.”

The adrenaline was back.

Rhys shot up.

“Don’t like being alone here,” she whispered. “Feels weird. I’m cold.”

“Stay on the phone to me, I’m on my way.”

“What’s happened?” Lucien croaked out.

“Nothing, you stay there. Feyre took an uber to her flat, I’m going to pick her up.”

He hoped he sound convincing enough, he wanted Lucien out of harm's way if the scenario that was repeating in his head would play out.

Luckily, Lucien was still in the thrifts of sleep and nodded, flopping back down on the pillow.

The drive to Feyre’s was torturous and Feyre’s babbling wouldn’t calm him.

You’re overreacting, he told himself as his girlfriend chatted happily about the events of the night. How Mor had gone home with some girl and she did karaoke with Elain. How she had shared an uber with her sisters and by the time she got dropped off at hers she just wandered through her flat door despite not having any keys.

He told himself he was being silly, she just forgot to lock it last time she left. Everything was fine. But something nagged at him, and the uneasiness wouldn’t relent. This was what is was going to be like now, living this life. Fearing for the people he loved the most because they were leverage in the game of the blackest of markets.

“And then, Nesta laughed at my joke. Can you bloody believe it? It was pretty good, if I don’t say so myself.”

“That’s great, darling,” he said absently. Parking on double yellow outside her flat, he sprinted to the door of her basement flat. The flats above were dark and undisturbed.

She had left the front door open and he swore in frustration. His girlfriend was drunk and vulnerable and she had left the front door open. His temples pulsed.

Navigating the darkness of her flat, switching on every light as he went to illuminate blackened corners, he found her in her room, still babbling down the phone. She was lying on her bed, huddled under the duvet.

Intact.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, the most lively smile etching onto her face.

He gave her a thorough once over before embarking on a mission. He scanned her room, looking for anything out of place. He checked her wardrobe and her ensuite, sizeable places to fit a man. He then sauntered throughout her flat while Feyre protested in confusion.

The kitchen was also untouched. Living area as she left it. No notes, no threats. No blood on the walls or wires across doorways or corpses under the bed. Nothing. There was no trace of any danger that could have traipsed through here other than Feyre. Besides she regularly returned home to pick up more clothes or the post, she simply must have forgot to lock it, rather than it being the mistake - or intention - of an intruder.

Yet, he checked the door, searching a sign of breaking and entry but finding everything unmarked. Then he looked through the post scattered on her entryway floor, scanning the letters for legitimacy. Only letters from the landlord and bills, as well as a subscription for some artsy magazine. He sighed in uneasy relief.

“Rhys…?”

Stood in the doorway, looking mildly alarmed, Feyre watched him compose himself.

He rose and kissed her cheek and her head for extra measure and brought her tightly to him. The pounding in his ears didn’t seem to end so he held her closer.

“You’re alright,” he said to himself more than her.

“Yeah, duh,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

He was still on edge, like he got himself so worked up in his head that he barely sought rationality. Which was not only dangerous but foreboding and he vowed to be more calm next time. Call the security team rather than storm out in a stirring panic over a false alarm.

Next time. The next time when one either Feyre or Lucien were in potential danger. Something cavernous opened up in his stomach.

His job was too precarious for relationships, and not only had he bit off more than he could chew but he had bitten into something sour and grotesque. He knew that Amarantha knew of the ties of Lucien and Feyre to himself, Tamlin and the Spring Court. He knew that one wrong move and they would be paying to price. And when this was all over, exile was probably in order to avoid them taking shrapnel.

Secretly, Rhys wanted to get them into hiding now but not only would that reveal his mistrust of Amarantha, but both Lucien and Feyre would throttle him for taking them out of their lives. Security was already in place but he couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t enough.

Feyre was growing heavier in his arms and he didn’t realise how long they were standing there for. The bare skin of her back from where she seemed to have given up undressing to her waist was cold and future worrying was replaced by current worrying.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, looking down at her face, her eyes closed.

“Yes,” she murmured as she pressed her face further into his coat. “Home.”

After about 50 years, I’ve finally been able to compile something for you to read. Life has gotten in the way a lot, and the next part will be up whenever I find the time to write between essays and deadlines. So no schedule for the meantime, I will write and upload when I can.

This chapter was written in tiny segments for the past couple of months, so I know it isn’t up to scratch as some of the other chapters.

Thank you so much for being patient with me, I’ve really appreciated all the love I still get for this fic and I appreciate you all too. You’re all amazing.

Lot’s of love.

If you wanna be tagged let me know, if you want to be untagged also let me know cos you’re like ‘who dis bitch uploading after half a year’

@ladyvanserra @rhysands-highlady @howtotameyourillyrian, @cauldron-boilme, @rowaelinsmut, @jmbelles, @daeniran, @girlgotattitude448, @fucking-winchester-trash, @rumblerore-is-dumbledore, @amren-firedrake, @readingismycopingmechanism, @juliasempiternal, @latinafangurl, @floura-aarion-lokkii, @highlordus, @darlinglucien @filthycorrade @lavahaz @feyrethedarklady, @destiny14444, @photofeesh, @ice-queen-a @flowerbooks252 @sahibookworm, @flowerbooks252, @ourbooksuniverse, @my-ships-will-never-be-sank, @lanakaythings, @wolffrising, @highladyofherondale, @illyrianinterrasen @bluephoenix222, @amazinginglyawesomeperson, @dragkingdragon, @tntwme, @starsofshadowanddust, @fucking-winchester-trash, @adgedarling, @cohen-theeleven, @theheirofnightandday, @gently-say-aha @high-lady-aelin-fireheart @abillionlittlepieces @katexrenee @mikaylamee @aristofayns @bunniesandbooks @dreams-of-feysand @hellas-himself @prxthian @fableturtle @anarchic-dreams @alxanxah @filthycorrade @queen-elain @catastrophicideass @katsrhev @alexisnm95 @tswaney17 @city-of-fae@honeypuns101 @shadowsingersxks @rebelsrunmayheminconstellations @cataclysmicsprinkles @flight-of-a-robin @zainaboobetterthanyou @books-cats-and-coffee, @yrenewestfall-official–official, @summertime-acoustic, @basicbookbabe, @tiredbutstillreading @myfeyrelady @mikaylamee @magical-peaches @sarahjmaasassin, @firebitchaelin, @longilve, @araujol1, @look-to-the-stars-and-wish, @l0sts0uls1128 @anr2332 @gingerglides @nuggets-and-mouthwash @heirofmalafirebringer @leulivy @aelinarcheron13289 @nerdperson542 @manoncrochanblackbeak @zaradearbornsucks @mybbyfeyre @alicethelonerabbit @ghostlyrose2 @youreabadliar @owlieux @myforevermoment @booklover242 @omg-feyrhycien-though

#feyrhycien #feysand #feycien #rhycien #completely inappropriate series

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

"Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes"