#rhysand high lord of the night court

[acourtofquestions]

Just had Rhysand autocorrect to Husband… this feels worth noting cause autocorrect ain’t wrong🤣

[charliespringsleftconverse]

Kiss Me Again

Word Count: 8,645 | Masterlist | Read on AO3

Writer’s Notes: I was going to have a friend proof this for me but they were busy so I did some multiple self-revisions in the past few days in hopes that I caught as many grammar errors as possible. Apologies if I missed any! Anyway! This is a college AU ACOTAR Feysand fic. The concept was idiots in love. As in, they’ve baaaasically been doing couply stuff but they were too blind to see or acknowledge that they’d been in love and acting as a couple for a while. <3 

I don’t typically write AU fics, so this is a first for me! That being said, it was so much fun to write. It’s actually the longest one-shot I’ve written! A HUGE Happy Holidays to @thegloweringcastle <3 I hope you enjoy it and finally find out who got left at the supermarket! 😂

Thank you to @acotargiftexchange for putting this event together once again! I LOVE participating in this every year! <3

Squinting at the scribbles below, my eyes attempted to decipher the notes I’d borrowed. I had been able to make out the date thanks to the simple fact that it hadn’t been written in cursive like the rest of the details. It was a lost art form for me just like any other calligraphy-related configuration. I would have written down my own notes for the humanities course I was taking, in plain print, had my younger sister not lost the key to her dorm room. With her roommate out of town for the week, there wasn’t much Elain could have done outside of calling her Resident Assistant, which, to her dismay, also happened to be her ex-boyfriend. So, rather than having to face Grayson more than she needed to, she’d called me. 

Lucky for Elain, I kept a spare. All of my sisters and I did, actually. Nesta, Elain, and I all had a key to each other’s place. It had been especially helpful when we all lived on campus last year. We could just walk into each other’s rooms at any time. Like when I needed help with my homework for Calculus with Analytic Geometry and borrowed Nesta’s notes from her sophomore year. Or when Nesta needed to borrow my curling iron for a date. And, of course, how could I forget the night that Elain and her then-boyfriend broke up. She had refused to leave her room for two days. I had never been so grateful to have access to a spare key. Nesta and I had been so worried having not heard from her for more than a day. We spent that entire weekend taking turns bringing her food from her favorite places across town in hopes that they’d brighten her spirits. Thai food from Adriata’s Palace, Italian Cuisine from Neve’s Garden, and Mexican from Rita’s Margaritas. I had never seen my sister so devastated in her life. Although to be fair, Elain had never dated a boy before Grayson. 

I turned the notebook a bit to the side in hopes that the lighting from the new angle would bless me with a hint as to what words hid behind Mor’s beautiful script. Mother above. Shaking my head, I bit my lip. I should have listened to my mother when she said that learning cursive would be an invaluable skill. She was certainly right in thinking that it was a dying skill. It was dead on me for sure. Hell, the only people I knew who still wrote in cursive were sorority recruitment leads when they made their colorful, extravagant banners with fancy lettering and doctors. Which would make sense at the moment given who I had borrowed these notes from. Zeta Tau Alpha’s latest Chapter President. My mother was certainly wagging her finger at me from wherever she was. 

I sighed.

“You look more concentrated than my morning orange juice,” said Rhysand, sitting across the table. His violet eyes studying me, his brows raised in concern. We’d—he’d been studying for the past thirty minutes, meanwhile, I’d just been heavy-breathing and decoding what looked like a cipher like a treasure hunter in search of the coordinates to an ancient Greek secret temple. But unlike an archeologist, my work proved unfruitful.

“I’m trying to decipher Mor’s handwriting,” I said. Leaning back on the chair, I let out another loud sigh. “It’s beautiful. But I can’t read cursive for shit.”

Rhys and I had known each other since freshman year. More specifically, ever since I accidentally dropped a shoe on him from the fourth floor of the residence halls. I had originally been aiming for my roommate Viviane to catch, who to this day still wanted to room with me. She hadn’t wanted to come up again to retrieve the missing shoe and I didn’t want to go downstairs in a towel as I’d just come out of the shower and was still undressed. 

The natural decision was to just fling the sneaker out the window of our dorm room, obviously. What we didn’t account for was my terrible aim and Viviane’s lack of hand-eye coordination. Not only did Rhys get bumped in the head by a single white platform Vans but he also got pushed into a bush by Viviane. She had been so busy looking up, that she forgot to look forward and completely missed the 6-foot man inches from her. It had been a miracle Viviane herself hadn’t impaled the shrubbery along with him. I’ll never forget the mortified look Viviane and I mirrored, eyes wide and hands over mouth. All I could think was, he’s concussed. I concussed a man. 

Personally, if someone had smacked me on the head, I would have at least yelled at them. Maybe even called them a prick. Rhys, however, was a different breed of man. He had certainly groaned on impact but as soon as he realized he had backflipped into a small hedge and held a women’s size 8 shoe on his lap, he laughed. He let out a full belly laugh. This man—this stranger—had the audacity to laugh given the circumstances. I suppose I should have realized from that moment that nothing could truly take him by surprise or upend his day. A trait I admired. One I hoped seeped into my bones by osmosis or whatever symbiotic science allows personal characteristics to flow from one person to another. 

I apologized profusely to this man. In a towel from my window. In my pajamas after I ran downstairs. In his residence hall, after Viviane helped me put together an apology basket when we discovered he lived across from her boyfriend Kallias. Even then, this 6-foot-something of a man thought it was funny. Every. Single. Time. To which I convinced myself, I’d more than concussed him. I convinced myself I’d done serious damage for a man to laugh at that level of pain. Although, I suppose that if two people showed up in their dinosaur onesies at 9 pm on a Thursday evening with a basket for me, I’d also laugh. But still.

It wasn’t until that very week that I realized Rhys and I shared similar classes. We were both in English Composition, Principles of Chemistry, and Introduction to Sociology. Which, quite honestly, are more than enough courses for you to figure out if you have the same schedule as another student. What can I say, I’m oblivious—an ongoing theme in my life.

Another thing I’ll never forget, the smug look on Rhys’s face when we were paired together in English Composition for a research paper on the portrayal of minorities in the media. I’d wanted to find the nearest cliff and jump off it but destiny had other plans. No, fate looked me straight in the eye and said, “Hold my drink, bestie” because two years later, here we are. Best friends. 

Rhysand snatched the paper out of my hands. “The Gate of Athena Archegetis was dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens, Athena.” 

My hand rushed to jot down what he said. The table vibrated from the ferocity with which I scribbled on my notebook. What I couldn’t crack in thirty minutes took Rhys all of two seconds to read out. Why our professor for that course didn’t allow laptops or tablets for note taking, I’ll never understand. I was just grateful I had something legible transcribed now.

“You can read that? It might as well have been written entirely in Latin,” I said.

“I’ve had practice reading my cousin's handwriting for years. I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t, at this point.” Rhysand chuckled. Passing the page, he eyed the notes, likely reviewing the contents from the course he’d taken himself the semester before. 

“I, unfortunately, was blessed with my father’s handwriting.” I tugged at the sleeves of my V-neck indigo cardigan and shyly pointed at my hideous penmanship. It might as well have been written by a third-grader. It was practically childlike. There wasn’t much fixing that could be done at this point in my life when it came to my writing unless I signed up for a calligraphy course. And even then, life had no guarantees.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. An art major who couldn’t read or write a visual art form. Who could paint true-to-life full-body portraits, vivid illustrations of natural landscapes, and dramatic high-colored oil paintings but couldn’t read or write in cursive. I dropped my shoulders, frustrated with myself, and propped my legs up on the tufted dining chair pulling them against my chest with my arms wrapped around. 

Rhys’s eyes were back on me. He had a way of reading me like a billboard sign, and I could tell he was trying to figure out what was going on through my mind, what today’s bold neon letters were. I was never sure how he did it but he always knew exactly what I was thinking. Which either meant my face was easy to read and I had the worst poker face of all time or…he just knew me. 

“The ‘A’ in cursive is not a sharp letter. It’s more rounded and looks the exact same in both upper and lowercase. Similar to the way you’d write it in print,” he said.

There were several traits I admired about Rhys outside of his keen observations and nonchalant perspective on life. Like his level of empathy. I knew what his academic grades looked like but boy did I also want to know what his emotional quotient score was. Whatever it was, that score was certainly high. He never made anyone feel like their shortfalls were a hindrance. Nor would he want to. That wasn’t his style. Rather than point out my flaws and make me feel embarrassed, he read the notes aloud. 

“The Greek language served as a lingua franca,” he continued.

“That last phrase was actual Latin,” he added. Rhys flipped through the pages of Mor’s notes. I could have asked him for his own from last semester since he’d been able to sign up on time. I, on the other hand, had been wait-listed. Hence why I was taking the course in the spring. It was one of the few classes we all needed to graduate as it was one of the general requirements for all offered degrees. I probably should have asked him for his notes since I could his penmanship but I’d been too caught up with Elain yesterday to even consider asking.

“Here’s another one, in vino veritas,” said Mor, raising two bottles of wine toward us. “In wine there is truth.”

“Amen,” said Cassian, lifting a third bottle. 

“I thought you two went out grocery shopping,” said Rhysand. Laying the notes on the table, he crossed his arms eyeing the two figures by the door. The corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched as he raised an eyebrow at his cousin and roommate. 

“We did. We brought back the essentials,” said Mor. Smiling back at her cousin, she winked at him before closing the door to the apartment with a kick of her red platform heels. 

“Hmm,” Rhys hummed. 

Bringing his eyes back to me, Rhysand continued reading off the notes while the other two flocked into the kitchen. I bit the inside of my lip as I followed along the soothing sound of his voice. His warm tone always calmed me when we studied together. Which was why I was his favorite audience member when he needed to practice his presentations. I’d listen attentively, the first time. I’d even provide feedback, the second time. But I’d almost always fall asleep to the sound of his enchanting mellifluous voice any other time after that. 

“It’s wine night, Rhys. You know the rules,” said Mor from the other room. Every Friday was wine night, the one day of the week our friend group could get together with no interruptions or excuses. No one had an evening class on Fridays or a night shift so things worked out this semester. Most of the extracurriculars each of us participated in typically held events over the weekend so we’d truly lucked out with everyone’s schedules this time. It wasn’t something we were likely to have again so we were taking advantage of every Friday we had before some of us graduated. 

Though, that was one of the rules. No talks about graduation. The point of wine night was to live in the moment and enjoy however many Fridays we had left as the “Inner Circle.” It was a silly name Cassian spewed one night after downing 3 bottles of wine, and it kind of stuck. We didn’t exactly call our group that but we did change our group chat name accordingly. 

“You too, Feyre.” Mor’s voice echoed.

Another rule. No homework. That rule was more of a precaution so none of us would accidentally email professors the wrong file while inebriated. To be fair, I was only taking notes but we all tried to abide by the no homework rule as best as we could. 

“Give me a few minutes, and I’m all yours,” I said. 

“You’re telling me you’ve had all day to write those and you still haven’t?” asked Mor, her voice trailing from deeper in the apartment as she stepped from room to room. She had her apartment across town but, like me, she practically lived here too.

“Yeah, well…there have been some delays,” I said, fidgeting with my pencil. My face began to feel warm as blood rushed into my cheeks. Biting my lip, I kept my eyes down. I didn’t want to let Mor know that I hadn’t been able to write her notes because I couldn’t read her notes. Not that she would make fun of me for it but I knew that if I confessed the truth she’d barge me with questions. And I simply did not feel like answering any of that in front of everyone else. All I wanted was for something to distract her from prying right now. Just about anything would do. A pigeon flying in through the window. The fan in the living room mysteriously falling onto the table. A fire alarm. A knock on the door. Anything would do. Please. 

“Weren’t there three of you when you left?” asked Rhysand.

I felt my body relax, and my shoulders dropped. I hadn’t realized the muscles down my back had tightened and tensed so firmly until my body loosened and eased back into the chair. My eyes lifted, meeting Rhysand’s whose amethyst orbs were right on me. He winked. The man knew I’d been on the brink of jumping out a window and needed assistance to divert the tall blonde in the kitchen and I loved him for it. 

“Azriel!” said Cassian and Mor in unison. The sound of shoes running filled the kitchen accompanied by that of drawers shutting in a hurry, and the jingle of keys. The pair dashed around the apartment like parents who’d just forgotten their child at the supermarket, which was exactly what had happened. Somewhat.

A knock sounded at the door. 

The four of us froze and exchanged glances. The only thought I had in my mind was of Azriel, hoping he hadn’t walked all the way back here. Mor took slow steady steps towards the entrance and when she reached the doorknob, she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together. Ever so delicately, she turned the knob and pulled the door towards her.

"Today was not my best day. I dare say it didn't even make the top five," said Azriel. He had one hand reaching the top of the doorframe, leaning slightly. His handsome face held no clear emotion but his eyes. His cold eyes stared down at Mor, making her smaller than she was. Oh, he is pissed.

“You left something at the grocery store,” said Nesta, pushing past the brooding body. Her heels clicked as she waltzed into the room wearing a black satin sleeveless dress that hugged her in all the right places from her chest to her hips. The slit on the right side exposed her up to her mid-thigh with every step. Cassian’s eyes immediately caught the movement as they slid up her body, stopping once they met her eyes.

“I would never have left you, Nes,” said Cassian. He took a step toward her, almost challenging her gaze. She held it, eyed him up and down sizing him up, and spun to face the rest of the room. With her back to him, she placed a hand on her hip, blatantly ignoring the door-framed-sized man behind her. 

Cassian stepped closer and slid his hands around her body, holding her closer. Nesta didn’t fight him. If I had blinked, I might have missed the slight shift of her body against him, leaning against his chest even closer. It was beyond anyone’s pay grade to understand where they stood in their relationship if it was even that. They’d been on and off for so long that their situationship was like the weather, something that had to be measured in every room. 

“I despise you,” said Nesta, with a hint of a smile on the corner of her lips.

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Cassian.

“Are you headed out tonight, Nesta?” I asked. 

“I only came to deliver the lost puppy,” said Nesta, taking a step forward and away from the figure wrapped around her. Cassian’s jaw ticked as she untangled herself from his embrace. “I’m headed out with the girls.”

Gwyn and Emerie, I thought. That’s who she almost always referred to. They’d been her closest friends since freshman year and they’d been inseparable from the moment they met. It was surprising that they hadn’t come up with her since they all lived together. 

“Gwyn’s downstairs waiting for me, and Emerie is already in the car,” she said. 

There it was. 

“You should take better care of pretty things,” said Nesta, walking towards the door. Elegantly spinning, her eyes met Cassian’s from beneath the doorframe. Her fingers slipped up her thigh to her waist sensually, her eyes never breaking contact as she spoke. “Someone else might steal them.”

She closed the door on her way out, leaving the rest of us too stunned to speak. 

“I’m gonna marry that woman,” said Cassian.

“Wine, anyone?” said Mor.

——

"I almost fist-fought you last night when you took the blanket," I said. Tugging on the dark blue throw-over, I pulled it over myself enough to cover my legs entirely as I sat criss crossed on the couch. The star-filled spread was dark and fluffy like Amren’s black Bombay cat. With three glasses of wine in me, if I closed my eyes and traced my hand down the blanket, I could almost picture Ruby on my lap. She was soft and cud—

A pull on the blanket brought my thoughts back.

“You snore. Loudly," said Rhys.

"I do not snore, you liar." I scoffed, tugging back on the blanket. 

We’d both fallen asleep on his bed last night after an intense studying session. Although our schedules were no longer as identical as they’d been during freshman year, we still shared one or two courses every so often. Like this semester, we had Solar System Astronomy together. We’d stayed up late on the balcony of his apartment looking up at the constellations seeing how many we could name and then placing their locations on a star map.

With 88 constellations in the sky, as recognized by the International Astronomical Union, we’d been able to spot at least seven. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion, Cassiopeia, Cepheus, Draco, and—my face was beginning to feel very warm. 

"How did the blanket end up on the floor? No wonder I was freezing," said Rhys. He was leaning against the backrest of the couch, one hand on the armrest holding his glass of wine. Rhysand’s dark lilac eyes sparked with mischief. He was baiting me and I was definitely too inebriated to ignore his comments. 

“How could you be freezing? You’re a freaking furnace!” I exclaimed. 

“Then why’d you steal the blanket? I’m basically primed for cuddles.” Rhys’s other hand reached around me and tugged me towards him. I laughed against his chest, and let my body lean into him. 

“Mother above, you two bicker like a married couple,” said Mor. She was leaning against the doorway leading to the balcony. With the door open, the cool breeze blew in, brushing her long golden hair past her shoulder. Her eyes darted between where Rhys and I sat on the couch and then shifted to something behind us. I was too focused on the elegant way she held her glass to glance away from her posture. 

“It’s not bickering if I’m right.” I slapped Rhys against his chest playfully. His chest vibrated with a chuckle.

“Az, play that one song from the other night,” said Amren. With her wine glass inches from her lips in one hand, she pointed at Azriel with her other. There was a lot you learned about a person while under the influence. In Amren’s case, during the day, she was a short-tempered finance major student who ate boys and numbers for breakfast. There was no doubt that she’d be valedictorian of the College of Business Administration. She studied hard, but she also played hard. 

“Thisssisss my jaaaaammm.” Amren’s words slurred. She raised one of her hands as if meaning to touch the ceiling lamp like a fly attracted to a zapper light. Swaying to the rhythm, Amren praised the white light above.

“Oh, she is gone,” said Mor, taking a sip of her wine.

All eyes were on Amren now as she led an interpretive dance to the beat of Dance the Night by Dua Lipa. Her choreography involved a lot of hands swaying in the air. While her claps to the music were slightly off-beat, she was giving it her all. She was the choreographer—the lead dancer. She was Barbie at the giant blow art party and the rest of us were just Ken.

“Here’s another piece of Latin for you, Feyre. Nemo saltat sobrius,” said Mor, nodding at Dance and Flex Barbie™.

“What?” I asked. Clumsily leaning forward, I propped one hand on Rhy’s thigh as I leaned closer to Mor in hopes I could read her lips over the music. I felt a hand steady me from behind. 

“Nobody dances sober,” said Azriel.

“Unless you’re Azriel, then you don’t dance. At all,” said Cassian. The couch bounced as he threw his body on the empty spot on the other side of me. He smiled at Azriel, threw his hand over the sofa's backrest, and leaned back.

“I’ve definitely seen him dance,” said Rhys. 

“No way. In his room?” Cassian chuckled.

I took this as an opportunity to make myself more comfortable, while they were distracted. Shifting my body, I leaned further into Rhys, the shape of his own welcoming me back to my spot. A soft giggle escaped my lips as Cassian grabbed my feet and placed them on his lap. Somehow my body had slid down Rhys’s and I was fully lying across the sofa on top of the boys. I was comfortable. So comfortable, I could fall asleep.

“At a party, actually,” said Rhys, his eyes glanced at Azriel while a small smile edged on his face.

“With a girl?” Cassian’s voice sounded surprised.

“With a girl.” Rhys nodded.

“No fucking way,” said Cassian. He couldn’t help but smile at Az, his mouth gaped. 

I understood Cassian’s reaction, Azriel didn’t dance let alone run or jog for anything. He was an enigma; an unsolvable riddle. The man was calm, cool, and collected at all times. Always unfazed by things that would distress the common Joe. It was slightly unnerving. If someone spilled wine on the carpet, Azriel wouldn’t panic at the thought of a huge red stain on the rug. He’d walk into the kitchen, no questions asked, and come back with a dry cloth, dish soap, and hydrogen peroxide, and blot the patch until it made you doubt if anything had actually been spilled. Whereas Mor and I would have stared at the ink-stained rug and exchanged wide-eyed looks before quietly agreeing that the room could do better without a rug.

Azriel shrugged completely unbothered. 

“With wh-

“I don’t kiss and tell,” said Azriel. Cold eyes stared back, silently telling Cassian to back off without any need for words.

“You’re just jealous he didn’t kiss you,” said Rhysand. He was trying to diffuse any rising tension. I could feel the sound of his voice vibrating across his chest. At some point, I’d given him my glass of wine or he’d taken it from me very smoothly. It would have been a disaster if I’d spilled it over the three of us on the sofa. I would have felt especially bad about it considering it was new. Their last one had moved on to a better place after Cassian put a hole in it from jumping on it during a karaoke session two months ago. 

“Hell yeah, I am!” Cassian exclaimed. 

Azriel raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin on his lips. "Are we about to kiss right now?" 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Rhysand. 

“Come here, you,” said Cassian. Throwing my legs off him, he jumped across the room embracing Azriel. The room filled with laughter at the show the two of them were putting on. Even through the loud ruckus, the short-tempered finance major was far too deep into her slumber to awaken. At some point, Amren had tucked herself into the armchair by the window and nodded off. She looked cozy and peaceful with her head lying on the armrest. We’d learned long ago that it was best to leave her alone when she dozed off. A lesson learned the hard way.

Through the open doors leading to the balcony, the sky was briefly illuminated with a bright light followed by a faint sound of thunder. I glanced at the digital clock beneath the TV sitting on the television stand. It was late and I needed to get home. There was still a buzzing feeling that tingled across my body from the earlier drinks but I didn’t live far. It was ten minutes max walking. Plus, if I left now, I could avoid the rain.

Sitting up, I scanned the room looking for my shoes. “I should get going,” I said.

“Let me call you a ride,” said Mor, already taking out her phone.

“Mor, I live within walking distance,” I said, gathering my shoes.

Azriel jumped in, “I barely drank. All I had was a sip earlier. I could give you a ri-

He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes glanced toward the other side of the room at the sound of boots hitting the hardwood and the sofa shuffling. I didn’t think too much about it, not that I could in my current state. I was more focused on figuring out where I’d placed the key to my apartment. 

“Do you want us to walk with you?” asked Mor.

Holding on to the wall, I hooked two fingers into one of my white platform Nike and pushed my foot into the shoe. Was it counterintuitive to own sneakers with shoelaces if I never had any intention of tying them? I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought as I did the same with my other shoe. It was unclear to me if I genuinely found the thought funny or if it was the alcohol coursing through me. Before I could respond to Mor’s question, I felt the close warmth of a tall figure standing near me. 

“I’ll walk her,” said the familiar voice.

“Rhys-

“That wasn’t an offer, darling. That was me making a statement,” he said.

I sighed, looking up at him. It was late, and I didn’t feel like arguing knowing that it would delay my departure before the oncoming storm. Having someone walk you home wasn’t the end of the world. It was an act of the purest love. That someone cared about your well-being enough to ensure you’d made it home safely. That’s what I loved about my friends. The genuine love we all had for each other. 

Sliding my baby blue nylon backpack over my shoulder, I double-checked I’d gathered everything. I went through my mental checklist. Phone, wallet, keys. Patting my pockets, I ensured I had them. I made sure to hug everyone goodbye before heading out. Well, everyone except Amren, who was ever so sweetly tucked in the armchair with a blanket twice her size. Likely one of Cassian’s massive blankets. 

When I turned, Rhysand was already by the door holding it open for me. Slipping his hand over my shoulder, he grabbed my powder blue bag and placed it over his. With the motion, my white plush bear keychain swung against the two baby penguin pins on the cerulean fabric. My backpack had a very soft aesthetic that stood out when held by Rhys who was dressed in dark tones from head to toe. It didn’t fit his aesthetic. At all. I was about to object that I could carry my own bag but his voice interrupted my thoughts. “Don’t put the top lock on the door, I’ll be right back.”

As we headed out, the sky flashed again. The air felt cool against my skin and smelled like dew. It was a calming, fresh scent. It reminded me of potted flowers and succulents like the ones I had by the window in my room. The ones I always forgot to water but always survived, courtesy of one Elain Archeron. She knew I couldn’t keep anything alive, plant or fish, so she’d made sure to get me greenery that required minimal attention, which reminded me that I hadn’t watered them in a week. If it started pouring by the time I got home, I could stick them out the window and have them be watered au naturale. 

I jumped at the sound of thunder and instinctively grabbed Rhys’s hand. His fingers wrapping around mine were warm and rough whereas mine were cold and soft. He squeezed my hand and held on to mine as we continued walking. “It caught me off guard.”

“Mmhm,” he said.

The wind picked up slightly as we headed down the illuminated path amongst the trees and apartment complex gardens that stretched across an open space. Rain was certainly on its way, it was just a matter of when. We likely had a couple of minutes before the downpour began. Thunder sounded all around us, and one, two droplets landed on my cheek. Damn. Other than being way off in my calculations, I’d also forgotten to borrow an umbrella before we left. There was no avoiding that we were going to be caught in this. 

“I’m glad I grabbed this before we left,” said Rhys, opening an umbrella large enough to cover us both. At what point he’d grabbed the umbrella was beyond me. I stepped closer to him as he fumbled opening it. He gave it a slight jiggle with one hand that became more aggressive by the second as he attempted to push the sliding metal piece with his fingers. After about a minute, the section loosened up allowing for more movement. The issue now lay with the broken stretchers that were meant to hold the fabric. 

“Who the hell leaves a broken umbrella in the umbrella stand?” said Rhys. 

“Someone who forgot to throw it out?” 

“That’s why trashcans exist,” he sighed. Rhys let go of my hand and continued fumbling with the umbrella trying to see if the pieces would lock into place. Thunder sounded above us and more drops of water began falling slowly picking up.

“If we pick up the pace, we can make it before it really hits,” said Rhys. His eyes surveyed mine and I could tell he was both disappointed and worried that he’d let me down somehow. But unless he was secretly in cahoots with Mother Nature, there was no way any of this could be his fault or something for him to blame himself for. 

“I’m sorry about the weather,” said Rhys. The way he rubbed his neck and his brows drew together, I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on his face for something out of his reach. 

I shook my head and smiled up at him. “What are you sorry about? A broken umbrella that you had no idea was broken? The sky? Rhysand, unless you secretly own a weather machine, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Forget the umbrella.”

“In fact,” I continued, “I think this is an opportunity.”

I took my bag and the umbrella from his hands, chucked the latter in the nearest bin, and placed my bag on the ground.

“An opportunity?” 

I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the moment, but I’d always wanted to dance in the rain like in movies and musicals. I felt bold and giddy at the idea of doing so now. All I could focus on was this tune from the third High School Musical installment. “Take my hand, take a breath.”

Standing in front of him, I stretched out my hand and offered it to Rhys. He looked puzzled but accepted my offer. “Pull me close, and take one step.”

“A song with instructions? I can follow that,” he said. A small smile formed on his lips.  

“Keep your eyes locked on mine,” I continued. 

His violet eyes twinkled beneath the moonlight and it almost looked like stars danced across his eyes as they softened, placing his other hand on my waist. He knew exactly what song I was referencing. After all, I’d made him watch it enough times with me. “And let the music be your guide.”

I nodded, cuing him to step with me. With his eyes wholly fixed on me, we slowly stepped into time, our shoes gently tapping against the pavement.

“Won't you promise me,” Rhys chimed. 

Pulling me closer against his chest, Rhysand guided me across the makeshift dance floor—the walkway between the trees—with a step here and a half turn there. We were dancing through the gardens illuminated by the night sky and lamp posts down the pathway as we waltzed further in. 

“Now won't you promise me, that you'll never forget.” 

“We'll keep dancing,” added Rhys. 

 “To keep dancing.” A smile curved across my lips. 

“Wherever we go next.” Our voices intertwined as we spun together, my hands held on to him tighter as the rain picked up. Swaying through the path of greenery, the scenery around us dissolved. It was just Rhys and I.  

Thunder crashed above, and the true downpour began. 

“It's like catching lightning the chances of finding someone like you,” we continued. I couldn’t help but smile brightly up at him as rain trailed down his face. The buzzing feeling from earlier that had coursed through my body now turned into a tingly feeling that reached from where Rhys was holding my hand—my fingers—to my chest. No, my body wasn’t buzzing, it was humming. We might have been dancing but I was floating in his embrace. I couldn’t look away from him. 

With every lyric, raindrops painted our clothes a shade darker. My indigo cardigan was now inked navy as we swayed to the invisible music. My feet splashed against puddles, drenching my white shoes in rainwater. They’d likely be gray by the time I got home but that didn’t matter. As our feet shuffled across the pathway, the sky reflected itself over the water on the trail creating an illusion of stars beneath our feet. We were dancing among the stars. 

We sang the rest of the song, never messing up the lyrics or missing a beat. We might have been recreating a moment by singing a song from one of my favorite films but this waltz was entirely made up by us. Rhys’s hand still grasping mine, spun me around as we brought the sound of the music in our chests to a slow end. His eyes were still on mine as we held our soaking bodies close. Was he always this beautiful?

I couldn’t help but marvel at his handsomeness and let an intrusive thought get the better of me as I ran my fingers across his cheek. He leaned into my warm touch, eyes softening. His eyes glanced from mine down to my lips. Please, I pleaded. I could feel my heart racing and my chest tightening at the thought of his lips on mine. Rhysand cleared his throat as his hands gently let go of mine, breaking the spell. 

Taking a step back, he scanned me from head to toe and chuckled. “I bet we look like drowned rats to anyone looking out their windows.”

I shook my head, holding back a smile.

“I feel like one too,” I said. Looking down at my jeans, there was not a dry spot on them. 

I bit the inside of my cheek. Had we just had a moment? I must have hallucinated it in the dark lighting. There was no way that Rhysand had looked like he’d wanted to kiss me two seconds ago. I wasn’t ignorant, I’d known Rhysand was objectively attractive. He had a strong jawline and he was fit from working out every week with Cassian and Azriel. He had nice cheekbones, luscious lashes, soft lips, and intelligent eyes. He was delightful to look at. He was…

Who was I kidding, he was handsome beyond compare. I just had never seen him in that way until now. Mother above, I was oblivious as they came. And I wished I could have blamed the alcohol for all of it—the way I was feeling, the thoughts I was having—but the truth was, I’d burned it out of my system with that dance. 

‘We should get going,” said Rhys. 

He grabbed my bag off the ground and we walked the rest of the way in awkward silence. I kept glancing sideways at him every so often. I’d definitely hallucinated that moment we’d had for a split second. The rest of the way to my place, I spent it looking at the ground contemplating while Rhysand stared at the stars as if searching for a cosmic answer. 

By the time we made it to my place, we were full-on drenched. I was sure my hair looked like a wet mop attached to my head. I patted my pockets in search of the key and found it in the left back pocket of my jeans. They jingled in my hands as I fumbled looking for the right one.

“I hope you’re not planning to walk back in this. At least let me offer you a towel.” I glanced sideways as I turned the key.

He didn’t argue. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. He’d stayed quiet and simply nodded as I led him in. With Viviane at her boyfriend’s for the weekend, there was no one home. All the lights were off as we walked in. I flipped the light switches as we stepped through the place in search of something dry. In the hallway closet, I found some towels for us. Meanwhile, I could hear Rhys in the kitchen opening and closing the cabinets. 

As I turned the corner, I could see him pulling out two teabags from a box before his head turned in my direction. "I'll put the kettle on."

"So sweet of you, you're an angel," I said. 

On top of being handsome, he was very thoughtful. Was I really falling for my best friend? I couldn’t help but keep my eyes locked on him as he turned on the stove and prepared tea for us. I bit my lower lip and turned towards the dryer that was hidden behind a sliding door. Neither of us was shivering or in any danger of getting frostbite, but a warm towel would certainly go well with tea. After a few minutes, the machine beeped just as the kettle began hissing. I pulled both towels out of the dryer and practically moaned at the warm touch against my skin. 

“Would you like a dry towel?” I offered.

“You don’t want my wet handkerchief to dry your wet face?” He glanced sideways at me as he poured water into each cup with a smirk painted across his face.

I giggled and walked further into the kitchen. As soon as he placed the kettle back on the stove, I threw a towel over my shoulder and placed the other one on his head as he turned around to face me. I ran the towel over his head, drying his hair before sliding it over his shoulders and wrapping it around his body. 

I looked up at him. “My hair is soaked, Rhys.” 

The clothes we were wearing could have easily squeezed out two gallons of water. I could have probably fed my succulents with the amount of liquids soaked into our outfits. If I could have thrown myself in the dryer too, I would have knocked out two birds with one stone. 

Standing in front of me, wrapped around in my towel, he looked adorable. Rhys’s eyes met mine and I could have sworn time stopped. All I could do was stare up at him. Oh gosh, was I staring? I blinked rapidly and dropped my gaze.

“You still look beautiful,” he said.

I felt my heart stop and my breath hitch. My hands stilled on his body still holding on to the light blue towel. Did he mean it in a friendly way? I glanced back up. His eyes peered down at me searching for something in mine. My lips parted as if to speak but I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I closed my mouth and swallowed. 

“Feyre.”

The way he said my name made my heart skip. He took a step, closing the gap between us. My name sounded low like a prayer on his lips. If he was praying, then I wanted to bless him but I needed a sign. I wanted a clear sign that he wasn’t just whispering my name in an empty apartment for no reason. 

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?” I half whispered.

His eyes glanced from my eyes to my mouth and back in a triangle manner. A small smile painted itself across his lips like a prayer answered. “You caught that.”

It wasn’t a question, he was making a statement.

“I wanted to be sure your head was clear when I kissed you,” said Rhysand.

“Rhys?”

“Yes?”

A pause.

“My head’s clear now,” I said.

Rhysand's head slowly leaned forward, stopping inches from my face, giving me time to take a step back if I wanted to back out. I didn’t. I wanted—needed, to know what his lips felt like on mine. If they were truly as soft as they looked. His fingers titled my chin up and kissed me. Gods, his kiss was more than soft, it was life-changing. His lips were gentle against mine, so sweet and delicately slow like he’d been waiting an eternity for this moment and now that he had it, now that the moment had arrived he wanted to savor it. If I’d been floating earlier when I danced with him beneath the rain, then I was soaring above the clouds and beyond the moon now. 

His hands cupped my face as mine slid into his hair, pulling him closer by the neck. Neither one of us parted to take a breath. I could tell this wasn’t just any kiss, this was the kiss. The one that would change our lives—my life—forever. The kiss I’d compare any other to. I could feel his chest against mine as our legs brushed against each other. Rhysand's hands slowly slid down my shoulders and arms and made their way down and around my waist. We pulled each other closer, our bodies seeking contact where they could as we continued wrapping ourselves against each other. We were two colliding stars, bursting with sparks and ever-changing hues.

After what felt like forever, I pulled back slightly, eyes closed. Blood had rushed into my cheeks, and there was no doubt that the heat against my flushed face had painted them rosy. I could feel his head leaning against mine, both of us breathless. Mother above, I truly was oblivious to everything. That definitely wasn’t a friend kiss. That was an I-want-to-be-more-than-friends kiss. 

Rhysand’s hand came up against my face tucking strands of semi-wet hair behind my ear. It felt like he was looking at me for the first time or trying to memorize every freckle on my face. A beat passed and he broke the silence. “I think I’m falling in love with you. I think I have been for a while.”

My heart skipped at those words—at his confession. My mouth gaped. There were no words. I wasn’t sure what to say. All I could focus on was the rising and beating in my chest as I focused on taking the next breath. Had this really just happened? Had we truly just kissed? Did he just say that he—

“I’m hoping you didn’t just kiss me to then break my heart, Feyre, darling.” He cupped my face as he spoke the last two words. 

“I never knew you liked me,” I said, stumbling on the words. 

“Now you do. And correction, I said I love you.” The corners of Rhysand’s mouth turned up. I couldn’t help the way my eyes widened in disbelief. He’d said the words again. 

“You love me?”

Rhys chuckled as he shook his head. He lifted my head with a hand beneath my chin as if inspecting me. “Did you hit yourself with the dryer door? Do I need to kiss you again? Or maybe hold your hand as we walk through a storm? Or dance in the rain while quoting your favorite movie?” 

He loved me. He loved me, and he not only meant it with the words he’d spoken, but Rhys had demonstrated and proved time and time again that he truly meant it, body and soul. A man who could talk the talk and walk the walk. Dare I say, he was a man after my own heart. 

“If you let me, I promise I’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt how worthy of love you are,” said Rhys. The back of his hand caressed my cheek.

“I’ll do anything with you, Rhys. As long as it’s you,” I said. 

His lips met mine again, this time with more passion and intensity. Wrapping my hands around his neck once more, I felt the towel slide off his shoulders and plop to the ground. Rhys's hands traveled around my hips, to the back of my thighs before he lifted me into his arms. Instinctually, I wrapped my legs around him and deepened our kiss. I wanted him closer. I wanted his body against mine without the barriers of our wet clothes. 

As if he’d read my thoughts, I could feel us moving down the hallway to my room. Every kiss turned deeper than the last and I knew I couldn’t deny myself the truth. I was completely and utterly in love with him. And I was a fool for not noticing before that maybe I had loved him longer than my body knew. Longer than I truly knew. He was my safe space, my person, my best friend. He was everything I could want in a man. He was everything. Rhys was everything.

Gently laying me against my bed, he pulled back slightly to look down at me. His eyes were like lilac-blue stars glistening against the moonlight as he marveled at me. It was almost like he couldn’t believe that this was real. I placed my hand on his cheek, rubbing my thumb. His lips smiled against my warm touch.

“I can’t stop smiling when I look at you,” said Rhys.

He gazed at me like a painter setting eyes on their muse. Like he’d been seeking inspiration his entire life and now he’d found it. Rhys shook his head in disbelief. “How did this happen?” 

The question wasn’t for me to answer, it was rhetorical. He was speaking his thoughts aloud as if waiting for a cosmic answer to shine through the window. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Feyre. 

“When I wake up, when I’m about to fall asleep, even in my dreams I can never stop thinking of you. When you’re not with me, it feels like something is missing. And, gosh, I hate poetry, but when I think of you…I can’t help but imagine that this is what the greats write about. This feeling. It’s like poets are reciting their writings in my head.”

I could feel the corners of my eyes becoming damp. I could spend the rest of this night in his arms simply admiring him. His honest eyes were full of more unspoken words of love. I could feel the wetness of my clothes seeping into the blanket below but I didn’t care. I thumbed his lips, his Apollo’s arched bow, memorizing this moment. I could feel my shaky voice escaping me as I spoke.

“All these years, I thought we were just friends, and I was okay with that…but now I realize that maybe I’ve felt like this for a while about you. That I’ve loved you without knowing that this is what it was.”

“You love me?” A smile spread across his lips.

“Did you hit yourself with the door coming in? Or do I need to kiss you again?” I mimicked his earlier question. 

He gently rubbed his nose against mine, his lips inches from my own.

“Kiss me again,” he whispered.

I moaned against his lips this time. I wanted him to hold me, to touch me, to kiss me, to say my name. I wanted everything and more. We tugged against wet clothes, which were much harder to take off thanks to their added weight. They stuck to our bodies and made it difficult to slide out of them. But we didn’t care. We kissed and laughed our way out of the heavy wet clothing until we were skin to skin. Until we were finally warm in each other's embrace. And for the first time in a while, I prayed.

Rhys.

I prayed the rest of the night as his body melded against mine, pulling prayer after prayer from my lips. His name, the only one I wanted to whisper against the moonlight shining through my window. It was only our names echoing from the other’s lips against soft I love yous with every touch and shift against hips. We were dancing like stars in the night sky, and holding on to each other as if we’d collided into one. Our whispers and sighs grew more uneven. He was my gravity, my center, and I was his. With Rhys’s eyes on mine and a final waltz around the universe, I felt my world burst like a nuclear fission. Like a star reaching its last evolutionary stage. 

Rhys kissed me again, softer this time, and wrapped me in his arms as we lay beneath the comfort of warm blankets, tangled in each other. Pulling me against his chest, he whispered. "Did you know that rainy day cuddles are two times more effective than sunny day cuddles?"

“Don’t you have to tell Cas to lock the door for you,” I said. 

“That can wait,” said Rhys, kissing the top of my head.

[hyacinthoideshispanica]

Ok, I have a very serious question for all the acotar fans out there. Does Rhys sound like Ben Barnes, or does he sound like Tom Hiddleston?

[marvelomadness06]

Headcannon that Rhysand’s little sister was Azriels mate, but the mate bond never snapped for him and she never told him as she bore witness to the beginnings of his infatuation with Mor

He did get destined a sister. Just not… the one he seems to think he should.

[mischiefmanagers]

Rhysand Fic Rec Library 🦇💜

"Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord. Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord."

here's a list of one hundred Rhysand x Reader and Rhysand x OC fics to celebrate the most handsome High Lord ✨

🌼 personal favorite 🥀 angst 💞 fluff 🔥 smut

by @sarawritestories

The Most Beautiful High Lady 🥀💞

You Looked Like You Could Use a Partner 💞

by @lalacliffthorne

starshine (series) 🥀💞

by @marvelsmylife

Not As It Seems 🥀💞

Protecting his high lady 🥀💞

I think I wanna marry you 💞

by @swansworth

The Handsome Stranger 🥀💞

My High Lady 🔥

by @writingsbychlo

how we survive 🥀 platonic Rhysand x Reader but it's AMAZING

Home To Us 💞🌼

How to Save a Life 💞

by @azrielsdove

The High Lords 🥀🔥

Til Death Do Us Part 🥀🔥

Money, Power, Glory 🥀

Beautiful Girl 🥀💞

by @historiaxvanserra

What Our Souls Are Made Of 🥀💞

by @honeybeefae

Pretty Little Tears 🔥

by @wishfulwithwine

The Great War 🥀

by @leafsandstarlight

Against Your Brother's Wishes 🥀💞

Easy Like Sunday Morning 💞🔥

Welcome Distraction 🔥

Little Reminders 💞

by @cherhys

Anything, Always 🥀💞

Colliding Visions 💞

by @k-daydreams

Touch in the Dark 🥀

by @azsazz

Dioxazine 💞

Lavender Haze

Hung Up 🔥

by @jeannineee

Pining 🥀

Daddy Kink 🔥

by @ughthatimagineblog

love and loathing 💞🔥

forever and a day 💞

by @fieldofdaisiies

I Never Mean to Hurt You 🥀

by @daydreaming-nerd

The Bonds That Break Us 💞🥀🔥

by @hellcat8908

Returning Home 🥀💞

by @thehighladywrites

This Isn't Goodbye, This Is Simply See You Later 💞🥀🔥

Just One More, I Know You Can Do It 💞🔥

by @lure-of-writing

Where my soul can rest 🥀

by @saphirered

The Ice Queen and the High Lord 🔥

May We Meet Again

by @bookish-whore

'Til Death 💞

Never Made A Difference 🥀

by @tadpolesonalgae

mine 🔥

Knocked up 🔥

by @itsphoenix0724

Promises 🥀

by @fanttasttica

I hate you more.. 🥀

Shy priestess 💞

Finding you 🔥

Your love healed me 🥀💞

Just love me 🥀

One plus one makes three 💞

by @illyrian-dreamer

Dance with the devil

Make a bargain with me 💞🥀

by @azrielbrainrot

My Body Keeps Saying it's Yours 🔥

by @b00kdiary

Dreamer

by @solbaby7

Lose Control 💞

Put On A Show 🔥

Testing the Waters 💞🔥🌼

by @luxsky

Kicking out 💞

by @themusingsofacurlyhairednerd

Warm Me Up 💞🔥

Datura

by @starstruckunknown-princess

Black Rose 🥀

by @acourtofwhatthefuck

Needs Must 🔥

With Me, Always 🥀💞

Shrinking Violet 🔥

Forget Me Not 💞

by @lanitalay

At sea 💞🥀

by @redheadspark

Truth 💞🥀

Carry 💞🥀

My Pleasure 💞

Title 💞

by @azrielslightintheshadows

Game night disaster 🥀

Between you and danger 🥀

by @danikamariewrites

Take Them All Down 🥀🌼

Only For You 💞

Pointless Meetings 💞

Pranks 💞

by @bloodycassian

winter court runaway

by @thevanserrras

The Stolen Night 🥀💞

by @thelov3lybookworm

Winter Without You 🥀

Love Needs No Voice

by @prythianpages

Wanna Be Yours 💞

by @milswrites

Out of the Mountain 🥀

by @readychilledwine

Requiem for a Dream (series) 🥀💞

Broken 🥀

Flight Patterns 🥀💞🌼

Subtle 💞

Scream 🔥

Plot Measure 🥀

Drumming Song 🔥

Family Matters 🔥

Pieces of You 🥀🌼

by @clairebear08

Questioning Motives 🔥

by @serpentandlily

Falling Apart for You 🥀

by @shadowdaddies

Heavy is the Head 🥀💞🔥

Crawl to Me 🥀🔥

by @throneofsapphics

if you insist 💞

surprise reunions 🔥

by @azriels-shadowsinger

Reunited 💞🥀

by batboylover

secretly mated 🥀💞

[rainingriversofyou]

“When you spend so long trapped in darkness, Lucien, you find that the darkness begins to stare back.”

- A Court Of Mist And Fury

Artist: l.moon_art

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Bonus Part — Fin x Reader.

Summary: A reimagining of how things would have gone if Reader had decided she wanted Fin — despite him being her friend’s father.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Heavy on the smut. 18+, minors dni. Some jealous and possessiveness. Mentions of forbidden relationships/affairs. If the choices Reader makes in this are something you’re against, I urge you not to read! 🫶🏻

Rita’s is like no other place you’ve been — or seen — before.

Is this what you’ve missed out on, trapped within the frozen maw of Windhaven? There is no place like this there, of such vibrancy and euphoria. The music, the coloured faelights, the energy — it all makes you feel…on top of the world.

Like there’s life outside the misery you’ve known.

Mor knocks a shot back, grimacing as she slams the empty glass onto the bar. A sudden burst of giggles leaves her as she says, “My father would have my head if he could see me right now. Literally.”

You don’t doubt that for a second, because Mor looks resplendent, not just in her natural beauty, but her joy. She has danced and drank and kissed and danced some more. And seeing her like this…it makes you glad that she convinced you to come out with her tonight.

“My father would have my head, too,” you tell her over the music. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

At that, she rolls her eyes, and she reaches for two more shots. “Here’s to saying fuck the males,” she knocks her glass against yours. “May they all perish.”

You’ll happily drink to that. With the alcohol that has you in its grip, you’re buzzed on thoughts of storming back to Windhaven and confronting all your demons. Confronting anyone and everyone who has ever hurt you and made you feel less than you are. Your father. Lord Devlon. Azriel—

You banish that thought as the liquid slides down your throat with a satisfying burn. You are in Velaris, not Windhaven. A new place with new people, where anything feels possible. The thought is heady and dizzying.

Someone calls Mor’s name, and she glances over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes lighting up again. You truly don’t know how often she’s able to escape the Hewn City and get away to Velaris, but judging by the amount of friends she’s introduced you to tonight, she’s certainly made her mark here.

“Let’s go dance with them!” Mor yells over the music, grabbing your hand.

You think that dancing might be the answer to everything you’ve never known, and so you gladly follow; gladly throw yourself into the thrall of the busy floor.

But that’s when you see him.

Something…some deep power…compels you to look up. Coaxes your eyes to that area a level above, where the city’s VIP guests spend copious amounts of money on copious amounts of alcohol and drink it from their cushy velvet booths. They’re reserved for associates of the High Lord, a not-so-formal place to meet to discuss not-so-casual things.

But none of that matters. There could be an entire circus up there right now, and still all you would notice is — him.

He notices you, too.

The High Lord’s eyes zero in on you from up above. You watch, rooted to the spot, as he takes in the sight of you, from your braided back hair, to your painted face, your dress and the legs exposed by them. He looks like…like he’s finally setting his sights upon an image that was merely fantasy up until now.

He braces his arms on the balustrade. And he just stares.

You want to know what he’s doing here. Whether he’s at Rita’s for business or…or for pleasure. You’ve heard that there are rooms upstairs for people willing to pay the price. Perhaps there’s a lover up there with him somewhere, waiting to explore every last inch of that glorious, sculpted body—

The bleating jealousy that makes your heart twist is…unexpected. And not ideal; not one bit.

He is Rhysand’s father. Things may have been fucked up royally with Azriel, and you may have been burned by the experience — but Fin is Rhysand’s father.

Your friend’s father.

Your friend’s father who has just so happened to help keep you feeling alive these past weeks. With his layers-deep allure, the sweet, sweet words that roll off his tongue. His hospitality, his generosity. His kindness. All of it, you’d attributed to him being a natural charmer, a High Lord who knows precisely what to say, what to do.

It strikes you in that moment — just how much it’s all sunk its way into your bones and made you feel…dangerous.

He watches you like a cat with a mouse. Watches as somebody grabs your hand and yanks you into the tightly knit dancing bodies. The music pulses through you from head to toe, a frenzied tune of strings and keys that somehow come together to create the feeling of being borne aloft. Being on top of the world.

As you become lost to the sensation of dance, you’re glad to forget all your thoughts about Fin. You don’t want to wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t want to imagine what those strong, rough hands might get up to, where they might venture.

You become sandwiched between two males who dance with you in a way that makes you forget your wings were ever stolen. They touch you and touch each other, and you welcome it all, happy to be someone, somewhere, else. At least for a while.

But there’s suddenly a foreign touch to your shoulder. That of a cold, meaty hand that stills your movements and draws your attention. The two males happily slink away and begin grinding on each other, and you spin on the spot to find a tall, stocky male who looks like he punches people in the face for the hell of it.

“Y/N?” He checks, and you nod. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you. Upstairs.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes searching for Mor and finding her just as she’s following a male and female to a cloaked-off area at the back. That’ll be her occupied for the remainder of the night. You’re officially going solo.

But not for long. Not as the bouncer juts his chin in the direction of the staircase and begins to lead you there. Perhaps it makes you a fool, but you follow without a word.

He pulls back a rope and gestures for you to go on up, and then he’s refastening it behind you and turning back to train a keen eye on the dance floor. It’s purely the alcohol that hits you with enough of an ego to climb those stairs like you belong amongst the chandeliers and velvet booths.

But you look good — amazing, even. You know you do. And looking like this, things like scars and other insecurities seem so trivial. You’ve taken back the right to feel as beautiful as you are. You wear your Illyrian features proudly, and you’re pretty and lithe and graceful—

And your heel catches on the top step of the staircase, almost sending you sprawling to the floor — if not for the warm hand that catches your elbow.

“Easy.” Fin rasps into your ear, setting you steady on your feet.

Your numbed, inebriated senses are not immune to the effect of his voice, it would seem. The deep baritone, rough as jagged rock, pushes its way into your skin, your veins, and spreads far faster than any alcohol could.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” you answer, and you’re unable to shove down the hysterical giggle that claws up your throat. “Fuck, you’re the High Lord.”

He cocks a dark eyebrow. “And you are drunk.”

“The whiskey they serve here is immense.”

“I’ll be sure to extend your compliments to Rita herself.”

Is that, you wonder, who he’s up here meeting? Perhaps the elusive Rita is a close associate of his. Perhaps they do deals in both business and pleasure.

And taking in your fill of the High Lord right now, in a dark button-up shirt and fitted breeches of a slate grey, you would not blame Rita one little bit.

Gods, he’s exquisite. Rhysand may resemble Roza more than he does Fin, but…with two parents of such stunning beauty, it’s no wonder your friend is as handsome as he is.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you make no secret of the way your eyes linger on him. Tonight is dangerous, and you’re enjoying it.

“Nor I, you,” he narrows his gaze down at you. “Imagine my surprise, considering that when I left the palace earlier this evening, you were curled up in the library with a book. And yet, here you are. Wearing…” mahogany eyes take in the short cut of your dress, “…that.”

“Mor surprised me with a visit.”

“My niece ought to be more careful not to press her father’s buttons too much,” a muscle in his chiselled jaw ticks. “And I think you ought to be more careful not to push mine.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Bold. So foolishly bold of you. You’ll regret it once sober, you’re sure. “Was there a particular reason you summoned me up here, my Lord? I was rather enjoying dancing.”

“I noticed. And I’m taking you home.”

“What—”

Before you can even finish the word, Fin’s gripping your elbow again, and darkness sweeps you away.

Being winnowed while drunk is not a fun experience.

You feel the cosmic, air-light step from one place to another. Your stomach lurches, your head spinning. You can barely get a hold of yourself as you cling to Fin and prepare your feet to touch solid ground.

And then the darkness is gone, and you’re back in the toasty, warm glow of the palace’s library. Your knees buckle, trying to drag you to the floor, but Fin keeps you upright.

“What the…” you gawp up at him. “Why did you bring me home?”

He ensures you’re able to stand on your feet before pushing away from you. Doesn’t even look at you as he commands, “Get to bed.”

“I was enjoying myself.”

“Just as those males were enjoying you, too. You’re drunk and you need to sleep it off. Get to bed.”

He strides towards the door, his knuckles white from how hard he grips the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. But sword or no, you refuse to give up so easily.

“No,” you say simply. “I will not.”

Fin stops. Goes still. And then he turns back to you.

His temper is clear on his face, but he doesn’t storm back over like you’re half expecting him to. Instead, his eyes shutter, and he seems to take a deep, soothing breath. When he’s looking at you once more, he flicks his wrist in your direction.

And immediately, gone is the haze of the alcohol.

Immediately, you’re completely lucid, completely steady on your feet. Not a lick of inebriation remains, as if you had, indeed, slept it off.

“Did you just sober me up?” you’re outraged by the mere idea.

“Yes.” Fin admits shamelessly. “Now you won’t fall victim to a hangover in the morning — a favour from me, to you, and I ask you in return to get to bed. And don’t even think about trying to venture back out. I’ll know.”

Your blood boils. And the anger isn’t simply because of your ruined fun, but because…because it stings, the way Fin is treating you with such contempt. Scolding you like you’re little more than a petulant child. He’s been nothing but wonderful since you came to Velaris, and yet now, he speaks to you like…like most of the males back in Windhaven do.

It makes you see red.

“What right have you to dictate how I spend my evening?” you snap. “I was under the impression that my free time is my own, and if I wish to go and get drunk and dance like a fool, that is up to me.”

Cold, beautiful anger hardens Fin’s face. He stalks closer, squeezing the hilt of that sword so, so tightly. “What right have I? This is my home. My city. My court. I am your High Lord, and you choose to behave in such a way when I’ve opened my home to you and offered you refuge? When I’ve given you a place to run to and left my resources at your disposal?”

You rock back on the heels of your feet, staring at him. Every word lands a hit — as good as if he’d nocked them in a bow and fired them right at your heart. It stings. Gods, it stings. You want the careless oblivion of the alcohol back.

Because you grapple daily with the pain, the anxiety, of feeling unwanted. And you…you had begun to think that Fin actually cared for you. Actually enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.

You’d begun to care about his thoughts and feelings where you were concerned. And begun to believe that it wasn’t just the hospitality and courtesy that he would dole out to any runt on the street.

His eyes seem to track the way your expression changes, your shoulders slump. You swallow. The anger is replaced, simply, by hurt.

“If I am a burden, my Lord, I apologise,” you rasp. “I don’t intend to be one. I appreciate your generosity, and I…I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”

You hope you can keep your tears at bay long enough to escape to your room. You’re pelted with shame, embarrassment, hurt. You step forward and hurry past the High Lord, desperate to book it out of there, to get to bed.

But his hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to a stop. And he says, quietly, “wait.”

That hand on your wrist holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

You pin your gaze to the ground, unable to look at Fin. You hear him swallow.

“That isn’t—” his voice is gravelly. “I didn’t mean that.”

You don’t think you can speak. You remain a statue beneath his touch.

But so gently — such a contrast to the whirlwind of his actions before — he’s walking you backwards. Slow and careful. You feel your back hit the wall, and he lets go of your wrist and seems to curl his fists at his sides. There’s a desperation to the action that only then coaxes you to look up at him.

His expression is…pleading. For what, you’re not sure.

“You are the furthest thing from a burden,” he says, quietly, on an exhale. “Your presence here is very much welcomed, I assure you.”

You don’t dare breathe a word. Every last bit of your very sober courage is being thrown into maintaining eye contact. There’s none to spare for speaking.

But your lack of response seems to trouble Fin. His eyes rake over your face, searching for something. He swallows again.

And then his eyes shutter, and he whispers, “Mother above, what are you doing to me?”

You don’t know how to answer him — whether he’s even talking to you at all. He takes in a very slow, very deep breath, as though it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from…doing something. What, you’re not sure.

But you can feel it, sense it — the ferocity with which he’s swallowing down words and holding himself back. Like he wants so badly to say something, but can’t.

His eyes open, clearer than they were seconds before, and he says in a far gentler tone, “Get to bed, Y/N,” he inclines his head. “Sleep well.”

With tense, squared shoulders, he turns — and it’s you, this time, that stops him. You halt him with a hand on his arm, and you could swear you feel the muscles flex under his touch.

“Wait,” you say, not ready to let him go, not prepared to leave things between you like this. “Stay and talk with me for a while.”

His jaw clenches like he’s gritting his teeth. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Why? We talk all the time, you and I. And there are clearly things you’re holding back from saying—”

Your words are cut short as he suddenly meets your gaze with the intensity of a blazing fire. You think it might burn you. You hope it will.

“It’s a bad idea,” he grounds out, gutturally, “not because of what I want to say. But because of what I want to do.”

“What—”

“You are my son’s close friend. You are Roza’s guest,” he tugs his arm out from under your hand. “You are far younger than I am. I am trying my hardest — I have been trying my hardest — to be a good male. And right now, a good male would take his leave and go to bed, so I bid you goodnight, Y/N.”

“Fin—”

“I hope you sleep well.”

“Fin,” you grab for him again. “What if I don’t want you to be a good male?”

Beneath your touch, he stops. Goes preternaturally still.

Words punch out of you with terrifying gall — and truth. “What if I want you to do those things—”

Quick as a flash, he’s pivoting, and he has the upper hand. Has you pressed so tightly up against the wall, his body boxing you in.

And gods, the feel of it might set you on fire. A brush of your hands, a kiss on the backs of your fingers — they’re nothing compared to the weight and press of his muscles against your body. You want your clothes to melt away, and his, too. You want your hands on his bare, hot skin.

“I don’t think you realise what you’re saying,” he growls.

“I do,” you breathe. “I am completely sober. Completely clear of mind. And I am telling you, Fin, I want you—”

A strangled noise is the only warning you get before the High Lord’s mouth is on yours.

The kiss is pure power. It passes from him, into you, roils through your veins and makes you feel like somebody remarkable. It’s the cloak of darkness and the kiss of sin. Of somebody capable of very, very bad things.

And it’s immediately addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get enough.

You claw at his shirt, tugging him closer, closer, and his broad hands cup your face as his mouth devours yours.

This kiss…it’s been building. The need for it has been working its way beneath your skin for a while. All the heated glances, the late-night conversations. All the thoughts, in the dead of night, of what Fin might be doing in his own bed. Wondering whether he was thinking of you.

It’s so, so forbidden. So wrong. But it feels so godsdamn right.

And the way Fin’s tongue slides between your lips and strokes into your mouth — it tells you that he feels it, too.

Your hands glide from his waist, round to his back, and you yank him harder against you. So desperate are you to feel him. Feel what you think you do to him.

He makes another low noise. And then he’s tearing his mouth from yours. But he lingers close, your foreheads touching.

“Better than I’ve been imagining,” he pants, his hands still clutching your face. “Much better.”

“You’ve imagined kissing me?” You know he has.

“I have imagined,” his thumbs sweep your cheeks, “doing all sorts of things with you, Y/N. Things that would make even the most salacious of a person blush.”

Such a relief — to know that it’s not all just some wild fantasy you’ve cooked up in your mind. That you’re not just some wayward, longing young female who craves the affections of an older male to patch her deep wounds.

No, it’s not that. It’s desire. It’s need. And it burns inside your veins until you think you might erupt into flames.

“I’ve imagined them, too,” you say, without a lick of shame.

Once again, his eyes are shuttering. Once again, he takes that slow, steadying breath. And as you watch him do so, you can’t bear the thought of him still grappling with right and wrong. You can’t bear the thought of him squaring his shoulders and walking out of here, leaving your lips bruised, your body aching, your heart hurting. You can’t bear it—

“I want you to do those things,” you lift your chin, gaze unflinching. “I want you to touch me.”

Fin’s eyes reopen.

He stares at you.

His throat bobs.

You have never seen somebody look so wild, so ravenous. There is heat everywhere, in his stare and in his taut body. His eyes flick down to your lips.

That mere glance at them is the deciding factor, it would seem.

He growls, the sound not at all one you’ve ever heard from a person, and he yanks you up into his arms and kisses you again.

So naturally, your arms twine around his neck, your legs locking around his waist. You can feel the strength of him against you, in the way he holds you. You can taste his crackling power.

He doesn’t falter in the kiss nor his steps as he carries you away from the wall, and you’re suddenly being placed down on the library’s desk, sending books and parchment and pens and ink pots flying. They all clatter loudly to the floor, and neither of you care.

But Fin does pull away to look at you, and there’s wicked, boyish charm in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch up. He merely says, “Oops.”

You surge up and kiss him again.

He sighs into it, like your mouth is the answer to all his questions. And when heated hands land on your thighs, you part them, allow him to slot his body in between. The mere feel of it has you pushing up against him, finding him hard—

But again, he pulls away. He scans your face and rasps, “Tell me you’re sure.”

You do not balk from his intensity. From the fact that this is the fucking High Lord of your court, who was changing this world and building a reputation long before you were a mere thought in your parents’ minds. You do not balk from the fact that there are a million different reasons that this is wrong.

You think only about the fact that it feels right.

And that translates into your voice as you say, firmly, “I’m sure.”

You think you see the words course through his body. They change something — forever.

“This isn’t about Roza,” he breathes — breathes heavily, like it’s taking everything to tamp down on the desire to devour you then and there. To say what needs to be said.

You shake your head, “No.”

“Nor is it about Rhysand.”

“No.”

“It’s about me and you.” He destroys what little gap exists between your bodies, his hardness pushing through his breeches, right up against your centre. His hands brace on the desk, either side of you. “And gods, I want you, Y/N. I want you so much, I can scarcely bear it.”

“Have me,” is all you manage — before he strikes.

You think, hope, that his mouth might find yours again — but he’s barely brushing it before his lips settle on your jaw. His hands travel up your legs, fingers biting into the flesh. They find your hips, thumbs delivering explorative sweeps. They tug your dress up as they climb, exposing more of you to the warmth of the room. Exposing more skin that you know he wants to lay claim to.

And when the hem of your dress is ruched around your waist, you smile — at your little wildcard exposed. That he finds no underwear hiding what sits between your legs.

Your choice to forgo a pair seems almost foretelling, now — like some part of you knew the night would end like this, and you wanted to be ready.

Fin’s eyes dip to your slick, exposed cunt. The hunger in them is almost intimidating. You open your legs just a little wider—

But his rough hand is gripping your chin, almost hard enough to hurt. And he snarls deeply, “It drove me to madness — seeing those two males dancing with you. Touching you.”

Pleasure bolts down your spine, and from the way his nostrils flare, you know the scent of your arousal is consuming him.

“Did it?” you stare back at him, welcoming the discomfort of his brutal grip.

“I wanted them dead. I wanted to draw my sword and gut them for even looking your way. For touching what I want to be mine.”

That pleasure again — skittering over your skin. His words do something to you. You bite down on a moan.

“It is yours,” you tilt your chin up to him, smiling when he immediately glances to your lips. “Take it.”

“I warn you,” he lowers his face to yours, “I don’t like to share.”

“And I warn you, High Lord,” you watch as your words land, drawing a deep, raw scent from him. “Neither do I.”

With a growl, he snaps. The kiss he gives you is not slow or sweet. His hand continues to grip your face, and his mouth attacks yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. You can’t help your moan, this time, as his taste overpowers you — a taste that you can only describe as pure thunder.

But it ends too soon, as he begins to leave a trail of heated kisses and bites and sucks along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbones. Your head falls back, and the touches are like little zips of lightning — lightning cleaving through the night sky.

“Pretty dress,” he hums against your skin — and that’s all the warning you get before that dress is ripped apart. Torn to ribbons.

No part of you is left to Fin’s imagination.

He tears his mouth from you and steps back to drink you in.

Instinct roars at you to curl in on yourself and hide. To remember that you are scarred, and flawed, and not to the liking of many — including yourself, a lot of the time.

But something about Fin’s weighty, scorching stare stops you from moving a muscle.

You lift your chin and hide nothing as he takes his fill. His eyes travel a journey from the top of your head and down — down your face, your neck, your breasts. Down your stomach, your waist, your hips. Down to that fine dusting of hair on your pelvis that tracks a thin path to—

Fin drops to his knees with a low noise. His hands wrap around your legs and prise them further apart.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he levels his face with the very centre of you, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight.

The sight of the High Lord on his knees before you — on his knees for you.

As though he senses the direction of your thoughts, his eyes flick up, and he smiles.

And then he dives in.

His tongue wastes no time in sinking between your folds, licking a broad stripe right up the centre of you. At the first stroke, your head falls back, your arms wobbling where they’re braced on the desk.

“Look at me,” Fin growls. “Only me.”

His voice of pure High Lord power drags your eyes back to him. And thank the fucking Mother it does.

You see everything in the way he feasts on you. His tongue laps at your wetness, and it coats his lips, his chin, coats him in you. The damp heat of his tongue is liquid fire. It promises to scorch you, end you, and rise you anew like a phoenix from the ashes.

Your fingers sink into the strands of Fin’s hair and tug. Judging by the noise he makes, the way his pace picks up, you think he likes it.

He utterly fucking devours you, like he’s fought a centuries-long wait to do so. And whatever magic commands his mouth — you know you cannot possibly last against it.

“Oh, gods,” your moan breaks from you, hips bucking up. You think your voice might be loud, but you don’t care. “Fuck—Fin.”

It all happens at once — his name falling from your lips, the growl rumbling in his throat, the flicking of his tongue against your clit and the finger he plunges into you, curls inside you. Every part of it is lightning strikes to your veins, and you come apart, utterly break.

Your climax slams into you and steals your breath. You’re nothing but a gasping, panting, trembling shell. Your mind is somewhere else entirely.

With your head falling back, eyes pinned to the ceiling, chest heaving, you don’t catch the swiftness with which Fin stands, licking your wetness from his lips. With which his clothes are gone in a blink of an eye.

But then he commands, “Look at me.”

It’s the second time he’s said it. Your head lolls forward once more.

You swallow the breaths you’re still trying to get down. Try to stop your body fucking shaking.

But it’s no wonder it does, as you look at him.

Your High Lord is nothing short of exquisite. He is art. Your fantasies have done him no justice.

That golden skin of his seems to attract the glowing light of the room. It bathes him, but it does not steal the attention. It outlines every fine plane of his body, the sculpted muscles on show, the nicks of injuries that have scarred and silvered over time.

There is not a single part of him that isn’t pure, refined power. And when your gaze drops to below his waist…a shudder wracks through you.

His cock stands hard and leaking at the head. You watch, your mouth watering, as he wraps a hand around its length and gives a long stroke.

“Fin—”

“When you look at me like that,” he prowls closer, “there is no way I can consider this forbidden.”

He’s within reach. Your fingers inch towards him. You want to touch him, taste him—

But he curls a hand around yours and stops you in your tracks.

“Not tonight,” he says. Pure promise is laced within the words. “No playing tonight.”

As if he hadn’t just played with you. You want to protest, to get your fucking mouth around that considerable length, but his hand tightens around yours.

And then he’s flipping you over, so fast that you don’t have time to even register it. You land on your front, your belly and breasts pressed against the desk. Fin lays his palm against your back and drags it slowly down. And in the wake of his touch, he leaves kisses. Kisses to your shoulder, your back. They’re…soft. Tender.

“Have I disappointed you?” he murmurs against your shoulder, folding his body over yours. You don’t think it’s an accident that the head of his cock nudges that sweet area between your legs.

It’s all you can do to breathe, “I wanted to taste you.”

“And you will,” he drops the brush of a kiss to your skin. “But now is not time for that.”

You don’t need him to tell you what now is the time for. Not as his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he yanks you to the very edge of the desk, moving with you. The feel of him so close to where you want him is downright cruel.

“Have you thought about me fucking you?” he asks, those hands travelling to rove your ass.

Your nails bite into the desk as you answer, “Yes.”

“Did I make you scream?”

You bite down on your lip at the feeling of him spreading you apart, opening you up to him. “Yes.”

You feel it — his cock sliding between your folds. Not pushing in, but dragging torturously against your sex. From your entrance, up to your clit. The head of his cock pushes against it.

And the moan that rips from you is downright filth, as he rolls his hips and allows your wetness to slicken his length. It feels so fucking good. To you, and to him.

A breath shudders out of him, and he purrs, “Are you going to scream for me now?”

“Fuck yes,” the words tumble from your lips. “I want you, Fin.”

Just like that, his restraint snaps. The High Lord strikes.

He drags his length through your folds and enters you with a single, powerful thrust.

A shout leaves you, and you’re clawing at the desk, trying to keep your grip against the pleasure that courses through you. Fin fills you and stretches you. He pulls out and slams back in to the hilt.

“Fuck me, you’re tight,” he growls, his hands sinking back into your hips. He begins a steady thrusting, sliding in and out of you with a drag that makes you feel every glorious inch of him. “Gods.”

“So good,” you pant. “Want you harder.”

The plea seems to make him groan, and he wastes no time in picking up the pace. His hands bite into your skin as he fucks you faster, harder, your moans and pleas and curses falling from your lips without any nudging from you. The pleasure is all-consuming. In seconds, it’s buried within your veins.

“You like that?” The grit in his voice has you clenching around him. He’s so fucking filthy, so fucking sultry, as he snarls, “you going to be a good girl and come for me?”

Gods, yes, you are. Already, release is coiling tightly within you, and it’s a force entirely of its own right, inching closer and cresting the hill, ready to sink its claws into you. Fin’s cock hits deep, and out of nowhere, his palm is flying through the air and making contact with your ass cheek. That is all it takes.

The pleasure of it all is too much — the sting of the slap, the depth and thrall of his thrusts, the way he growls and grunts as he lays claim to your body, your pleasure.

You cry out, your orgasm blasting through you with unstoppable force. The long strokes of Fin’s cock fuck you through it, through earth-shattering pleasure, through what feels like a mind-altering experience.

“My filthy girl,” he pulls out of you suddenly, and though your cunt still clenches and twitches, desperate for more, more, more, he flips your trembling body onto its back once more and tugs you up, slipping back between your legs. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how relentlessly I’ve thought about making you scream for me like that.”

Past words, you can only reach up and pull his head down to yours to capture him in a kiss. Your taste still coats the tongue that he slides between your lips. It spurs you on to deepen it, luxuriate in the feel of it. And you become so lost in it that you tug hard at the strands of his hair when he enters you again in one great, sweeping thrust.

His arm folds around your back, hand grasping at your shoulder, and it seems to afford him perfect purchase to pound into you. Sounds fill the air of his skin slapping against yours, of the breaths and moans you huff into each other’s mouths. You think the two of you, together, might be loud enough, forceful enough, to bring the City of Starlight to rubble around you.

Fin’s lips tear away from yours, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are growing quicker, sloppier, reaching a feverous pinnacle that will surely break.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me come, Y/N,” his sweat-slick brow presses against your neck. “Taking me so well like this. Squeezing me like this. You’re going to make me fucking blow.”

You want that — more than anything. To feel the power of him spilling into you.

You squeeze your thighs against his, dragging your free hand — the one not sunken in his hair — down the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his waist — to his ass, where you dig your nails into the tight, toned flesh and encourage him to pump into you harder, faster. The feel of it makes Fin shout.

“Come for me,” you choke around your pleasure. “Please, Fin…want you to come.”

An animalistic growl rips from him, and he slams into you one, two, three more times, and then stills, throwing his head back with a roar that shakes the library. Hot, thick ropes of his seed seem endless as they’re unleashed inside you.

The force of it shatters you both, you think. With his trembling as thorough as yours, your nails are still raking over his skin as his brow presses to the crook of your neck. Strands of hair stick to the back of his. Your fingertips smooth over them tenderly.

It feels like eons that you stay there like that, holding each other up from collapsing under the weight of your mutual release. You want to hold him like this, always. You don’t care what others may have to say about it, what they may deem to be wrong about it. You want him.

He pulls back, as though sensing the thought. Meets your eyes. For a beat or two, he simply studies your face, something like clarity on his own.

And then he dips down and drops a kiss to your brow. Such a tender act, in the wake of such passion.

 No words are needed. Not as he scoops you up into his arms, leaving behind the mess the two of you have created. There’s a flash, and he’s winnowed you to your bedroom. A fire roars to life immediately. Fin places you down on the bed.

You watch through hooded eyes as he makes his way into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth, and he perches beside you.

“Open your legs for me,” he whispers, and you do.

The High Lord of the Night Court is gentle as air as he takes care of you, wiping between your thighs and delivering soft, soothing strokes to your skin. A pleasant soreness sits in your lower belly. He leans down and presses a kiss there like he knows just that.

And then he’s sitting up, and it frightens you — the thought of him walking away, of this ending here and now.

So you lay a hand on his arm, breathing, “Stay with me.”

He pauses, eyes roaming your face like he’s assuring himself you mean it. And then he dips his chin.

“I would be honoured,” he rasps.

And thus, the affair begins.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The need you and Fin have for each other is…insatiable.

Every moment he’s away, you’re thinking of him, longing for the moment he’ll appear in your room and rip your clothes off. If anyone else in the palace — staff, servants, associates — are aware of what’s going on, they don’t give it away. And that suits you just fine.

You can’t get enough. You’re giddy with it. Giddy from the multiple, interesting circumstances you’ve landed yourself in.

Like when you lured him out of a meeting and dropped to your knees in a fucking broom closet, taking his cock into your mouth until he was canting his hips forward and spilling down your throat. Or when he fucked you on the balcony of his personal quarters, your body pressed up against the balustrade, the two of you open to the elements and your moans loud enough to reach the stars above you and the city below you. Or when he took you to watch the ballet, and up in the cushy surrounds of your private viewing box, you watched the performance with him deep inside you, his fingers indolently playing with your clit, his low voice in your ear reminding you to keep quiet.

It’s…exciting. Enthralling. It changes everything.

And as he pulls out of you now, sweaty and panting, and collapses beside you in his bed, you’re not sure you could ever tire of this feeling.

He wants you. He wants you so ferociously, like nobody has ever wanted you before.

As you catch your breaths, he props his head up with his hand and stares at you through hooded eyes, glazed with lust. He leans down and grazes a kiss to your mouth.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he ponders as he pulls back, moving a hand to brush his fingers over your breast. “All this need — wanting you constantly.”

You lean up on your elbows, tilting your head, “Do you want it to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Never.”

Never. Never is a very long time. It makes your stomach flip — the enormity of it.

Fin circles the tip of his forefinger around your pebbled nipple, watching with predatory fascination as he adds, “But this will, inevitably, blow up in our faces at some point. We haven’t exactly been secretive — not that I want to be. But people will talk.”

You lean up to brush your mouth over his. “Let them talk,” you say, and kiss him.

Immediately, he melts into the kiss. Your mouth seems to have an effect on him that you never thought yourself capable of. Always draws a long, pleasured sigh from him as he sinks into it, welcomes it.

He kisses you and kisses you, so greedily, so desperately. His hand snakes up to cup your cheek. He’s already hardening against your leg.

But he pulls away, dropping his forehead against yours. And he breathes, “Make a bargain with me.”

You trace a thumb over his bottom lip. You’ve never made a Night Court bargain before; never had reason to. “What bargain?”

“When this blows up in our faces,” he grips your hand, folding his own over it, “we face it together. You and I.”

“You and I?”

“You and I” he kisses your hand. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I don’t try to be. I can be brutal and callous, and I can lie and play games,” another kiss. “But not with you. Never with you. I will look after you. Take care of you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Words that you’ve always longed for someone to say to you. Words that should not be taken lightly, should not be said without meaning.

But you know he means them. You can tell he does.

You watch closely as your fingers interlace with his. And you whisper, “Together?”

Fin’s thumb sweeps over yours. “Together. We’ll face it together.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

A flash of splintering pain zips around your midriff. You glance down to find the tattoo now inked there. The black line that draws a perfect circle around your waist, like a trail of night-kissed lightning.

You look up at Fin to find a roguish smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, I like that,” he hums.

And then he’s leaning down and pressing kisses to that circlet signifying your promise to one another. Kisses the entirety of it, flipping you on your front in the process.

And kisses lower, until you’re screaming for him again.

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[illyrianbitch]

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: ANGST, Helion being compassionate and its sexy, Inner Circle slander (sorry feyre baby), Y/N is kind of a bitch (but its warranted and a slay), family trauma.

Word Count: 2.9k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It was Helion, the High Lord of Day, who had seen the flicker of hope in your eyes. A man of discerning wisdom, he recognized your yearnings of a better world. He knew you, he knew your heart, and he trusted your vision— with the promise of your support shall he need it. You knew that your support, in the grand scheme of things, meant nothing to Helion. He had always held a heart of gold, of understanding, and he would have helped you without anything in return. But you had insisted, declared that you needed to give him something to thank him. Your support, he had agreed on. It was all you had left, anyway. 

Now, you stood before him, pleading. Your chest was tight and a calm panic filled your veins. You needed to act. You needed to keep things in place.

"Helion, please," your voice, normally composed, now carried a tremor, a plea that hung in the air, reeking of desperation. Low light poured through stained glass windows as the sun slowly set, painting a kaleidoscope of muted colors on the marble floors.

His eyes, usually filled with warmth, held a regretful sympathy. 

"Y/N, I wish I could," He replied, his voice caressing the air,  "But with the current state of affairs and your father’s growing paranoia, it's too risky. I can't jeopardize my people. My help is needed elsewhere."

Approaching you, he extended a large hand, gently cupping your chin, his touch reassuring and pained. "Give me some time, sweetheart."

Desperation deepened in your eyes, and the intensity of your plea swelled. Aching with fear and worry, your gaze remained locked on his. "I don’t have time. Hewn City corrupts swiftly. You know this.”

Helion sighed, a sound filled with a blend of both compassion and helplessness. "Perhaps you should reach out to Rhysand. His influence might help, now more than ever."

Yor felt a bitterness surface, like bile rising through your throat. A soft scoff left your mouth as you roughly pulled Helion’s hand away from your chin, withdrawing from his touch in offense. "Rhys had a chance to help. He didn’t. He couldn’t care less. I won’t go crawling to him."

Helion's gaze softened, a tender response to your rough tone. He let out a sigh and pulled you close to him once more. His touch sent a wave of comfort through you, something that happened often when you visited him to discuss these things. Helion was a man who loved physical connection— you didn’t mind it. It made you feel seen, understood. Now, you craved that feeling more than ever.

 "I don’t understand this contempt you hold. Surely they will want to help you. They miss you."

You rolled your eyes at this. Of course Helion would think so. As much as you trusted him and his admiration for you, he always did love your family. Your sister and your cousin would always be in your life, tied to you in one way or another. Frustration tinged your voice. 

"It's too late. Going to Rhysand now would draw unwanted attention or, worse, he’d halt my efforts because of some perceived danger."

There was a moment of silence, and your eyes bounced around the room, searching for somewhere to land that wasn’t Helion's burning gaze. Once more, he moved a hand to gently cradle your face.

"You cannot foresee every outcome. You're not a mind reader, Y/N."

A bitter laugh escaped you, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "I might as well be when it comes to family."

 "You've accomplished so much. Allow yourself a reprieve. You can't bear the weight of the innocents lives in Hewn City alone."

You blinked away the tears that welled in your eyes as you admitted, "I can't afford to stop. If I do, they'll think I've given up." 

"No," Helion asserted, his voice unwavering. "Your dedication is commendable, but you need to care for yourself. Let me help you."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at him, his brows furrowed slightly and a sad smile on his face. He moved his hand once more, gently tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear. Then, he ran a finger along it, a soft caress carried by a weight of understanding. You shuddered at the lightness of his touch. 

 "Stay, Y/N,” He suggested, his voice smooth and low, “Let me be a distraction. You take care of others; let someone take care of you."

You leaned slightly into his caress, feeling the warmth radiating from his hand. A fleeting sense of comfort teased at the edges of your weary soul. Yet, reality swiftly reasserted its grasp, and you gently withdrew, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"I appreciate the offer," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. Your hand delicately intercepted his, guiding it away from your cheek. "But I can't afford the luxury of distraction right now."

He acknowledged your decision with a small nod. 

“I wish I could do more for you."

A tender smile found its way to your lips and you held his gaze for a fleeting moment of gratitude.

“I know.” You replied before you winnowed away, leaving the luminous embrace of the Day Court behind.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You were on edge. You had been for the last few weeks. Now, after failing to convince Helion, you could feel it catching up to you, a dark hole forming in the pit of your stomach. It felt like you were being swallowed alive, eaten by your own anxieties and fear. But you didn’t have time for this. You couldn’t risk falling apart, becoming vulnerable. No, not at a time like this.

You had mastered the art of drowning your thoughts, of discarding the weight that threatened to pull you under. Tonight would be no different. The impending storm would be weathered, as it always had been. You would begin to drink your worries away, give them time to manifest, and then shove them away into the crawlspace of your mind, free to collect dust and rot away.

You moved toward a small table where a simple platter of dark amber liquid awaited. Your fingers tightened around a small crystal glass as you poured. As the first sip touched your lips, you felt the familiar burn, a welcomed distraction. The amber liquid offered solace, if only for a fleeting moment.

And then, you stilled. The creak of the floorboards behind you announced their presence, and you felt it—a pricking at the base of your neck, the subtle disturbance of the air as someone entered, no, appeared. Your body tensed instinctively, shoulders rigid, as you ceased your movements. You took a moment to compose yourself, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply-- a futile attempt to ground yourself.

You downed the drink, the warmth spreading through your veins, and set your glass down, a definitive thud echoing in the silence as it met the table. You turned around slowly, the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety beneath your skin momentarily masked by a face of composure. The simple décor of your home surrounded you—the tattered tapestries, broken furniture—all a testament to a life you had built in the aftermath of your return. One that lacked the color that you once held.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Your voice, laced with both mockery and a hint of something darker, hung in the air.

In front of you, Rhysand stood tall and proud, a figure of authority. His eyes, once familiar and comforting, now held a look determination. His gaze held yours strongly, and for a swift moment, you saw them soften. But the tenderness quickly dissipated, his eyes narrowing with a slight tilt of his head. You ran your eyes along his face, then down his form, taking in the detailed and intricate patterns of his clothing— an embodiment of Night Court royalty. Then, you looked at him again, your jaw clenching. It had been a while since you looked into his eyes, a violet color deeply embedded into your mind. For a moment, his presence consumed your thoughts, distracting you from the other man that you felt in your home.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see the dark figure stepping out from the corners of your room. A darkness licked at your skin.

"Hello, Azriel," you acknowledged him, your eyes remaining fixed on Rhysand.

Azriel's presence was a dark whisper. The edges of your room seemed to blur with shadows as he stood there, a silent observer.

"I’ve come to request your help," Rhysand's voice cut through the stillness, his words carrying the weight of urgency.

Your response was swift, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, that's rich."

The corners of the room seemed to darken further as Rhysand's frustration manifested in the clenching of his jaw. The subtle play of shadows accentuated the lines on his face, revealing the strain of a desperate plea.

"Please hear me out."

You shook your head. They shouldn’t be here. This was risky, dangerous. You needed them to leave. They needed to disappear, to let you go and never find you again. That was the only way you would be able to survive.

But every fiber in your being was screaming to do the opposite, to embrace your cousin and explain to him, tell him everything. You wanted to get on your knees and beg for the kindness he always showed you, to ask him about your sister. For him to tell you about his life, his love, his child. But you couldn’t. And from inside you, your heart tugged you to Azriel, his stoic form. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to catch his gaze. It was all so wrong. This disconnect, this anger you felt for them, for your situation, for yourself… it was eating you up. But this wasn't the time. So you pulled your thoughts together and focused on the one thing that had never let you down: your fire.

You reminded yourself of the resentment you held, deep down. Reminded yourself of how they had failed you, separated themselves from you, your vision, and the suffering of the good people here, in Hewn City— your city. Rhysand's city.

Ignoring his original words, you looked at Rhysand with the hint of a wicked grin on your face.

"Where’s your child bride? I heard she’s reading at the same level as your babe. You must be overjoyed."

Rhysand's expression tightened, anger simmering beneath the surface. The mention of his mate touched a clear nerve, and for a brief moment, you reveled in the discomfort you had caused. It was a twisted satisfaction, a way to regain some sliver of control in this unexpected encounter.

His temper flared, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability replaced by a presence of anger that you knew all too well. He bit down on his frustration, attempting to maintain a semblance of composure. But you pressed on.

“I’m only kidding, take a joke, Rhysand. 500 years and you still have the emotional regulation of a teenager. Nice to see some things don’t change."

Rhysand's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and confusion, observing you and your wall of icy nonchalance. His name sounded foreign on your lips, spoken with such malice and distaste. Even the last time he had seen you, during a bloody war against Hybern, you had not been so venomous. This was a fact you both thought of as you stood here, now, in front of one another again. You moved gracefully through the room, ignoring their presence, and opened a small box that sat on your table. The delicate aroma of sugar wafted through the air. You took a seat.

Azriel and Rhysand exchanged glances. Your fingers idly played with the box, an ornate creation that held delicate, candied treats. With an almost casual indifference, you brought one of the sweet confections to your mouth, savoring the taste as if the weight of their presence meant nothing to you. You could feel the tension building in the atmosphere, heightened by their growing sense of agitation and frustration. It radiated off of them like heat. You welcomed it with open arms, like a freezing child in the cold.

"These are the loveliest desserts,” You explained, bringing the candy close to your face with an examining eye, “Hard to come across here. But I know a guy.”

“Want one?" you offered, dropping your candy back into the box and extending it toward Azriel, whose stoic expression remained unchanged.

"What? Doggy can’t take a treat?" You taunted with a measured smile. You didn’t miss the slight flare of his nostrils, or the way his shadows began to snake up his arms, angry and riled up.

A tense silence lingered as Azriel remained perfectly unmoving, his eyes holding a depth of attentiveness that made you uncomfortable. But the discomfort within you sought distraction, and you continued with your mockery. You waved your hands in the air as a dismissal.

"Bah, you guys are no fun."

The room felt charged as you baited them, your attempts to deflect the gravity of their visit becoming slowly evident in every casual gesture.

Rhysand's frustration reached a boiling point, and he took a step forward, shifting the conversation.

"We didn't come here for sweets and jests. We came for you."

You chuckled, a sound that held a bitter edge. "Me? You must be desperate, Rhysand."

A flicker of hurt crossed his eyes, swiftly replaced by a steely resolve. "There are rumors of rebellion here,” He took a pause, glancing around the room as if he was contemplating continuing. He spoke again, “But, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. I cannot afford an uprising."

Your laughter cut through the air like a blade. "Is the idea of civil unrest among your people an inconvenience? My, what an issue, must be terrible."

Rhysand's patience waned, his features hardening. "Stop this, Y/N. We need your help to prevent a disaster."

You leaned back against your furniture, your eyes narrowing as you regarded him with a chilling indifference. "I've heard nothing about any unrest. You've wasted a trip."

Rhysand's gaze bore into yours, an unspoken challenge. "Azriel has been in Hewn City, gathering information. He's heard the rumors. I know you're lying."

In that moment, a silent battle waged within you. The desire to help, to make a difference, warred against the fear of exposing yourself to the dangers lurking beyond your sanctuary. The memories of the past, the reasons you returned, echoed in your mind. You wanted to help, but you knew their presence could unravel the delicate life you had crafted.

Rhysand's voice softened, a genuine plea beneath the layers of frustration. "Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious. Why do you refuse to acknowledge that?"

Then, his eyes softened, sensing a crack in your facade. Inner turmoil clouded your eyes as you locked gazes with him. The conflict within you played out in the subtle tremor of your fingers, a telltale sign of something bubbling beneath your icy exterior. But as quickly as it manifested, you shut it down, fast enough to resolve Rhys of his attentive eyes. He swallowed and fixed his composure.

"Azriel has gained information that it's not just a rise against me. There are whispers of a rebellion against Keir himself. I need you to listen for information from your father."

Your father. A wave of nausea rippled throughout your body and you clenched your jaw in response. The title sounded strange coming from Rhysand, a stark reminder of your place here, of your place in his family. No, no. You thought. I will not let them see me falter.

Rhysand continued, "Azriel has gathered intelligence, but we need someone on the inside. We need you."

A cynical smile now played on your lips as you taunted them, "Maybe it's time for a change. The mighty High Lord struggling to keep control – how novel."

Azriel, who had maintained a cold silence until now, spoke up for the first time, taking a heavy step forward towards where you sat.

"We both know you do not mean that."

You turned your gaze to him, eyes dark. "And what do you know about what I mean, Azriel? You don't know anything about me."

Rhysand put a hand out in front of Azriel’s form, biting back his retort. The room hung heavy as you finally declared, "You've overstayed your welcome. It's time for you to leave."

Rhysand's eyes met yours with a determined glint.

"I will be back. Family does not give up."

His words pulled out a surge of anger bubbling within you. Family? Without a second thought, you stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "Family, huh?" Your voice dripped with bitterness, and you moved toward him, anger etched on your face.

But before you could reach him, Rhysand winnowed away with a controlled fury, leaving Azriel lingering.

Azriel stood still, his eyes slightly narrowed, his brows furrowed at you. You met his gaze and felt a wave of guilt through your body, filling the hole where your fury once was a second before. If you didn’t know any better, it seemed as if Azriel was….. Disappointed? Hurt? But you stabilized yourself, pushing the observation away. Your anger, raw and unfiltered, had an intensity that took even him by surprise. He held your gaze. Then, like a wisp of darkness, he too disappeared, leaving you alone with the remnants of unresolved tension and the taste of bittersweet candied treats lingering in the air.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

a/n: hello hello!! welcome to my lil new fic!! im new here and i have no idea what im doing but i hope at least one person enjoys what has become my creative fictional baby. when i tell you this story has a place in my HEART....y/n here is multilayered and complex and flawed but that is why i love her!! serving cunt 24/7!!!

tumblr scares me so any feedback is so very loved and any advice is great too!! mwuah

[sugairsstuff]

Hii,

I have a request I love protective Rhys so can you do a Rhys x reader where someone insults her and Rhys gets all overprotective and angry, like how dare they insult my mate🤭

I hope you have a great day and thank u for writing it

Bye❤️

i’m sorry for taking so long to write this! i hope you enjoy my spin on the prompt <3

i’m flattered

rhysand x fem/reader

warnings: none

description: a noble has quite a lot to say regarding your appointment to high lady. as much as you’d like to do it yourself, your loving mate swoops in to put them in their place.

Coming to the Court of Nightmares to play pretend in these political dances veiled in the disguise of a party was never something you were excited about through all your immortal years of knowing Rhysand. So, naturally, you were feeling an extra weight of anxiety now that you would be attending as the High Lady of the Night Court—therefore a major piece in what was originally just Rhysand and the Court of Nightmare’s game of chess. You understood your mate morphed himself into an entirely different person as he believed that the one way to keep this imbalanced section of the Night Court under order was to keep them intimidated with the illusion of a cruel leader—for who would challenge someone who held no moral bounds?

While your mate had years—if not centuries—of practice in carefully carving this mask to wear at a ball that wasn’t even a masquerade, you had only been High Lady for two years. Before that, you kept your head low or simply did not attend the events held in this part of the court. It goes without saying that you were extremely prone to criticism, which was especially worrying in a place that was kept under control through the guise that they were not allowed to question their authority.

Alas, your lover insisted that it would be better for you to attend with him. Rhysand promised that you were safe there in his company (and that the food and drinks would be to your liking), while urging that it was better to show your face and prove that these Fae did not make you afraid than stay behind and let them mumble amongst themselves. Because, of course, this court was no longer run by only the High Lord, so now you needed to demand respect as well.

Standing in the mirror, you decide that at least it was somehow easing to be wearing such an elegant gown to the ball. With long sleeves and a deep plunge, your black dress hugs your curves and falls over your hips to the floor. You thought it was a nice touch that the ends of the long skirt are flecked in white that gave the illusion you had just waded through a pool of stars. Your hair is done up nicely as well to flaunt your neck and the silver jewels decorating it, the light piece of jewelry falling deep on your chest.

“I’m wondering if bringing you may be a mistake after all,” a familiar voice hums lovingly behind you. You whirl around from the mirror, brows furrowed as you watch your mate expectantly for an explanation.

Rhysand chuckles, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture as he pushes himself off of the doorframe he was leaning against, “You are one beautiful distraction, darling. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay focused on politics when I have the brightest star in Prythian right at my side. That’s all.”

You roll your eyes regardless of the fact you’re now sure you didn’t need to put blush on when doing your make up earlier. “Oh, yeah, cover it up, Mr. High Lord,” you huff in faux annoyance, though perhaps some real insecurity.

Rhysand was quick to notice that, and even quicker to invade your personal space by wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you to his chest. “Don’t forget Mr. High Lord needs his Mrs. High Lady there,” he coos, grinning when his cheesy words evoke a sweet laugh from your lips.

You decide to change the topic rather than continue to brood over the inevitable reality of the ball you are about to be an unwanted spotlight in. “Is everyone else ready?” you ask, thinking of your friends who also are expected to be attending due to political reasons. Azriel, Cassian, and even Mor were always expected to at least show their faces.

Rhysand nods idly, clearly too distracted by you to shift his mind to be thinking about them. “They’re waiting, but I’m sure they won’t mind it if we’re a little late,” he says, grinning like a feline as he leans down over you to try and capture your lips with his. You evade Rhysand’s flirtatious attempts to seduce you by leaning back and resting your palm against his chest.

“Nuh-uh. No way am I being late to this thing,” though you pause and return his playful grin, “though if it goes well, maybe we can celebrate later. The zipper on this dress is pretty difficult to undo,” you hum.

“I’d be glad to lend a hand with that.” he winks, smiling like a fool as his boyish attitude earns yet another laugh from you.

Rhysand was a tempting sight to be seen, though. It appears as though he wanted to make you two look like dynastic royalty with the way you both are dressed, perhaps to look utterly untouchable to the rebellious crowd you are about to endure. His suit was pitch black, tailored perfectly to hug his V-shaped waist and embroidered with deep purple lacing at its hems. His sleek black hair is pushed back with what you assume is gel, though either by Rhysand’s doing or its own failure some of raven strands had fallen down over his forehead. You couldn’t help but make the allusion of you being the stars and him being the milky way.

“Alright, let’s go before you get too carried away,” you insist. And with that, Rhysand pulls you closer to him and winnows you to where your friends wait—some more impatiently, as Azriel stands with his arms crossed and an accusing expression at the two of you for being late.

By the time you arrive in the Court of Nightmares, you realize the party wasn’t starting without Rhysand and you. The throne room was done up extravagantly to meet the expectations of the High Fae citizens of Hewn City, the pure silver decorations a stark contrast to the deep, shiny ebony that the room was etched from.

Beautiful faces all around the room turn to watch you and your mate enter, their drinks idle in their hands and their conversations paused so that they can get a good look at the new High Lady. You swallow, keeping your chin up and moving on to the main floor alongside your mate. The back of Rhysand’s hand brushes yours, and when you turn to look up at him you see that he’s offering you his arm. You link your elbow with his, allowing him to lead you the rest of the way into the parted crowds.

When the pair of you begin to near the dais, you see only one throne sits at the centre of it. Rhysand seems to have this planned, though, as he gently guides you away and lets go of your elbow once you reach a small cluster of nobles. Of course, it all came down to symbolism and perception, because rulers who are supposed to be equals should have their own thrones to sit, and holding on to you when not walking would be seen as more controlling than chivalrous.

“High Lord, it’s been quite some time since you’ve visited,” one of the Fae spoke. Her features were sharp and dark, brought out by her even darker makeup. To your surprise, she turns to look at you, “And you’re not alone. You must be our new High Lady, I’ve never seen you at any of the parties here.” the nameless female hums, her gaze dragging down along you. You can see in her brown eyes she finds nothing to criticize as she releases a small ‘hmph’ of both disappointment and approval.

“Yes, I am. I’m glad to finally have the opportunity to visit Hewn City properly.” you respond, offering a small, neutral smile. You decided that maybe if you treat these people politely, and not allow any snide remarks to outwardly anger you, they would see you as immune to their judgment and would back down.

The female raises her brow. Rhysand later would tell you her name is Emelia, daughter of a family known for trades. But when you glance to your side, you realize your mate has been pulled aside with Mor in what looks like an unpleasant conversation with Keir, the steward of Hewn City.

Emelia decides to strike while you’re alone, having no respect for someone who, technically, wasn’t her direct authority, “Well, that makes it sounds like you weren’t allowed to visit the Court. Why, does your High Lord keep you at arm’s length?” she drawls, sipping her golden-flaked wine in a weak attempt to hide her triumphant smirk.

Your back straightens, stunned for only a moment at her implication. “Well, it’s just a little difficult finding free time to revel so often when there are duties I must see to for the Night Court as a whole. I’m not sure if you will understand, however, considering how many of these occasions you’ve mentioned you spend your time going to.” you quip, quickly realizing that being nice and courteous to people wouldn’t work, and that Rhysand was unfortunately right to maintain equilibrium in Hewn City through intimidation.

You leave Emelia fuming in your wake, not bidding her a farewell as you head to Rhysand who now converses with Keir alone. Your mate looks relieved when he sees you coming, moving like a wisp in your black dress across the ebony throne room. The male to his left, however, looks less than pleased to see you coming in contrast.

“Keir,” you greet as Rhysand bends to kiss your cheek in loving greeting.

Keir only says your name in return before looking to Rhysand. “Well, that’s all from me, enjoy your fun, Rhysand.” he says, sending a scrutinizing look your way before departing.

Your mate lets him go without the satisfaction of a response. Rhysand sighs, turning to face you and reaching a hand to adjust the positioning of your necklace. His hand brushes against your collarbone as you meet his eyes. “Was she giving you trouble?” he says, recalling that he had to leave you with Emelia, “I felt some tension on your end of the bond,” he murmurs, careful of the level of his voice due to the room being full of prying, pointy ears.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you assure him, taking your turn to do some adjusting by straightening the sculpted fabric of his overcoat. You thought you had managed yourself well with Emelia, who you assume was somewhere between a jealous young female to another rebellious citizen spewing the opinions fed to her by others, and your confidence began to return until you and Rhysand were silent enough for a conversation to reach your ears.

“Look at her. Dressed like a queen and yet she does nothing for the Night Court,” a male voice scoffed. You hear female and male voices laughing almost forcefully in adoration. The male continues, his voice only slightly muffled from the crowd and the distant music, “All I’m saying is, I don’t even work in politics and I could probably do a better job than her.”

After some more irritating cackling, a female voice pipes in, “The dress is tacky, anyway.”

With your heart in your stomach, you don’t even have the chance to look around and locate the owners of these voices as you notice your mate has already walked the few feet over to the small group near the edge of the throne room.

You worry that following after your mate and standing there as he, you assume, chides the yapping male, you make your way to the nearby refreshment table. Azriel thankfully stands there, who seems to be avidly trying to blend into the wall in order to avoid conversing with the unpleasant guests.

“Pretend we’re having a conversation. I’m eavesdropping.” you tell him once you arrive, and Azriel responds with a joking ‘yes, ma’am’ as you become another one of the pointy-eared eavesdroppers.

“Cielo,” you hear Rhysand drawl, a wicked grin on his face as he inserts himself into their conversation. Satisfaction begins to lift your heart back into place as the group’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

“Are you implying you think you’d be a better High Lady for me?” Rhysand hums, brow raising at Cielo, who now looks stiff with embarrassment. “Really, I had no idea you harboured such feelings for me, I’m truly flattered.” Rhysand continues just enough so that Cielo’s friends have turned their amusement to their rather humiliated looking pal.

Rhysand takes a step forward, a few inches taller than the glaring male. “I’d hate to break your heart, but if you ever speak about your High Lady and my mate in such a disgusting manner again, I will make an example out of you as to exactly what the punishment is for disrespecting your authority.” and just as his friends began to snicker, Rhysand’s sharp violet gaze turns to them. “And that goes for all of you,” he snaps. Rhysand stalks away, leaving the small crowd of Fae in silence as he finds you next to Azriel.

“You know,” you say cheekily, “I could’ve handled that, too.”

Rhysand sighs as he takes a glass of wine from the table, likely wanting some alcohol to stroke away the flames of his temper. “I know, darling. Sorry for beating you to it, I just couldn’t stand by and listen to them spit bullshit like that.” he scoffs. You can’t be bothered to be mad—too busy gleaming in triumph and pride over your love’s protectiveness.

“Well, I think they learned their lesson,” you giggle, glancing to the group who now watch you and Rhysand in weariness rather than entitlement.

“Good. If they can’t appreciate what you do for them, they could at least keep their mouths shut.” he hisses. You rest your hand on Rhysand’s elbow to bring his attention back to you.

“Why don’t we dance? That way, no one can judge us for not speaking to anyone.” you suggest.

Rhysand takes your hand and kisses the back of it, “I like the sound of that.” he agrees.

After a night full of dancing and more inevitable political conversations, you and Rhysand winnow back to the House of Wind as you call it a night. You find yourself standing in front of your long mirror, trying to reach back to undo the finicky zipper of your dress. You see Rhysand take a step closer to you in the mirror and feel as his hands snake into place on each side of your waist.

“So, how about that celebrating?” he grins to your reflection.

[purple-writer8]

But Daddy I Love Him - ACOTAR

Rhysand x Autumn Court Reader (Beron’s Daughter)

“I’ll tell you something right now, I’d rather burn my whole life down than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning.”

warnings: abused eris, autumn court shenanigans, mentioned abuse (verbal and physical), talks of violence, forbidden love, beron being beron, beron being abusive, physical abuse, angst, sexism, the autumn court brothers

2.5k words

Masterlist :)

You were Beron's Achilles heel. 

His youngest child and only daughter. The Princess of Autumn. You were spoiled, by your parents and your six older brothers--loved by everyone in your family. You knew they all hated each other, that your father was a bad man, abusive to your brothers and your mother. But for some reason, you were loved by him, doted on by him. 

You didn't look a lot like him, or like your brothers, or like your mother. Unlike them, you sported dirty blonde hair, though your powers still resembled theirs-- wielding fire like the rest of your family. 

Despite your peculiar hair color, your father loved you inmensely, showing you more affection than he did any of your elder siblings combined. You were lucky, lucky that he didn't do with you what he did to your brothers, that he didn't unleash his wrath on you like he did on Eris or the others. 

What Beron did do, though, was shelter you. You lived in the Autumn Palace, and rarely ever saw outside of it. Your father would rather you stay in your rooms, where you were safe from the dangers of the realm. You had guards to accompany everywhere, and if it weren't guards-- it was your older brothers. You loved them, all of your brothers, but your favorite was Eris. 

He was the gentlest out of all of them, the one that cared the most for you, the one that understood you. Eris would do anything for you, and you for him. It was thanks to him that you found the love of your life. 

Rhysand.  

A year ago, Eris had convinced your father to let you attend balls and parties held by the other High Lords, to let you live a life outside your rooms and the gardens. Beron beat him for the suggestion, but nonetheless listened to him.  The first ball you attended was in the Dawn Court, a celebration of sorts. Most courtiers from all around Prythian were mesmerized-- and stunned-- to learn of your existence. 

Rhysand was one of them. Cauldron, the High Lord of the Night Court was smitten from the moment that he saw you enter alongside your brothers, your head bowed as you walked through the crowd. He had to have you. 

And he did just that. It was just pleasantries at first, he was kind to you-- much to Beron's dismay and Eris' chagrin. Everyone knew what the Night Court was made of, and how Rhysand ruled over it. Eris would rather kill the High Lord of Night than let him near you, caring not for court relations but for your well-being. He remembered what happened to Morrigan in the Night Court, tortured by her own family. 

He would never let you set foot there. 

The second ball you attended was in the Summer Court. Eris had been tasked by Beron to woo some Winter Court aristocrat's daughter, so he was quite busy. Which meant you could slip away without anyone noticing, explore the palace and finally not be babysat by your brother. 

You had found a balcony that overlooked the city of Adriata when you heard, "There you are... I've been looking for you," in that deep voice you had been incessantly thinking about ever since your first outing. 

You turned to find Rhysand standing there, clad in black leather, his violet eyes shining bright while a feline smirk grazed his perfectly sculpted features. You blinked, your doe eyes shining for him. 

He smiled wide, and you instantly knew you were done for. You would be his. 

And you were. You and Rhysand began a secret relationship, a secret and dangerous relationship. You let him in, let him into your mind, let him be the one to take your purity. You were Rhysand's and he was yours. Not only that, but you saw each other in secret at different gatherings. And sometimes he winnowed into Autumn territory in the dead of night to see you, not caring for the consequences of his actions. Of what Beron would do when he learned he had defiled you. 

"I almost melted his mind when I saw him eyeing you," Rhysand growled, kissing you neck in a feverish manner. You let out a low whine, your fingers running through his onyx  silky hair. "I can't wait to claim you," he spoke breathlessly, "to make you my wife." 

You moaned wantonly when one of his hands found its way under your skirts while the other worked to unbutton the top of your dress. "Take me to your court," you pleaded, hooking your leg on his lower waist and pulling him closer to you. 

"I'll take you, steal you away from this place... make you the Lady of Night..." he groaned, one hand snaking to your neck, holding you steady as he kissed down your neck and then your shoulders. You whined and writhed under his touch, then he said, "be quiet, baby... wouldn't want your daddy to find you like this..." 

No, you wouldn't. There was a ball happening, this time in your home, and you had slipped away just so Rhysand could follow you and corner you in a dimly lit hallway. Your arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer into yourself, like you were a sick woman and the only remedy was Rhysand close to you. 

"Sister." The voice of Fenix, your second-eldest brother, ran through the hallway. You jumped, pushing Rhys off of your body as if he had the plague. Rhysand turned to the Vanserra male, a smirk on his face, as if he hadn't been caught in a very compromising situation. 

Fenix hummed, his eyes narrowed on you, "interesting." 

"Fenix..." you warned him, your eyes travelling to his hands that were now curled into tight fists. You were sure any second now he would send fire your lover's way. "You have one second to disappear before I lynch you and send you back to your cauldron forsaken court," your brother said in a dangerously low tone. 

Rhys was unbothered. "I think I'll be taking your sister with me then," he said, wrapping one strong arm around your waist. "Over my fucking dead body, Rhysand." 

You closed your eyes in defeat when you heard Eris' voice boom through the hallway.  A feline smile happened upon Rhys's lips, "that can be arranged." 

You turned to Eris, your eyes silently pleading with him, but it was for naught because he was only glaring at the man that had his arm wrapped tightly around you. "Drop my sister, Rhysand. Or there will be hell to pay." Eris warned slowly. 

"Eris, I love him!" You shrieked, only for Fenix to let out a low growl. "And I'll lynch him," he threatened, only for Rhys to laugh. 

"I would love to see you try. We're leavin-" Before Rhys could finish, a beam of fire was sent his way, though it misted before it could even touch him. You cried in horror when you saw your father standing at the end of the hallway, backed by the remaining of your brothers. Seldom from Lucien, who was not in Autumn anymore. "You dare touch my daughter?!" Beron roared, the walls of the palace shaking from the sheer force of his words. 

Rhysand grinned at him, "we can all talk about this like adults." 

Wishful thinking. Your brothers wasted no time in their attack on the Night Court's High Lord, sending flames at him-- though they were no match for Rhysand. He swiftly pushed you out of the way and winnowed around the hall, avoiding each attack. "Please stop!" You cried in horror, but to no avail. They wanted Rhysand dead. 

"You are BANISHED from this court, for now and forever." Your father's voice thundered through the palace, and instantly the flames died down-- leaving only a very shocked Rhysand. "Beron... we can talk abo-" 

"Leave now, or I send Eris to your court with our army. Leave or we are at war," at your father's threat, you turned to Rhysand in horror. You knew he could kill your entire family with a single blink, that he could really take you and form a war between courts-- and win it. 

He spoke in your mind. "Give me the word and I will take you away, bunny. I am not scared of your father or his weak threats." 

"Go. I will fix this." You responded. 

Rhysand turned to Beron, bowed with a wicked grin on his face, and winnowed away. You stared at the space he had just been standing in longing, before a grip yanked you forward. You whimpered as you looked up at your father's rage - filled expression. "How do you dare?" He asked in a tone that he had never once used on you. You trembled, his grip burning into your skin, causing you to wince in pain. 

Eris stepped between the two of you, pulling you behind his frame to shield you from your father's wrath. Beron's glare burned through Eris, and you could almost feel it burning your skin. "You will marry someone of my choosing. Until then, you will remain in your rooms." Beron spoke, his tone offering no room for bargaining. 

"But Daddy, I love him!" You cried, stepping from behind your older brother to face your father's rage. Beron growled, "what do you know about love? You're a woman! There's no choice for you in this matter!" 

You scoffed, he raised you just to cage you. "I love him!" You pressed again, and he simply rolled his eyes at you, "you know nothing of the world." 

"I love him, and I'm having his baby!" You shrieked, and horror instantly was etched unto your father's expression. Your brothers all looked as if they had seen a ghost, eyes wide and mouths hung open at your revelation. Eris covered his face with his hands, "I'll kill him..." 

"I'm not..." you admitted, "but cauldron, you should see your faces." 

Beron was frozen in shock at your boldness. He was not dealing with this. So to Eris growled, "deal with her." 

Your father winnowed away along with the rest of your brothers, leaving the eldest and you to sort out this mess. Before you knew it, your brother winnowed you away and into your room. "Sister, please come to your senses..." Eris started. 

"No, I am not coming to my senses," you snapped at Eris. 

"Rhysand is crazy, the entire Night Court is full of depraved individuals. Remember what happened to Morrigan? How they left her at our border? They'll do the same to you..." Eris trailed, his expression one full of pain and sheer anger. 

"I am not Morrigan! He would never hurt me... and Rhysand said he wasn't the one that hurt her. Eris, I know he may seem crazy, but he's the one I want. I love him! And he loves me!" You contested, your voice cracking as tears once more swelled in your eyes. Rhysand was chaos, he was revelry... and he was also the love of your life.  

 Eris let out a frustrated groan, he could not believe his sweet sister was so hung up on the cruelest High Lord there ever was in the history of Prythian. "Sleep on it, sister. Because Beron will never let you wed him," and with that, your brother left your room, slamming the door on his way out. Slamming the door on you and your future. 

- 

You were summoned early in the morning to breakfast with your family, you attended with your arguments sharp as knives-- ready to hurl them at your father. As soon as you entered the Dining Hall, your brothers erupted into their arguments, all of them reminding you of all the things Rhysand had done in his life. 

Your father looked smug as your five brothers scolded you for wanting the Night Court's leader. Your mother looked mortified, her face pained-- she just wanted you to be happy.  

"He melts minds," said Fenix. 

"He has those two bat boys, they are evil and kill innocents," said Zire. 

"He lets his court torture women, look at Morrigan," said Lukas. 

"I heard he keeps a hundred concubines in his palace," said Ember. 

"He runs his court without any sort of morals," said Eris. 

You thought it was rich coming from your brothers. They were the ones that tortured Lucien's lover, and the ones that ran him out of Autumn. They didn't know you knew that, though-- one of your servants had told you what had happened. 

Their hypocrisy and vile words towards Rhysand made you seethe, sending flames flying from your hands and to the walls of the room as you stood up. "I'd rather burn my whole life down than listen to one more second of all your hypocritical bitching and moaning," you screeched. 

Your brothers went still, their mouths all clamping shut as they stared at you in shock. 

"You're a Vanserra," your father growled. "Whether you like it or not, you do my bidding, and if you think I'll let you wed Rhysand just because you want to, then you are dafter than you appear, child."

You remained silent, digesting your father's words. You had always known your father to be cruel. Knew he beat your brothers, knew he was the one that bid them to kill Jesminda and run Lucien out of the court. But you had never known his cruelty, no. You had always been his weakness, the child he truly did appear to love. Though now you knew that just because he didn't you, it didn't mean that he cared any more for you than he did your brothers. 

"I may be a Vanserra," you trembled, "but I would gladly disgrace the name. You've already done it plenty." 

Beron never once expected you to go against him like this, no, you were the good one. You were the dutiful daughter, the one he had kept hidden for years on end to protect. Where did you get all this conviction?  Your father stood from his seat at the end of the table, Eris doing the same thing— ready to intervene if he were to attack you. 

Beron strode towards you quickly, and Eris tried to jump in between the two of you, but with a flick of his hand your father sent Eris flying to the wall. You gasped, meaning to rush to your brother, but your father grabbed you midway. 

His grip was deathly, and as you looked up at him— your blood ran cold. And before you could even pull away, his hand struck you across the face. 

-

Author’s note:

i instantly got this idea when i heard this song like IT FITS PERFECT

Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @sheblogs

[shallyne]

Nyx: am I in trouble?

Rhys: take a guess

Nyx: No?

Rhys: take another guess

@officialrhysandweek

[motherfeyre-archeron]

Rhysand my beloved they'll NEVER make me hate you

[azrielslightintheshadows]

Hello....i hope everything is going well! If you dont mind i have a request for rhysand where maybe reader has just given birth and has lately been feeling very insecure about her body and rhysand comforts her...with lots of fluff

Insecurities.

Rhysand x f!Reader

Masterlist

Warnings; body image issues, insecurities.

I really love the way the body changes when a woman gives birth. They all look like goddesses and no one can change my mind.

You stared at your reflection and sighed. Your body looked like it belonged to someone else making you want to scream and disappear. You knew this would happen when you started trying for a baby with your mate Rhysand, but you couldn’t think that it would make you feel so bad.

“What are you doing?” Rhysand’s deep voice startled you and you fixed your shirt covering your body.

“I need to start training again” you replied and turned your back on the mirror.

“You need to rest and heal” he said and approached you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your head. You shook your head and moved out of his grasp.

“I have to get ready for dinner” you whispered and opened the closet.

You heard the door of the house opening and closing again and your friends' voices filled the silence. Rhys nodded and left the room to join the rest of the inner circle. You waited for a few minutes and then left the room, you peeked into the dinning room from the stairway and noticed how elegant and beautiful the other females looked. The tears came back, and you ran back to the room. You tried on one of your favorite dresses and almost screamed when it didn’t fit. The only dress that fitted was sticking on your body in a weird way. You threw it on the bed and bit your trembling lip. Your glance fell on Rhysand’s closet.

Maybe I can find something there. You thought and opened the closet.

You wore one pair of leggings you had bought a few days before giving birth and one of Rhysand’s shirts, it was loose and reached your knees.

After fixing your hair you joined everyone in the dining room. Their eyes fell on you, and they smiled lovingly. Rhys furrowed his eyebrows when he noticed your outfit but remained silent. You took the seat next to him and he immediately grabbed your hand giving it a light squeeze and placing it on his lap.

Soon laughter and teasing sentences filled the room and you almost forgot about your insecurity, at least until Mor got up to reach the whine bottle. Your eyes scanned her body, the way the dress hugged her curves made your heart clench and you quickly looked the other way.

“I’m tired, excuse me” you mumbled and hurried off before anyone could reply.

Rhys stared at your back as you climbed the stairs with a frown.

“Dinner is over” he announced and followed you.

He walked into your shared bedroom and sighed when he noticed your shaking form curled on the bed.

“What happened baby?” he asked and sat next to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I can’t recognize my own body” you sobbed. Rhysand’s breath hitched, and he laid down behind you, his arms wrapping around your body as he spooned you and kissed the back of your head. His spicy scent filled your nostrils, and you sighed pressing your body against him.

“Sweetheart you gave birth two weeks ago, your body needs time to heal.” He whispered into your hair.

“I can’t even wear my favorite dress.” You cried out harder.

“I will get you a new one” he exclaimed.

You rolled your eyes at that “classic rich Rhysand” you mumbled, and he chuckled.

“Wait here” he said and got up, a few minutes later he returned with your tiny baby girl in his arms. You could barely see her as she was completely swallowed by your mate’s broad body and strong arms.

“Look what you made… look how precious she is.” He whispered and sat on the bed, laying your baby between the two of you. Her nose twitched at the sudden change of temperature making you smile because you knew that feeling, moving from your mate’s warmth to the cold sheets.

“Sweetheart you are so beautiful, and the way your body changed makes you even more irresistible. Your body is a miracle, every small change makes my heart skip a beat.” He continued and stared deep into your eyes.

“You are her mommy, look how beautiful she is, she looks just like you.” He smiled lovingly and caressed the baby’s cheek with his finger.

“Really?” you sniffled.

“Yes, and I’m the luckiest male on this world to have the two most beautiful girls by my side.” His gaze moved from you to your daughter and then back to you, you could feel the love and affection pouring out of him without the bond. His eyes showed everything.

“I love you” you whispered.

“I love you” he replied and laid down, his wings emerged from the darkness, and he draped one over your daughter and you.

That night you fell in love with your body again.

Hope you enjoyed it!

[lyssasdrafts]

— TEXTING AFTER A FIGHT (acotar x reader smau)

characters: rhysand, cassian, azriel, lucien, & eris x reader

includes: angst with a happy ending, established relationship, texting

notes: inspired by a bunch of tiktoks 😭 also this is kinda corny bye, cassian is my fav tho i’m in love w him

[rainingriversofyou]

Feyre, Rhysand & Nyx - A Court Of Thorns And Roses

Artist: chelzd_art

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Needs Must — Rhysand x Reader

While I put the finishing touches to the next part of Bluebird, enjoy this Rhys x Reader that I got a sudden burst of inspiration to finish this morning!

Summary: War changes everything, and the human-fae war changed the trajectory of your life completely — most pointedly decimating the relations between you and those closest to you. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen your brother, Cassian, and your friends. But that’s all about to change.

Warnings: Suggestions of solicitation/sex work/brothels. Nothing else, really!

Word Count: 1.5k

Enjoy! 💕

It’s all pointless, you think — the red velvet drapes, the burning candles, the sandalwood-scented smoke that clouds the air and creates a thick layer of fog that hovers just above the shag carpet. Pointless, because no amount of pretty décor will change Salt’s Pleasure Hall from the vacuous and miserable place it is.

Not miserable for you, no. There is no misery in the hefty sum of gold you’ll take home on a night. You are a master of pretty smiles and hooded gazes and saying all the right things that desperate, lonely males wish to hear. There is so much coin to be had in feigning interest and attraction. Bringing their fantasy to life for a night. There is talent in making them feel as though you’ve bared yourself to them, without having removed a single item of clothing.

And to think you once begged your older brother to train you, make you like him. Turn me into a weapon like you are, Cassian. We cannot change what filth sired us. But we can stamp it out from our blood and be better, be more.

And oh, he’d trained you, alright. Turned you into a weapon. Into something he was so fucking proud of. You knew the pride it had once brought him to strut around Illyrian lands with you at his side, clad in leathers just as he was, armed to the teeth just as he was. His way of showing off that he had done something good, something useful.

Oh, how things have changed. How the mighty have fallen.

For all you are confident, comfortable, used to the job you have now worked for some time, you are nervous tonight.

Tonight is different. Tonight is territory that has so far been untouched. Tonight, this room of velvet and silk and sensuality is your domain.

The Juniper Suite is part of the most expensive package that Salt’s Pleasure Hall has to offer. The package is similar to your usual night’s work in that you will smile prettily and pour drinks and ply whichever lonely male arrives with mindless conversation.

The difference is that in Juniper, those things lead to sex. And this is the first time since becoming one of Salt’s girls that you’re crossing that boundary.

So, yeah, you’re a little bit nervous. But — needs must, and all that.

With a soft sigh and butterflies dancing around in your belly, you slowly pace the circumference of the room, stopping every now and then to study the weird little trinkets that Salt has picked up over the years. A strange mishmash of things that you suppose he thinks creates a certain ambience. But tiny metal lions and old, fraying maps will be the furthest thing from your client’s thoughts when the two of you sink into the feathered sheets.

They will be here any minute, and for the first time since you started your work here, you allow yourself to wonder what they might be like. You never usually bother, because the other girls warned you on day one what to expect — that this place attracts a certain clientele, and that never wavers.

So, your guest will likely be far older than you. He will likely have dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. There will likely be the faint mark of a removed wedding band on his left ring finger. He will likely want to talk to you about why he is a victim of life itself.

And you will coo sympathetically and pour him drinks, drag your hand down his arm and hold his hand. You will let him know how sorry you feel that life is so cruel to him. You will offer him the bliss of touch and feel, and make him think, for a short while, that you genuinely care about his shortcomings.

And then when he hands you the heavy pouch of coins you so desperately covet, you’ll switch it all off.

You swallow down another sigh and cross the room to the small, compact bar in the corner. You need a stiff drink yourself, something to settle your nerves—

But a knock lands on the door, and there’s no time.

For a split second, you doubt whether you can go through with this. Playing hostess for a few hours is one thing, but giving your body to a client is something you’ve never had the courage to do, despite the extra coin it would bring. But — needs must. You repeat it to yourself as you stride to the door. Needs must, needs must, needs must. You can do this.

You brace yourself, feeling suddenly too hot and sticky in the scant clothing that covers you — a pink lingerie set, barely covered by the sheer robe that sits open and threatens to slip down your arms. You are beautiful — and strong and sexy and confident. This is your body to do with whatever you want. And if this is the course you are taking, that is fine. This will be fine.

You lay your palm on the handle and yank the door open before you have to give yourself another pep talk.

But at the sight of who stands on the other side, you freeze. Your lips part in surprise.

A pep talk is not what you need — but rather a huge hole to open in the floor and swallow you down.

“What the fuck?”

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve uttered those three words at the exact same moment your client did — Rhysand did.

He’s just like when you last saw him, but…older, now. Even though you were adults back then, too, he seems…more mature, somehow. He’s regal and stunning and night itself.

And fuck, he’s High Lord of the Night Court now.

And yet he’s ruffled, as he takes you in, gapes at you. Neither of you know what to do.

His eyes dip down to what you’re wearing, before travelling back up to your face. And he blurts, “Pixie?”

Pixie. You haven’t heard that name in years. The fond nickname that both Rhys and Azriel had coined for you, because you were so much like Cassian and yet so much smaller, a little pixie buzzing around.

But you are not her anymore. You haven’t been her since before the human-fae war. You had changed, just like the others had changed.

And the new you doesn’t need to explain to an old friend what has brought you to a pleasure hall in Sangravah. Nor does that old friend need to explain what’s brought him here, either. You owe him nothing. He owes you nothing.

But the situation is so bizarre that your mind freezes. You don’t know what to do. All you know is that you do not want to be in front of him, almost naked. You do not want to look him in the eye. The mere thought is humiliating.

So you move fast and try to slam the door shut in his face. You don’t care what kind of reprimand Salt will give you because of it.

But, of course, he is Rhysand, and may you never forget that. He’s quick as lightning, something about him always having been wildly feline. He always bested you when you sparred, always had the upper hand.

He has the upper hand now as he wedges his foot in the door and stops it from closing.

You grit your teeth, feeling just like when you used to bicker with him in Illyria as you bite out, “Move your fucking foot.”

“No,” Rhys snaps, shoving it in further. “Open the fucking—” he growls as he shoulders himself forward. “Pixie.”

“Don’t call me that. Go away—”

You’re not exactly sure what happens next. Either he loses his footing, or you do, or perhaps you both do. All you know is that the door is swinging fully open, and your balance is suddenly off, and Rhysand’s hand is gripping onto you as you fall backwards. Your attempts to right yourself are far too late and seem to make it worse. Down you go to that musty shag carpet, and down Rhysand goes with you,

Air whooshes from your lungs as he lands on top of you, far too close than is comfortable when you’re wearing so little clothing. You attempt to sit up, shove him off you.

But he holds you firm and stares at you with wide eyes. His face is inches from yours. He gives what seems to be a baffled shake of his head.

“Pix, what the fuck?” he blurts.