#Rhysta

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain): Part Four

A/N: Happy Tuesday! Who's ready for more Rhysta? Well, there's not really a lot of Rhysta happening here but... Also sorry, besties. No smut in this update either. But! We are really getting into it now. I hope you're ready for ✨drama✨ And with a new update comes the evergreen reminder that Rhys is not a good person in this fic. The fun of it is that it's the worst version of him. So if you don't like, don't read. Scrolling past is free

Read on AO3

Rhys feels entirely too keyed-up.

His power writhes in his chest, darkness slithering between his ribs and tightening like coils around his lungs. He swears he can feel that power scrape down his limbs like claws, feel it pulse and pound in time with every beat of his heart. The beast within him prowls restlessly, hackles raised and hairs standing on end. Caged and hungry to get out.

It leaves him feeling untethered, on edge. He’s had to expel more magic than normal out of pure need to shake the building energy. Had to fly deep into the Illyrian mountains and simply unleash himself. He’d caused a bit of an avalanche, but the relief had been worth it. The release had been worth it.

And he was beyond desperate for release.

Three days. It had been three days since he paid a visit to Nesta’s apartment, more than ready for another taste of her, another chance to watch the way her cunt took his cock and dripped with his seed, another opportunity to keep her stuffed full of him, only to find the place completely empty. He’d tried to be inconspicuous, asking around the apartment building, even daring to take a trip to Nesta’s favorite watering hole, the Wolf’s Den, but no one had seen the eldest Archeron.

He’d even tried to reach out to her mind, casting his talons as far and wide as he could, but there was not a single trace. Her mind was nowhere to be found. Nesta was nowhere to be found. At least, not in Velaris. Wherever she went, Rhys can’t reach her.

He sighs softly, rolling his shoulders and neck. His fingers curl against his desk, claws breaking free without his control and scraping against the wood. The splintering sound is jarring in the otherwise quiet study, and Rhys winces as he looks down at the gouges left behind. Another huff, and he shoves the papers in front of him aside, covering the marks and hiding them from sight.

Rhys nearly jumps out of his skin at the feel of hands on his shoulders, palms sliding down his chest. He turns his head to meet a pair of bright blue gray eyes, a freckle smattered nose, and a smear of green paint across a cheek bone.

“You’ve been working so hard you didn’t even hear me come in,” Feyre teases lightly.

She pulls back and walks around Rhys’s chair, slipping up and onto his desk. She tilts her head as she peers at him, reaching a hand forward and pushing the hair off his forehead, fingers slipping through the strands and sliding along his scalp with the movement. Her lips pinch in the barest hint of a frown, eyebrows beginning to pinch together.

“You look terrible.”

Rhys chuckles, raising an eyebrow at the comment. “Just what every male wants to hear, darling.”

“I mean it,” Feyre insists, her gaze roving over his face like she can find the answers she’s searching for there. “Have you not been sleeping?”

Rhys looks away from her burning gaze, his jaw clenching with that still barely concealed frustration writhing beneath his skin. “I’m simply trying to ensure this Court’s success. I’ve always been trying to ensure this Court’s success.”

Feyre sighs softly, her hand sliding from his hair down to his shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly. “And you have, Rhys. Everyone is at peace now.”

But just peace isn’t enough. It’s what no one else seems to understand. No one else seems to see exactly what Rhys is trying to build here. See how the Night Court could be so much more.

It’s what his father always told him when he was younger, stories of their ancestors. Legends and myths of grand creatures, powerful creatures. How they used to rule all the lands with iron claws. How they could drink the magic of the land like wine. And those beasts at their feet that prowled Prythian. The same beasts carved into the onyx of the Hewn City.

The same beast that prowls within Rhys.

Unleashing that beast within them was how his ancestors were able to defeat their god-like dictators in the end. How they were able to rise from the ashes and rule all of Prythian. How they were able to turn their attention to worlds beyond. And, according to Rhys’s father, with that kernel of power that still endures in their family line, with their own magic and beasts, they could be great like that again.

Possibilities.

That was what his father would say while he trained his magic, during his lessons. Whispered promises of what could be. What Rhys could be. What the Night Court could be. How powerful they could be. How feared they could be.

A beast on his true, deserving throne, all under his rule and a legacy of power to follow him and keep that mantle.

Rhys lets out a quiet gasp of surprise as warmth floods through his shoulder. Soft, golden light sparks in the corner of his vision, weaving between Feyre’s fingers and burrowing beneath his skin. It twines around his muscles, relaxing and unwinding them in a way only magic can. Healing magic from Dawn in this particular instance.

Rhys focuses his attention back on Feyre. On his mate with the power of seven High Lords flowing through her veins. He swears he can see all that power that lives just beneath her skin, see it fluttering in time with the pulse in her neck. The beast purrs in delight at the reminder.

Feyre lets out a squeal of surprise when Rhys’s hands grasp her waist, hauling her off the desk and onto his lap. He situates her until her back is pressed against his chest, her head tipped back against his shoulder.

“Feeling better, then?” Feyre asks, shifting her hips under the guise of getting more comfortable.

Rhys’s body responds to the movement in an instance, cock twitching in interest and blood simmering with heat. He tightens his grip on Feyre’s hips, tight enough to still her, tight enough to pull a soft groan from her throat, tight enough that he wonders if she’ll be marked with pretty bruises that perfectly match his fingers.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Rhys chuckles darkly, slipping one of his hands up and beneath the oversized sweater Feyre is wearing. He moves his hand up over her stomach slowly, relishing in the shiver that takes over her body. He continues his path up and up until he finds her breast, delighted to find no fabric or barrier between her skin and his palm.

“I’m much more concerned about what could get into you. Ideally, my cock.” Rhys presses his lips right to Feyre’s ear. “And my seed.”

~ * * * ~

Cassian swings the ax over his head, feeling the wood split beneath the force. He huffs as he pulls the ax free again, tossing the wood onto the ever growing pile to his right. The muscles in his arms start to ache with the repeated exertion, but it’s a welcome reprieve, the perfect distraction from the emotions still raging like a storm within him.

Another swing of the ax and Cassian tips his head toward the sky. He can just see the sun beginning to rise above the line of trees surrounding him, above the mountains. The pale blue sky and the early morning breeze doesn’t provide the relief he’s hoping for, though. It doesn’t help that this place still scrapes along his spine like claws.

It’s been decades since he last stepped foot here. It’s been centuries since he returned only to learn that his mother had passed while he was gone, since he razed this entire village and all those males that were complicit until nothing but ash and smoldering ground remained. An echo of the pain that blazed through and scarred his chest. An embodiment of the grief that left his heart torn to ribbons.

It took around a century for the regret to creep in. This place was his mother’s home. It was meant to be his home before he was plucked away and tossed into Windhaven. So he started flying back when he could, started building this cabin in hopes of it blooming into something more, helping this village to fully heal. But some ghosts can’t be chased away. They cling to the soil beneath his boots, twine around the branches of the trees, haunt every shadow and corner.

What would his mother think now? Seeing her home reduced to nothing more than a long forgotten graveyard. What would she think of Nesta? The female the Mother saw fit to bless him as his equal, pregnant by another. For a moment, Cassian swore that he saw his mother in Nesta, saw a whisper of her in her expression, in her eyes.

It broke his heart all over again.

Cassian’s grip tightens around the handle of the ax, swinging hard enough that the blade embeds itself in the stump of the tree at his feet. He decides to leave it there, gathering up as much wood as he can carry in his arms and trudging back inside the cabin. He spies Nesta up in the loft, still fast asleep.

It feels almost strange to have her scent all over this place now, the sweet smell of vanilla and lilies made only sweeter by the budding one just beneath. If Cassian closes his eyes, he can still feel the weight of her fingers in the spaces between his own as she let him guide her out of the bakery. Can still feel her body pressed against his chest as he flew them both to Illyria.

Keeping his steps quiet, Cassian makes his way over to the fireplace, stoking the low burning flames higher and adding fresh logs. Heat begins to prickle his skin and the air around him, and he knows soon the whole cabin will be pleasantly warm, chasing away the morning chill. He glances toward the kitchen, wondering what sort of food he may be able to dredge up for breakfast when the sound of a quiet whimper reaches his ears, his entire body freezing.

He’s been on edge since he returned to Velaris, since he discovered Nesta and what happened. His instincts have been writhing in his chest, sinking their claws in and roaring for attention. And just that sound has those instincts rearing their head yet again. His heart seizes, siphons on his hand pulsing until only red floods the corners of his vision.

He’s up the stairs to the loft in seconds, but his panic turns to confusion when he finds Nesta still tucked beneath the blankets of the bed. She shifts in her sleep, and Cassian watches as her brows pinch together, her lips twisting. When another whimper escapes, he closes the remaining space between them, carefully approaching the bed.

“Nesta,” Cassian starts, reaching out for Nesta’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Nes, you need to wake up.”

Nesta’s entire body jerks, and she gasps on a hard intake of air as she wakes. She scrambles up and away from Cassian, frantic eyes dancing around the loft. Cassian doesn’t miss the way her hands seem to shake, even as they twist and grasp at the blankets, her chest heaving with each breath.

“It’s okay,” Cassian continues, keeping his voice quiet. “You’re okay, sweetheart. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real.”

Nesta’s attention snaps to him, the fear finally melting away from her face, but it’s not relief that takes over her expression. Instead, there’s a hollowness, a dejected sort of acceptance as she curls her knees up to her chest.

“It’s always real,” Nesta whispers, looking away from him again. “That’s the worst part. It’s always just reliving what’s real.”

“Tell me how I can help. What do you need?”

“A drink,” Nesta snorts dryly. “But I can’t have one of those to help chase away the nightmares anymore.”

Cassian winces, at least glad that she doesn’t see his reaction. “How about a cup of tea? And some breakfast?”

“Is tea your answer for everything?”

Cassian chuckles. “Only if it helps.”

Nesta sighs softly, but she shoves the blankets off her legs, slipping off the bed. Cassian leads the way down out of the loft and into the kitchen, busying himself with getting the tea going first. Only when the warm porcelain is pressed between Nesta’s palms does he worry about preparing food for them both.

“You know…” Cassian starts, giving the oatmeal in the pot a good stir. “Leading up to the Blood Rite, I would have terrible nightmares about it. Dreamt of Az getting run through with a sword. Of… of Rhys falling from Ramiel.”

It takes everything within Cassian to swallow down his shiver at the reminder of those dreams. They were always so vivid, inescapable in the worst way. He digs two bowls out of the cabinet, scooping oatmeal into each and sliding one over to Nesta.

“After the first War, the nightmares shifted. We were all stationed apart during it. I was out west, as were most of the Illyrians. I suppose, looking back on it now, it was because we were more expendable. Because the battles were awful there, brutal, the whole field just red and bodies. That’s what I would dream, but every face would be my family’s. It haunted me for years.”

“Is this meant to make me feel better? That you have nightmares too?”

“Is it not?” Cassian teases lightly, taking a bite of his own breakfast before he turns serious again. “After this most recent war, the nightmares shifted again.”

Nesta rolls her eyes, merely poking at her oatmeal aimlessly. “Let me guess. Your brothers taken out by the Cauldron?”

“Not quite. Sometimes, I do dream of that Illyrian legion. Gone in the blink of an eye. But usually, my dreams are of you, of that moment we faced down the King of Hybern. But in my nightmares, he doesn't just disarm you, he runs you through with that sword, and I can’t save you.”

Nesta doesn’t say anything for a moment, those blue eyes of hers still so guarded as she stares at him. But then that all too familiar scowl is twisting across her face, fire sparking to life behind her irises. She roughly shoves her breakfast away, raising her chin in nothing short of defiance.

“I don’t need your saving.”

“I know. I didn’t… that’s not what I was trying to say. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Oh, I know why you’re doing this,” Nesta laughs derisively. “It’s your obligation.”

The response takes Cassian by surprise, and he frowns slightly. “Obligation?”

“I’m not stupid. I may have been human before, but I can still feel it. I know what this is between us.”

Cassian goes stock still. It’s a word he hasn’t said aloud, a word he’s scarcely allowed himself to even think until recently.

Mate.

He’d sworn he’d felt it, that first moment he’d stepped foot inside the Archeron manor, the first time his eyes met a human pair of stormy blue ones. Sworn that in that moment even the Mother herself held her breath, sworn that something golden and warm slithered around his ribs. That golden thread had only solidified during the War, when they faced down the King.

Cassian doesn’t think he’ll ever forget reaching for what remained of his magic reserve to throw a shield around her, driving forward with a sword if only to give her time to get away. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget begging her to run, the instincts writhing and raging in his chest worse than any other pain the King may have inflicted on him.

If only he hadn’t been so afraid to name what it was in those days immediately, to go to her. If only he hadn’t been such a coward.

“Well, I am freeing you of your obligation,” Nesta continues, her own voice sounding strained. “Just tell me the words to say, and I’ll–”

“Don’t.” Cassian clutches desperately at his side as if he can hold the golden thread in place by sheer force alone. “If you don’t want me, that’s one thing, but don’t you dare break it because you think you’re doing me some service. I care about you, Nesta. I’ve always cared about you. And I’m doing this because I care about you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you actually don’t have a say in my feelings.”

Nesta sighs, looking away from him. “It’s just the bond making you think you care.”

Cassian dares to step around the counter and closer to Nesta, to step nearer into her space. “I know it’s all still new to you, but that’s not how mating bonds work. They can’t create feelings. Trust me. There have been plenty of mated pairs that hated each other throughout history.”

Even as he speaks, Nesta shakes her head. “You deserve better than me.”

“Nes–”

“You are good, Cassian,” Nesta snaps, looking back up at him. The tears lining her eyes send cracks shattering through Cassian’s chest. “You’re brave and brilliant and kind, and you deserve more than a female that only knows how to hurt those around her. Who failed her sisters again and again. Who couldn’t save her own father in time. Who fucked your brother!”

The words ring in Cassian’s ears, but all he can focus on is the single tear that slips free and slides down Nesta’s cheek. On the way her fingers have started to shake again. On the way her chest has started to heave with short, gasping breaths. It’s signs he recognizes all too well, ones he’s seen too often in the faces of his soldiers.

He gives in to his own instincts, his own desires. His hands reach out, gently curling around Nesta’s shoulders and tugging her closer. He shifts so that his arms are wrapped tight, holding her against his chest, holding her together. He’s not sure what he expects, but the gesture seems to be the final nail in the coffin, the last straw that sends the dam breaking. Nesta lets out a whimper, the sound slicing straight down to Cassian’s soul, and then she starts to sob. Each one wracks her whole body, her hand curling into a fist in the fabric of Cassian’s shirt.

“It’s alright, sweetheart” Cassian whispers against her hair, sliding a hand down her spine in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps holding Nesta close, keeps whispering soft, soothing words, until her cries slowly subside to quiet sniffles. Even then, he doesn’t want to let her go, keeping his lips pressed to the crown of her head. Movement out of the corner of his eye has him drawing back in the end, the sound of parchment against the wood of the table drawing even Nesta’s attention.

“I thought you said they wouldn’t be able to find us here?”

“The magic is attached to me, not the place,” Cassian explains, reluctantly pulling back so he can grab the note. “You’re still safe here.”

Nesta still looks wary, but she nods. “What does it say?”

With a soft sigh, Cassian unfolds the piece of parchment, recognizing the clumsy script of the High Lady. He knew it was inevitable, knew it would all be inescapable in the end, but the words scrawled across the page still have his heart stuttering to a painful stop in his chest, his stomach dropping into his toes.

Come to the River House. It’s Nesta

~ * * * ~

Cassian lands before the front gate of the River House, taking a moment to peer up at the gray stone of the manor, at the lines of windows, at the winding path and greenery that leads to the front door. He takes a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. He takes a moment to check the straps of his leathers, the swords at his back and the daggers at his thighs. He has no idea what he’ll be walking into, but he’s sure that it can’t be good.

Rolling his shoulders, Cassian finally steps through the front gate and up to the front door. He pauses, hesitates, before reaching toward the door handle, reminding himself that he wouldn’t normally knock. Under normal circumstances, he would stroll right in as though this was his own home.

Even if these aren’t normal circumstances. Even if he’s not sure he’d still call it that now.

He’s not surprised to find the entrance hall empty, but voices drift toward him from further down the hall, from Rhysand’s study if Cassian had to guess. He starts to head in that direction but then the very male in question is stepping down the winding staircase, his eyes meeting Cassian’s.

Cassian clocks the exact moment Rhysand notices his scent, his steps faltering for just a moment before he continues the rest of the way down the stairs and into the entrance hall. Cassian hadn’t bothered trying to scrub himself down before flying here. He knew there would be no erasing the whisper of Nesta along his skin anyways. And maybe there’s a bit of selfish satisfaction in it too, watching the way Rhysand’s jaw feathers.

Just seeing him has Cassian’s rage flaring again. It licks down his limbs like flames, his magic swelling in response and sending his siphons pulsing. It doesn’t help that despite what’s happened, what he did, Rhysand still carries himself with a casual coolness. He merely tilts his head as he peers at Cassian, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“I suppose I should have known you'd have something to do with the disappearance.”

Cassian scoffs, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “Really? That's what you want to fucking say to me?”

There’s not even a flicker of a change on Rhysand’s expression. “Where is she?”

“As if I'd tell you,” Cassian growls out, daring to take a step closer into Rhysand’s space. “You're lucky I don't punch you in the face right now.”

“I’m your High Lord.”

“Yeah… and to think I once thought you were my brother.” Cassian shakes his head, not even sure he really knows the male still standing in front of him. “How could you?”

Rhysand’s violet eyes flash at that, a crack in his expression giving way to a cold, mocking smirk. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Cass. Did she tell you how she screamed my name?”

The snarl is loosing from Cassian’s throat before he can even attempt to stop it. Red bleeds into the corners of his vision, and not just from his siphons as his arm raises. His instincts demand retribution at such a slight, and he can’t wait to hear the crunch of bone beneath his fist, to feel Rhysand’s flesh as it gives way to the force.

“Cassian. You made it.”

Cassian pulls back at the new voice, turning to find Feyre has stepped out of the study, find her walking down the hall toward them. Her blue eyes flit between both males before landing back on Cassian, nothing short of sympathy burning in her gaze, in her frown and pinched brows.

“Rhys told you, then,” Feyre sighs softly, coming to stand beside her mate. “Don’t worry. We will find her.”

“Actually, darling,” Rhysand begins, lips twitching slightly as he turns toward his mate. “Cassian already knows where Nesta is.”

Cassian laughs humorlessly. “Are you sure you want to go there, Rhysand?”

“You know where my sister is?”

Rhysand meets Cassian’s gaze head-on, even as he answers Feyre’s question, “I tried to get him to tell me where she is, but he refused.”

Cassian shakes his head, huffing quietly. He suppose that answers his question as much as Feyre’s. The challenge clear in Rhysand’s eyes. He chances a glance at the High Lady, Feyre already watching him. Her face is scrunched up in confusion, blue eyes practically imploring him to answer. Cassian swallows hard at that expression. As much as he wants to hurt Rhysand, he’s not sure he can stomach doing the same to Feyre.

“I took her somewhere safe. That’s all that matters.”

“Safe?” Feyre repeats, crossing her arms across her chest. “She was safe in Velaris.”

“Was she?” Cassian can’t help but drawl.

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe you should ask your mate.”

The words are enough to give Feyre pause, her attention flitting to Rhysand for a moment before turning back to Cassian with new resolve. “I’m asking you. I am your High Lady, and I am demanding you tell me where you took my sister. That is an order.”

“I told you. I took her somewhere safe, somewhere away from him,” Cassian tells her, jerking his chin toward Rhysand.

“Away from Rhys? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What? Didn’t he tell you?” Cassian asks, his tone all mocking innocence. He’s had enough of this back and forth, this game. Enough of the lies. “Tell you how he’s been fucking your sister, how Nesta is pregnant with his child.”

Rhysand’s mask fully slips away, the beast Cassian knows prowls just beneath pushing to the surface as Rhysand's lips pull back in a sneer. Just that look has Cassian resetting his stance, readying for a fight. But Feyre lets out a quiet gasp, drawing both male’s attention back to her. Her blue eyes are wide, pinned to her mate like she can't believe it, like she's waiting for him to deny it.

But Cassian doesn't miss the way her hand drops to her stomach, fingers curling against the fabric of her sweater there. He doesn't know why he didn't notice it before, the way he decidedly can't pick up her scent. As though there's a shield around her blocking it. The realization has him wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Really, Rhysand? Who’s next? Elain?”

“Get out of my sight,” Rhysand growls, violet eyes blazing.

“Gladly,” Cassian bites back.

He turns on his heel, heading back toward the front door. He reaches for the handle when he feels it, the prickle of magic across his skin. It has his every hair standing on end, has his siphons pulsing in warning, responding to a threat. He's felt that lick of magic in the air before, during the War. Before Rhysand turned a whole chunk of Hybern’s armies into nothing more than night-kissed mist.

“Rhys.”

Cassian dares to turn over his shoulder at the sound of Feyre's broken whisper. Rhysand has his own head turned toward Feyre now, but Cassian doesn't wait for the High Lord’s attention to return to him. Nor does he turn back again. He’ll never turn back again.

[copypastus]

Fandom is about smacking the dolls you like together like they're kissing coz it makes you happy, it's not that serious.

Reposting someone's work to ridicule it coz you don't agree with the pairing is bad etiquette.

@praetorqueenreyna silly hat Rhys inspired me @lorcandidlucienwill hope i can make you smile with this

[uukipi]

this ship is so funny to me get it rhysta stans

[stargirlfeyre]

“Rhysta would work better than Feysand because Nesta has the will power to actually put Rhysand in his place and stand up to him”

Nesta facing an angry Rhys:

Feyre facing an angry Rhys:

Tell me again which one of them has the power to put him in his place? Tell me again which one of them he would actually listen to when upset? Oh okay.

[ennawrite]

just wait until those Rhysta antis hear about Tamsand. Rhysta is a fun idea that we know could never, ever happen in canon text.

But Tamsand? That’s a ship I really do think could have been plausible in a pre book one world. Like the possibilities are endless when it comes to Tamlin & Rhysand (prior to the murdering each other’s family fiasco, ofc). Even now, they have the energy of past scorned lovers.

You’ll have to pry these ships from my cold, dead hands.

[arson-09]

Rhysta AU Where when nesta went to get feyre in acotar she made it through the wall but got caught by Rhysand…

So when Tamlin is taken by amarantha and feyre comes to save him, trials ensue but nesta makes a deal with rhysand to keep her safe (like actually safe. no sa bullshit) when feyre dies, gets revived and goes to live happily ever after with her man Nesta has to go the Night Court. Ensue the second book, a Court of Mist and Fury. The REAL enemies to lovers.

[beansidhebumbling]

A Rhysta Snippet inspired by the amazing @theladyofbloodshed

His ribs began to ache before the Manor came to view. It should have been a sign in hindsight, that blooming flower of pain in his side, a warning corsage from the Mother. But the swirling snow obscuring their sight and Feyre's wringing hands, picking in turn at her ragged nails and then the fine leather of a scabbard Cassian had pushed onto her that morning for protection, were bigger concerns.

His lovesick fool of a General, was continuing his pining from 6 feet away, fists clenched and jaw tight, a wound spring of longing. Rhys would never have called his brother hesistant until now. But love did strange things to males his mother had said. As Cassian’s eyes bore holes into the back of Feyre's head, fear or idiocy, probably a mixture of both, prevented him from comforting the Saviour.

Which left Rhysand with the honour.

He was going to thrash Cassian in the ring for this tomorrow.

Falling in step beside the girl he said lightly,

"Relax. I think you've faced down worse than whatever that place houses."

He tipped his head towards the looming shadow of the building that had emerged from the gloam just a moment prior. With each step further detail of the house was revealed, candlelit windows with iron bars on them, marble pillars and statues of beasts of old caught his eye. The humans had spent Tamlin's coin well it seemed.

'You haven't met Nesta.'

Feyre let out an unconvincing watery laugh.

He'd heard more than enough about the eldest Archeron. Whispers between Cassian and Feyre had reached his ears in Velaris. And he was not blind to the tears that carved new paths on the archer's ice-nipped face. He always had a particular disdain for those who failed to care for blood, hence his hatred of the mirror.

'Nesta hasn't met me.'

He muttered darkly.

'Stop it.'

Feyre snapped firmly.

'You'll have manners, Rhysand. Do you understand?'

She was very like Rowena when she said his name like that. His sister would have loved her. A fellow pain in his neck.

Huffing in agreement and feeling like a scolded child he stormed forward to knock on the great iron studded door they had reached.

----------

He had always liked romance books, a secret youthful pleasure his mother indulged and his father abhorred.

He dreamed his first meeting with his mate would go like the great love stories he'd devoured, a single glance, a fleeting touch that would explode his world of night into symphony of colour and sunshine.

Instead as a human opened a door, his pulse began to rise, a tremendous searing heat radiated from his heart and the snow around him whirled with fae cast gusts of innate power before being evaporated when he got his first glance of her.

She was resplendent, his mate, her delicate eyebrows furrowed in distrust even as the corner of her mouth softened at the sight of her sister.

He attempted to correct his expression into something gentle and charming so she might like him. It was imperative she liked him.

Instead Nesta Archeron with a beauty so sharp it shredded the snowflakes around him, took one glance at his pained grimace, his pointed ears, his damned wings, and promptly shut the door in his face.

[shadowqueenjude]

I wrote a little Rhysta.

@ennawrite @kateprincessofbluewhales

Rhysand woke up with a stinging pain around his neck. He lifted his hand towards the source of the pain, then found something that felt distinctly like a knife digging deeper.

His eyes flew open, and for a wild moment, he thought it was Feyre standing before him. But no. The face that surveyed him had stronger features. Eyes just a little more grey, lips a little more full, brows quite a bit more angular, her gold hair a tumble of waves down either shoulder. A cunning face-calculating. And one that held a knife to his throat.

“Wake up,” she hissed. Rhysand blinked blearily, trying to focus on her. Despite being human, he found her to be prettier than the cursebreaker. He could only imagine how devastating she would be as a faerie.

“What?” Rhysand croaked, not daring to speak too loud else that dagger pierce his skin. How in Prythian had this human girl got a hold of an ash knife? What was with this family?

“I want to know what exactly you’re playing at,” Nesta answered, her simmering glare branding him even in the dark. Rhysand’s heart rate kicked up; was it more or less embarrassing that it wasn’t from fear?

“Nothing. I’m just here to protect Prythian and the human lands from Hybern’s corruption,” Rhysand said mechanically.

Nesta snorted delicately. “Spare me the bullshit. Even if Feyre bought into that molded loaf of bread, I am not so gullible.” She bent closer to him, her tantalizingly soft hair brushing against his cheek. “Or did you use your faerie magic to hoodwink her? For the Feyre I know would not change her loyalties so fast, and last I knew, she was in love with Tamlin.”

Rhysand tried to swallow a couple of times before she gave up. “Tamlin treated her poorly. So she left.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I was mean to her for years and she never wavered in her loyalties. So tell me what you’ve done to her, High Lord.”

Rhysand stared into her silver eyes, the loathing palpable in them at the nearer distance. How should he answer this? The truth? He imagined that wouldn’t go down very well with her. With lies? She didn’t seem the least bit fooled by them.

“Nothing. It was Tamlin who changed her.”

Rhysand didn’t have time to react before Nesta drove the knife into his shoulder. Too much in pain to even scream, all he could manage was a pitiful whimper. God, he had forgotten how much ash stings. He hadn’t encountered such weapons since the war centuries ago.

“You really think you can fool me, Amarantha’s whore?” Nesta demanded.

Rhysand stilled at the nickname. “How did you-?”

“Feyre told me everything that transpired between her arriving in Prythian and when she came back. You were what prompted Tamlin to send her away. A loyal servant of that bitch who tormented Prythian for decades.”

“You don’t understand. It was all an act-“

Nesta twisted the knife in his shoulder, and Rhysand let out another pained moan. Blood was all over his shirt, his skin sticky. “Killing twelve kids isn’t an act, you coward. I already told you I won’t be easily fooled.” Nesta bared her teeth, looking every inch the faerie Feyre could never be despite her super strength and pointed ears. In spite of the blinding pain, Rhysand breathed out a laugh. “Oh, pity you aren’t the Cursebreaker. You’re a lot more fun than the huntress.”

Nesta wrenched the knife out of his shoulder, causing even more pain as she returned the knife to his throat. “And I’m about to be a lot more fun if you don’t tell me what you did to Feyre in the next thirty seconds.”

Gods, she was magnificent. Well, Rhysand could offer a partial truth that would hopefully appease this powerful woman.

“I forced Feyre into a bargain in exchange for healing her under the mountain.”

Oh, the scent of Nesta’s fury was delicious. Rhysand gloried in the smell as he sensed Nesta trembling with rage. “I fucking knew it. You faeries and your bargains. I’m assuming it’s this mark right here?” She dug a sharp nail into his arm, and Rhysand yelped, jerking away, which only caused more blood to ooze from his shoulder wound. “How did you know?”

Nesta shrugged. “I guessed, since Feyre has an identical one on her own arm.”

Cunning, furious, and observant. A crying shame this queen would only live a mortal life. “Get her out of the bargain,” Nesta whispered.

Rhysand chuckled. “Or I could just break into your mind and be done with it.”

“You can try,” Nesta seethed. “But not even a High Lord’s glamour can work on me. Tamlin tried and failed already.”

Rhysand blinked. Nesta…possessed the true Sight? Some mortals were gifted with the ability to resist nearly all kinds of Faerie magic in a way that even most powerful fae have difficulty with. Jurian, of course, was one of them, which was how he’d led the humans to victory all those years ago. Immune to daemati and glamours, this woman could be exceptionally useful.

Rhysand reached for her mind anyway, finding that she was just as immune as she had claimed. The eldest Archeron didn’t mess around, clearly. She possessed walls more fortified than the Cauldron itself. Mother above.

“I warned you,” Nesta snapped. “Break the bargain.”

“And what will I get in exchange?” Rhysand crooned. “Surely you understand I cannot release her without getting something in return.”

“I could just kill you and be done with it,” Nesta mused. Rhysand smirked at her. “True, but think: I am a High Lord, and a major asset in the war against Hybern. Without me, your odds lower significantly.”

“You can be replaced,” Nesta drawled dismissively. “Not me.” Nesta spat on his face. “You faeries are even more arrogant than we were taught to believe.” She smoothed down her nightgown with her free hand. “Take me instead.”

Rhysand blinked. “Really?” That was exactly what he had been hoping for. Nesta would prove to be far more useful than the illiterate one. “On the condition that you will never physically or sexually harm me, nor will you use your magic against me in any way, nor will you allow any of your cronies to do it in your stead.”

Rhysand could not say yes fast enough. “Yes, I promise. It’s a deal.”

Nesta and Rhysand stared at his arm, watching as the tattoo disappeared. They both waited for a new one to appear, and when it didn’t, Nesta began her venom again. “You fucking liar, I will slit your thro-“

She stopped, and Rhysand knew why. He watched as whorls of paint wrapped around Nesta’s forehead like a crown. An identical one must be present on his own.

They surveyed each other for a moment, this new bond that had just formed between them tugging them closer together. At last, Nesta let the knife drop.

“Welcome,” Rhysand murmured, “to the Night Court, Nesta Archeron.”

[azrielsbxtch]

Feyre : Nesta why are you looking at Rhys through a fork?

Nesta : I’m pretending he’s in jail

Rhys : *scowls*

[ae-neon]

I find it incredible how a crack ship like rhysta has more traits in common than the two canon ships f/eysand and n/essian

I think I can understand why fans of those ships like them but I also think sjm's writing is so weak I can't get over how shallow the canon ships end up being.

The potential is there but she always fails to fully develop the individual halves so the whole just ends up looking like 60% [aesthetics + 5 quotes/scenes] and 40% [fanon or lost potential]

I won't talk about Nessian because I cannot stand the fundamental Taming of the Shrew dynamic behind the ship. It was never gonna gonna get me.

So let's talk F.eysand (in a surprisingly more positive light than I thought)

Like I said in another post, Rhysand being the younger sibling would have made F.eysand make so much more sense to me and given me something to root my understanding in.

One of my favourite moments of character clarity is Rhysand telling Feyre it was her defiance reminding him of Cassian that made him fall in love.

That speaks volumes. It tells us about him and his admiration for this downtrodden bastard boy who stole his clothes. It tells us a part of Rhysand feels helpless despite his power so he really appreciates powerless people who overcome that to be brave anyways.

But then it's retconned to him feeling Feyre was his mate even before she set foot in Prythian and I just... Like oh, nvm then, it's just an immaterial magical bond that doesn't care about who each person is that ties them together

And let's say you're a reader who really cares about mates and the bond, then the "like calls to like" nature of Prythians magic also makes rhysta and feyssian logical pairs with their own unique dynamics that would have been interesting to read

Also idk sjm just can't do enemies to lovers in my opinion. One party (the young woman) always feels like a victim whose healing is centred on becoming a suitable partner for the mmc instead of genuinely working through their trauma

I mean Feyre goes from nightmares of UtM to being in that same outfit in the CoN (also under a mountain) and is simultaneously dissociating and but also okay and even empowered?? These things happen at best 3 months apart like ☹️ she's just a kid, it's actually gross

The argument for rhysta here is that Nesta has no UtM trauma, would not have been manipulated into playing sex pet even if she agreed to go to the CoN, would have some leverage because the IC needed her cooperation to reach the queens. It's not a complete dismantling of the set up but it feels less idk icky??

Like had Feyre been given more agency I could accept more, that's why I really think Frost and Starlight should have been a novella about Nesta going to the Continent and the next book in the series should have been Feyre with the Valkyrie plot so she can reestablish herself outside of being Riceball's plus one

I could go into smaller details but I think this is the general view of my issues. Also I don't really like Hades and Persephone, Good Girl Bad Boy vibes so there's that

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain)

A/N: happy belated birthday @moodymelanist! This is a super late gift, but hopefully the absolutely filthy smut will make up for it. And hoo boy is it filthy! 😉 I know this is a crackship and not everyone's cup of tea, so this is your friendly reminder to simply don't read if you don't like. Also, the consent in this fic is a bit dubious so please read with care! Special shout out to @witch-and-her-witcher for reading this for me and assuring me it was the right side of insane

Read on AO3

Five hundred gold marks.

She'd spent five hundred gold marks on her little escapade the previous night.

He'd seen the way Feyre's eyes would go distant mid-paint stroke sometimes. The way she'd start to wring her fingers together and worry at her bottom lip as her thoughts trailed to her eldest sister. He'd seen the dark circles that clung to the skin beneath Cassian's eyes even well after they'd returned home to peace. He knew his brother was almost constantly perched on that rooftop, praying to the Mother and the Cauldron for anything other than another rejection from a female who clearly never thought twice about him. Rhys had to order him away to Illyria just so his brother might finally get some sleep.

But Feyre's expression this morning when the bill from the previous night arrived had been the final straw. Those soft blue eyes he loved so much had misted over, heat creeping up her neck in shame, as she started forlornly down at her breakfast. A single tear had slipped down across her cheek and into her eggs.

Rhys had been done then. Done with his family hurting. Done with the cause being this cruel, stubborn, selfish female. This is his Court, his city, and he won't allow for this to go on any longer. He intends to put Nesta Archeron in her place.

He can't remember the last time he's been to this part of Velaris. Many of the cobblestones beneath his shoes are cracked, some even fully broken or missing. Paint chips and peels off many of the buildings, but it doesn't stop any of the taverns lining the streets. Doesn't stop the patrons entering their doors or stumbling out of them.

The unfortunate building Nesta Archeron has chosen as a home is as unassuming as it is rundown. Dull gray stone and broken shutters line the outside, and as Rhys steps through the doors, it's rickety stairs that greets him. He follows them up to the third floor, his feet carrying him down the winding hall.

There's a distinct scent that seems to permeate the whole space around him. Stale alcohol. Food gone bad. Unbathed residents. Rhys can't help but grimace, can't help but turn his nose up to that scent, to all the grime that seems to bleed from the walls. He'll certainly need a long soak after this, and almost instinctively, his fingers move to his sleeve, picking and brushing at the fabric.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the door at the end of the hall. Nothing of note either. Old nails in the wood may have held up rusted numbers or letters at some point, but not any longer. Raising his fist, Rhys knocks twice, hard and curt, against the wood. There’s rustling on the other side, the slide of locks, and then the door pulls open, Nesta Archeron standing before him.

She has on some male’s shirt, but judging by the scent behind her, or lack thereof, whoever was in the apartment is long gone now. She’s barely bothered to do up the few buttons at the bottom of the shirt. It leaves a deep v of skin exposed and on full display. The expanse of her collarbones, down through the valley of her breasts, all the way down to her navel. Dark circles cling to the pallor skin beneath her eyes, but they’re still a piercing, stormy blue, still narrowed in a glare in greeting.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Nesta sneers, her appearance doing nothing to damper the bite to her tone.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Rhys asks coolly instead of answering.

“No.”

Nesta tries to slam the door in his face, but Rhys is quicker. His hand shoots out, catching the wood and stopping its momentum with ease. It doesn't take much effort to force the door open again, to shoulder his way past Nesta and into her apartment. The lingering scents of males is especially potent inside, a mingled, stale mix of sweat and sex. Rhys doesn't bother swallowing down his blatant sniff nor his frown, reveling in the way Nesta's gaze hardens even more at the reaction.

“What are you doing here?” Nesta demands again, crossing her arms over her chest. The gesture only draws further emphasis to the swell of her breasts, threatening to send them spilling through the opening in the shirt she wears.

Rhys tears his gaze away from her, eying the bedroom and the rumbled sheets he can see through the open doorway instead. “Company left already? Perhaps consider washing your sheets. I’m sure the scent of revolving males is quite off putting and would send any sane male running.”

“Fuck you,” Nesta seethes, practically snarling as she spits the words at him.

“And what number male was that last night? Or have you already lost track?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Rhys chuckles darkly, stepping closer to her again and using the few inches he has on her to look down and offer a smile that’s all teeth. “It is when it’s in my city.”

For her credit, Nesta doesn’t allow the proximity or his height to cow her. She holds her ground, raising her chin defiantly. “I didn’t realize that was part of your job description, keeping tabs on all the fucking that happens. That must be exhausting.”

“If I were you, I’d keep that smart mouth of yours closed.”

“And if I were you, I’d get out of my apartment,” Nesta fires back, gesturing toward the door.

“Yours? Did you forget who pays the rent for this shit hole?” Rhys chuckles dryly, making his disgust clear as he pointedly looks around. When he finally meets Nesta’s gaze again, her hands are clenched into fists, that defiance burning as bright as the flames he knows skitter just beneath her skin. “Although, clearly you have no issue with whose money you’re spending considering what you spent last night.”

The barest hint of a smirk tugs up the corner of Nesta’s lips. “What can I say? All the bar patrons were all too happy to raise a toast to their High Lord when they heard drinks were on him.”

“Do you think this is a joke? You spent five hundred gold marks last night!”

“Only five hundred?”

The growl is escaping the back of Rhys’s throat before he can stop it. “Do you take joy in being a selfish bitch?”

“Does it get you off playing big, bad High Lord? I’m sure Feyre loves this little act.”

“Don’t speak about your sister, your High Lady, that way.”

Nesta rolls her eyes. “So much talk, and yet I’m not seeing any sort of action.”

Rhys surges forward, his hand coming up between them to grasp at her jaw, to hold her in place while he glares and seethes at her face. He can feel her pulse just beneath his fingers, the way it flutters and stutters, but it’s not fear burning in those blue eyes.

“You want to see action? Give me a reason. I dare you. You will speak of your sister with respect. You will speak to me with respect.”

“What are you? My father?”

Rhys realizes too late how close they’re standing. Realizes too late that her already kiss bitten lips are parted as she stares up at him beneath long lashes. Realizes too late that her full breasts are pressed firmly against his chest, peaked nipples noticeable even through the two layers of fabric between them. Realizes too late the way his cock twitches in interest at this turn of events, this turn in the conversation.

“Really? Does that get you off? Do you want me to call you Daddy?”

Despite her taunting words, the sweet scent of her arousal permeates the air, swirling around him and flooding his senses. The magic deep within his chest thrums to life, rising in interest to meet the well of power stolen from the Cauldron itself. He squeezes his hand a bit tighter, relishing in the way Nesta’s breath catches, the way her eyes flutter, casting piercing blue in shadow as her eyelashes kiss her cheeks.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Rhys warns lowly, even as he shifts his hand enough that he can drag the pad of his thumb across her lips.

“I’m quite confident the only person’s ability to finish currently in question is yours.”

“There’s that smart mouth again. How about we put it to better use.”

Rhys slides his hand down, the tips of his fingers grazing across the skin of her neck. He can feel the shiver that skitters up her spine at the touch, the goosebumps that pebble beneath. His fingers continue down to her collarbone, following the delicate line all the way to her shoulder. It doesn’t take much pressure for him to push her down to the floor, her legs spreading wide to hold her weight comfortably.

In this position, Rhys has a perfect view to leer down the front of Nesta’s shirt. He can see the large swell of her breasts and pink peaked nipples perfectly, can watch the way they heave with each panting breath that tumbles past her parted lips. And just beyond, he can see the dusting of dark curls begging for his touch, for his cock.

As if sensing where his thoughts have gone, Nesta’s eyes dance to the growing tent in the front of his pants. Already his cock is hard and straining against the laces and fabric, his blood heating with every passing second. The sight of Nesta licking her lips forces him to swallow down a groan. The stubborn, eldest Archeron. The Kingslayer. The female who sneered at every High Lord when they all gathered.

“Now, that’s much better. On your knees before your High Lord,” Rhys comments, slowly but surely untying the laces of his pants. He tugs his cock free, fisting it and spreading the precum pooled at the tip down the length of it. Nesta tracks the movement, and Rhys smirks at the reaction. “Is this what you want?”

Nesta looks at him through her eyelashes, nodding her head. The scent of her arousal becomes stronger, headier, the female clearly as turned on as he is. He can already imagine how she must be dripping down her thighs, but the shirt still hides that from view. Because he can, Rhys uses his free hand and tugs hard at the offending thing, wanting to hear the buttons clattering against the wood, the feel of fabric tearing beneath his grip, rather than magicing it away.

The sight presented before him is certainly worth it, and he half wonders if he should fuck her tits instead.

“Open,” Rhys demands coldly, letting a low rumble of his power to bleed into his tone. Almost on cue, Nesta’s lips part wider, her tongue pressing forward in waiting. “Well, would you look at that. You can behave after all.”

Before Nesta can respond or get another remark out, Rhys presses his cock forward into the wet heat of her mouth. He’s not gentle about it, feeding her half his length in one crude thrust until he hits the back of her throat. She chokes around him, but then she’s moaning, the vibration paired with her throat working and swallowing around him finally pulling a groan free from his chest.

Her tongue laves at the underside of his cock, the tip flicking and catching on the ridge of the head as he pulls back only to push right back in. He digs a hand in her hair, threading the brassy strands around his fingers and tugging hard. It pulls another choked, spluttering moan from Nesta, and Rhys using his grip to begin fucking her mouth in earnest. With each hard snap of his hips, he tries to feed her even more of his cock, to bury himself deeper down her throat.

“You know, your mouth is much sweeter when it’s stuffed full of cock instead of mouthing off.”

Nesta blinks up at him with watery eyes as he continues to move. Tears track down her cheeks, mixing with the drool that spills past her lips and splashing across her chest. There’s a pretty, pink flush spread across the skin there, matching the color of her cheeks. Even with the wide stretch of her lips around him, she hollows those same cheeks.

“Fuck,” Rhys groans, pleasure buzzing through his veins and threatening to send him teetering over the edge quicker than he’d prefer.

He pulls out of her mouth with a wet pop, a line of drool still connecting them. He watches the way Nesta swallows, the way she licks her lips now swollen and red from sucking his cock. Her eyes are glassy as she peers up at him, but that fire still burns behind the blue of them.

“Close already?” Nesta asks, the taunt still clear despite the rasp of her voice. “That’s disappointing.”

With a growl, Rhys uses the grip he still has on her hair to yank her to her feet, the rest of her shirt falling away with the movement. He doesn’t bother with the bedroom, with the rumpled sheets and the ghosts of males embedded within the fabric. Instead, he spins Nesta around and pushes her against the ragged, fraying sofa that takes up space in her sorry excuse for a living room.

“So much hatred,” Rhys comments, using his feet to kick her legs further apart. He presses himself along her spine, curling an arm around her. He slides his hand down her chest, down her stomach, all the way down until he finds the lips of her cunt already slick and fluttering from the barest of touches. “And yet you’re already drenched for me.”

He keeps his touch light, drawing the tips of his fingers back and forth. When he reaches her clit, he draws the barest hint of a circle against it before pulling away again. A high pitched sound somewhere between a whine and a whimper tumbles past Nesta's lips, and she tries to shift her hips down, chasing the pressure, but he keeps her firmly pinned in place.

“Beg for it,” Rhys tells her, teasing at her entrance in a promise of the pressure to come and gathering the wetness there between his fingers.

Nesta moans softly, her hips stuttering again, but she turns her head over her shoulder enough to still glare at him. “You know you want to fuck me, so just do it already.”

“And yet you’re the one with your legs spread and desperate for me,” Rhys reminds her, skimming over her clit again, her cunt fluttering beneath his ministrations as if in agreement of his words. “Beg for it. And maybe I’ll be a generous High Lord and give it to you.”

Nesta huffs, turning her head back around and dropping it down between her shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, but Rhys is confident that her stubborn will won’t win out this time. He continues his teasing and taunting touches, daring to slip and press just the pad of his finger past her entrance.

“I’m waiting…”

“Please,” Nesta finally whispers. “Please. I need it.”

“That’s more like it.”

Rhys wastes no time sinking two fingers into her cunt, hard and deep. Nesta lets out a loud moan at the sudden intrusion, slumping forward even more against the sofa. Her cunt is warm and wet, practically inviting him in with the way it seems to pull his fingers even deeper, the way her walls flutter and clench around them. He drives his fingers in a rough, fast pace, scissoring and curling them. Every wanton sound he draws out of the female before him goes straight to his cock, his length somehow hardening even more.

“All these males in and out of here, and have you ever even been properly fucked? You’re so tight.”

“Fuck,” Nesta gasps out between moans. “You.”

“Oh, I intend to. I’ll show you what it’s like to take a real male’s cock.”

Rhys curls his fingers, finding that spot within her that has Nesta keening, has her back arching with the pleasure. Already, her skin has started to glisten, beads of moisture beginning to pool along her spine. Pressed this close together, her sweet scent engulfs him, making him dizzy. It drives him to work his fingers harder. To squeeze in a third finger. To press his thumb hard to her clit.

Every slide of his fingers is wet and hard. Each forceful thrust in sends Nesta’s hips jostling against the back of the sofa, and each time he drives his fingers back out, more of her arousal is drawn out too. It makes a mess of his hand, slicking between his fingers. Leaves the wet sounds of sex echoing through the apartment, a perfect harmony to the melody of Nesta’s moans.

He can tell she’s close from the way she starts to squeeze tighter around his fingers, her walls fluttering and pulsing in a steady pace. From the way her keens grow into a higher, breathier pitch. Her fists clench hard into the fabric of the sofa, and Rhys uses that exact moment to withdraw his hand completely.

“Please,” Nesta whispers again, letting out what sounds almost like a sob. It’s broken and needy, and Rhys’s cock twitches again in interest. “Please…”

“You forget that this is a punishment.” Rhys lifts his hand toward her face, dragging his fingers and her own arousal across her lips. “Clean them.”

Nesta dutifully sucks his fingers into her mouth, sliding her tongue around each digit. She moans around them, around the taste of herself, and Rhys presses his fingers even deeper, until she’s gagging against his touch. He slips his fingers free, but he doesn’t pull them far. Instead he grips her jaw, still sticky, wet fingertips digging into her skin. He yanks her face to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are unfocused, the blue of them swallowed by her pupils in their blown out, lust addled state.

“But this is what you want, isn’t it?” Rhys asks in a mocking tone. “You like to be punished, to be put in your place.”

He releases his hold on her with enough force that Nesta’s head merely sags back between her shoulders. Rhys knows that he could leave her just like this, desperate and keyed up and wanting. Knows that it would be punishment enough. He knows that he should leave her just like this, a voice tickling along the back of his mind to remind him of such.

But his own desire and need is a throbbing and wanting thing writhing inside his chest. Her cunt is the prettiest shade of pink, still fluttering and pulsing from his previous ministrations, practically begging for him to take take take. His power rumbles beneath his skin and echoes the chant, and Rhys slides a tantalizing hand down her spine, Nesta arching even more beneath his touch.

“Take it,” Nesta breathes softly as though reading his own thoughts. “Take me.”

Rhys focuses his attention back on his pants, tugging them further down his hips. He fists his cocks again, the pump of his hand already providing some relief for the ache burning low in his gut. He slides the head of his cock along her, gathering the wetness there and spreading it down the length of him. Nesta shudders and moans each time his cockhead catches on her clit, trying to rock further against him, and while the temptation to make her beg again is there, Rhys isn’t sure he’ll be able to wait much longer. For once, he wants to be selfish, and who better to be selfish with than the most selfish female he’s ever met.

He shifts his free hand to grip her hip, to hold her in place exactly how he wants her, and then he buries his cock inside her in one hard, clean thrust. The warmth and squeeze of her around him is indescribable, a groan escaping his clenched jaw. He can’t stop staring at where they’re joined. Can’t stop staring at the way her cunt opens for him, the way it swallows him.

“Rhysand,” Nesta’s voice brings him back to the present. “Move.”

“You’re the one who’s so desperate for cock. So you can fuck yourself on mine.”

Nesta whimpers at his harsh words, but there’s no denying the way she clenches down harder around him, the way her walls flutter still adjusting to his size. She spreads her legs wider, resetting her stance, and then she starts to move her hips. With the limited space between the sofa and Rhys’s body, she can do nothing but create shallow thrusts, but even still her sweet cunt somehow pulls Rhys even deeper, the drag of her walls enough that he has to tighten his grip against her hip.

He allows her control for just a few more thrusts before taking it back with a hard snap of his hips. He sets a punishing pace, his hand sliding up her back and shoving her down hard until she’s bent in half over the sofa. His hand traces along her shoulder, down her arm to her wrist. It takes some maneuvering around the way their bodies jostle with each rough thrust, but he’s able to move her hand down to her own cunt, move it so he’s fucking through her splayed fingers.

“Do you feel that?” Rhys growls out, his voice barely audible over the moans and cries of the female beneath him. “Do you feel how drenched you are for me? Feel how well you take your High Lord’s cock?”

He leaves her hand there and shifts his own to her breasts. They overflow in his palms, heavy and bouncing as he continues to fuck her hard. He pinches and tugs at her nipples, relishing in the way her cunt seems to respond each time he does. It doesn’t take long before Nesta begins to tighten even more around him on each inward thrust, before she’s practically trembling against him, clearly teetering right on that edge.

“Do you want to come?” Rhys teases one hand down just past her navel but no further. “Scream my name. Let all of Velaris know how good their High Lord is. And maybe I’ll be generous and fill you up.”

Nesta is all too happy to oblige, shouting his name until she’s practically hoarse between her choked off moans and high pitched whines. Rhys finally slips his hand lower and spreads her wider still. Her clit is slippery and swollen, and it only takes a few swipes of the pad of his fingers before Nesta is wailing brokenly, her whole body tensing as she finds her release.

Feeling her coming on his cock, the way she clamps around him, steals the breath straight from Rhys’s lungs. Despite the tightness of her still fluttering and pulsing cunt, Rhys doubles his efforts, fucking in harder and deeper and chasing his own release. His balls slap against her skin, filling the apartment and mixing with the sounds of his own grunts and Nesta’s whimpers.

“It’s… it’s too much…”

“You can take it,” Rhys tells her harshly, not stopping his movements. “I know you can take it. Don’t you want me to fill you up? Fill you up nice and deep until you’ll be dripping for days. Until every male in this city will know whose bitch you really are. Until you’ll always remember this cock.”

Nesta lets out another sob as another orgasm tears through her unbidden, clenching so hard that Rhys sees stars. He groans and buries himself as deep as he can go, his cock twitching as he spills inside her. He offers a few more shallow thrusts, riding out the last tendrils of his own release and taking a final moment to relish in the tight heat of Nesta’s still fluttering cunt.

She whimpers when he pulls his softening cock out, slumping against the sofa in a boneless heap. Rhys can’t help but fist his cock again, dragging the head through the absolute mess he’s made of her cunt. He gathers his seed that starts to dribble out of her, shallowing forcing it right back where it belongs, chuckling darkly at the way her knees give out at the action, the way she shudders.

“Perhaps now, you’ll remember your place in this Court,” Rhys whispers in her ear, both a threat and a promise.

He straightens back to his full height, carefully tucking himself back into his pants and tugging the cuffs of his sleeves back into place. He offers Nesta Archeron one last look, the female still naked and unmoving save for her still gasping breaths against the sofa, before turning and striding toward the door.

“I expect to see you at the next family dinner.”

[praetorqueenreyna]

What a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked-up little thrill Can't figure out just how you do it And God knows I never will

Nesta is captivated by the cruelly beautiful High Lord of Night.

For Rhysand Week Day 3: The Most Powerful High Lord

@officialrhysandweek

[stargirlfeyre]

I remember when someone said Rhys and Nesta would work because they’re “both scholars”.

The scholars in question being one person who likes building 3D models of the solar system…and the other person being someone who is addicted to reading faerie smut…

They’re not the same😭.

[ennawrite]

daily Rhysta thought:

one bed trope but Nesta actually makes Rhysand sleep on the floor. I can see him grumbling to himself as he tries to fight off the cold air by covering himself with a shitty pillow but he can’t be too mad because at least his mate is warm & comfortable, even though she is a pain in his ass.

[bloomingdarkgarden]

R H Y S T A | Rhysand + Nesta

For @sunlightsage

[beansidhebumbling]

Once again begging for a bit of bitter rhysta bonding over feyssian being a bit too obvious

Liar, Liar

Idk pals. Blame @ae-neon for this. Warning for blood play I guess. Jesus.

They were dancing.

Again.

Familiar tattooed hands moved over her sister's lithe frame. Cassian seemed to forget she knew his tricks, the gentle tracing of the lower back, the hidden kisses to clasped hands. He'd used them on her too. In a time long gone now. Before Nyx, before the dissolution of the Night.

His hands dipped lower, skirting the bare skin of Feyre's lower back. Nesta looked away, focused now on the thin stem of her cocktail glass.

Lovers deserved privacy after all.

Even her husband.

Even her sister.

***

In this nook she liked to pretend he danced for her. That this was merely one of the games they'd played as newleyweds.

Foreplay.

A small part of her, not her heart, maybe her ring finger, the closest to the shackle held out hope he still loved her.

Hope that died with each secret letter she found, with each charged stare she bore witness to, with each dance she observed.

Hope was for heros and children.

***

The seductive beat moved through her pulse as the smooth vodka barely bit at her throat. This was the top shelf stuff. A rarer find after the treaty. He was clearly in a mood tonight. Sat in the corner as usual, the two regular voyeurs to the budding romance and erosion of two marriages.

She glanced at the slumped form of the former Lord of Night and new monarch of the Velarien Territories. The broken lands of a broken male.

'You can sit up, you know. She can't sense you.'

He glared purple-eyed venom at her. She nearly missed the time when that might have scared her. At least things seemed simple then.

'I don't understand what she sees in him. Three months we've been following them to their dancing'

His voice caught on the shards of jealousy that lined his throat.

'And I have to watch her love him. Him. He took everything.'

'You lose what you don't mind, your Highness.'

She relished in hurting him. Something about how his too-perfect face shuttered and stars sparked from his fingertips. Joy was a scarce commodity and his suffering a deep well of it.

'Don't sound too smug, love. It's your mate she's fucking.'

'I cannot lose what I've never had. You fae and your Cauldron. I have never heeded the divine ruling of crockery.'

His laugh, piercing and chilling, cracked her glass splintering it in her grasp. The smell of honey and iron tickled her nose as blood seeped from her clenched fist.

'Liar, liar Lady Death. I still remember you on the battlefields. You've always been quick to save the bastard.'

With agility she thought him too drunk for he moved closer and cradled her stained hand within his own, droplets of scarlet staining his indigo silk shirt.

'Not brother anymore then?'

Nesta smiled sweetly, words coated in honey and arsenic.

'Not sister anymore then?'

He mimicked, raising an eyebrow as she flinched sharply, his eyes glittering, the Ptsym constellation visible in his pupil.

'Don't talk about Feyre like that.'

She muttered.

Rhysand slowly prised open her palm, magicking away the shards until all that remained of his mirth was a deep oozing cut.

His lips, plush and sharp, dipped to kiss her wrist, licking the blood as he went, laving his tongue over pale skin and working slowly towards the wound.

Tingling electricity erupted, shooting from her head to her core. To swap blood was an act reserved for mates not whatever they were.

Enemies.

Less.

More.

Her head flung back hitting hard on the mahogany lined wall as he reached the cut and sucked deeply, silver flames catching on the seams of his mouth.

Rhysand raised his head, hair tossed and eyes wild. He grinned a feral bloody creation, his canines fully elongated before murmuring,

'I'm not very interested in talking at all. Sister."