#high lord

rhysand fic recs

✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 18+ below the cut

@velarisdusk

✧.* Multitasking Law books, bare shoulders, and a little harmless multitasking.

@utterlyotterlyx

⚠︎ The Time Travelers Husband The gift of time travel was unique to you and you alone, the only thing is that you can't control where you go or when, or for how long.

@sweetpeaaquarius

˚꩜｡ Only Friends  Rhysand is your friend, your High Lord. When you deliver his reports, and he invites you to dinner, the lines begin to blur between friendship and something more. Just friends… right?

@pellucid-constellations

꩜｡ equals You were his equal, his cauldron-blessed mate made to stand beside him in everything. Or, you thought you were. After a few choice words from your mate, your High Lord, you were not so sure anymore. 

@ellecdc

✧.* Where the hell is my husband? pre-established relationship, mentions drinking, reader is very drunk and apparently a bit of an emotional drunk, reader is also single and the bane of Cassian's existence, fluff/crack ✧.* Just a favor Rhysand x fem!reader who is sent to ask Rhys for a favour [1.1k words]

@tunetales

✧.* Moments Moments with Rhysand.

@surielstea

✧.* First Impressions Rhys is a bumbling buffoon when it comes to meeting his mate for the first time.

@idkyetxoxo

꩜｡ Powerless The story of a High Lady lost, and the High Lord who never let her go. A love that even death couldn't erase.

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister l Completed

Summary: She survived fifty years Under the Mountain. Prythian survived by forgetting her. Found unclaimed and broken-winged, Rhysand's lost sister is taken into the Autumn Court-not as a guest, but as leverage. Bound to Eris Vanserra through survival and strategy, she must learn how to exist in a world where protection has a price and power is never freely given. Masks hide faces. Festivals become battlefields. And Autumn does not burn kindly.

Warnings: Trauma, PTSD, Past abuse/torture, manipulation, Violence, abandonment, No smut (for now), slight language, emotional tension

Word Count: 1,650

Part 3 -The First Demand

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ERIS

The Autumn Court was never quiet before a festival.

Days beforehand, the air thickened—smoke and spice clinging to every breath, anticipation seeping beneath the skin like heat beneath ash. Servants moved faster, smiles tighter. Courtiers sharpened themselves for spectacle. Even the forest seemed to lean closer, leaves burning brighter shades of red and gold, as if it, too, wished to witness what was coming.

The Harvest Festival was my father’s favorite display.

Power dressed as tradition.

I stood at the edge of the upper balcony, watching embers drift lazily through the twilight, the scent of cider and cinnamon curling through the air. Below, preparations were already underway—long tables carved from ancient wood, banners of flame-threaded silk unfurled with care, lanterns igniting one by one as dusk deepened.

Beron was hosting.

And Beron never hosted without purpose.

“He’s inviting every High Lord,” one of the sentries had murmured earlier, voice pitched low. “And their courts.”

Of course he was.

A gathering like this wasn’t celebration—it was assessment. A reminder to Prythian of where Autumn stood. A way to test alliances, probe for weakness, watch fractures form beneath polite smiles.

And now—

Now it was something else entirely.

My thoughts drifted upward, toward the tower wing where she slept.

She had taken the room without protest. No demands. No questions. That alone told me how close to breaking she truly was. Most would have clawed for answers, for guarantees. She had simply laid down, exhaustion outweighing pride.

Fifty years would hollow anyone out.

The healers had done what they could. Her strength would return, slowly. But the damage beneath the surface—the fractures carved too deep for magic alone—would take far longer to mend.

And yet.

She was still dangerous.

Beron had known it the instant I told him who she was. I had seen the calculation spark behind my father’s eyes, fury twisting into something bright and eager.

A forgotten sister.

A discarded princess.

A living pressure point.

My father would use her whether I permitted it or not.

So I would control the terms.

I left the balcony and moved through the palace, my footsteps echoing softly against stone still warm from the day’s heat. The corridors glowed with autumn light, reds and golds deepening as night crept closer. Everything in this place was designed to appear welcoming.

That was the lie of Autumn.

Her door remained warded. Undisturbed.

Good.

I paused before knocking—not from hesitation, but calculation. This was where the illusion of choice ended. Where she would learn what survival in my court truly required.

I knocked once.

She opened the door slowly. Her eyes were still rimmed with exhaustion, but sharper than they’d been the night before. The room behind her glowed softly, reds blending together like banked embers. She looked smaller than the space she occupied—too fragile for the weight already closing in around her.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Her shoulders tensed. “About the demand.”

Straight to the point. I respected that.

“Yes,” I replied. “About the first one.”

I stepped inside, keeping my tone even, unreadable.

“My father is hosting the Harvest Festival,” I began. “Three nights. All seven courts have been invited.”

Her breath caught.

“Every High Lord,” I continued calmly. “Their families. Their allies. Their spies.”

She said nothing, but her hands curled tightly at her sides.

“You will attend,” I said.

The words settled heavily between us.

“No,” she said immediately—too quickly. Fear bleeding through the defiance. “I can’t.”

“You can,” I corrected. “And you will.”

She shook her head. “They’ll recognize me.”

“They won’t,” I said. “Not with the glamour in place. Not unless someone is already looking too closely.”

“And if they are?” she demanded.

I met her gaze. Held it.

“Then they would have found you already.”

Silence stretched between us.

My voice softened—not kind, but deliberate. “You won’t be presented. You won’t speak unless spoken to. You will remain at my side—or within sight of it—at all times.”

Her voice dropped. “This isn’t protection.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s positioning.”

Her eyes flashed. “For you.”

“For us,” I corrected.

I gestured to the room. “Everything you have—these walls, these healers, this safety—exists because I decided it would. My father will use you regardless. The only question is whether you stand exposed… or shielded by me.”

Her jaw tightened. “And if I refuse?”

I didn’t raise my voice.

“Then Beron announces you himself,” I said. “At the height of the festival. As a surprise.”

The color drained from her face.

I let the truth settle before continuing.

“At least this way,” I said quietly, “I control when you enter the room. I control who sees you first. I control the narrative.”

She swallowed. “How long?”

“Three nights,” I replied. “After that, we reassess.”

She nodded once. Barely.

“Sleep tonight,” I added. “Tomorrow, you’ll be fitted. Trained. Taught where to stand—and when to remain silent.”

She met my gaze then, fire burning beneath the exhaustion.

“And if Rhysand is there?”

I didn’t answer at once.

“If he is,” I said at last, “you do nothing.”

I turned toward the door, already mapping contingencies, already anticipating bloodless wars and very real ones.

“The Harvest Festival,” I finished, “is the first move.”

And if Prythian was a game board—

Then she was the piece everyone would underestimate.

And I intended to make that mistake fatal.

AN: Hello My Embers, Thank you or reading chapter 3 of AOA BON, I hope you guys love it, please comment if you want to be added to the taglist

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Beron’s beast form

The High Lord and his son are having a discussion. I hope they come to a conclusion.

For @beronvanweekend day 2: power

Bearon hehe

...

Timelapse below

Said it before, but I know the mask should cover most of Tamlin's face. I just like looking at it too much. 😈👀 (Click for better quality).

✨️ Store | Insta ✨️

Pleaseeee, the Bat Boys and Vanserra Bro's know how to treat their girls, especially when they are stressy spaghetti!!

I kind of want to split this up into a mini series, so I will do Rhys first. Let me know who y'all want second in the comments!

Rhysand

okay first off, why are you even stressed? This male does his very best to make sure his darling is never worried about anything.

But its okay, sometimes your emotions get the better of you. Not your fault darling, you're just his sweet girl who likes to worry your pretty head about things like how emotionally constipated Az is, or how Cassian is working overtime with his training after throwing out his back (embarrassing for the old ass male), and how Morr is being too secretive these past few months and something is definitely going on with her. Rhys thinks it is so adorable how you worry about the members of the inner circle, how you take care of them in the ways that they need.

He loves watching you pitter patter around the apothecary, trying to gather materials to create a balm for Cass' back. And he can't help but muse over you fussing over Azriel, forcing him into the settee in your office and having yourselves a little therapy session (he knows he will hear the tea about it later when you both go to bed, and he cannot wait). He does moan and groan when you plan for a girls night out with Amren and Morr, he wants to have some alone time with his mate, but you settle into his lap and pepper kisses all over his face and neck putting him into a lovesick daze before rushing off with a promise of what is to come when you arrive home from your night.

Anyway, you do sometimes get overwhelmed, you care so much. You worry about Rhysand, you worry about the inner circle, and more, you worry about Velaris and the entire night court. Being the first high lady of the Night Court has designed a load of pressure on you to be perfect at all times, to always say and do the right thing. And Rhys, well he grew up with that pressure. He knew this was going to happen to him, but he cannot imagine the stress you give yourself. Again, you care so deeply, and that is one of the things that made Rhys fall for you, so much so, he physically aches when you aren't around.

You always try to hide when you feel overwhelmed, too embarrassed and ashamed to admit it. Part of you doesn't want to bother the high lord, knowing he, himself, is incredibly busy putting out fires on a daily basis, and handling it with such grace. It is almost annoying how effortless Rhys rules. But Rhys knows. He knows you, and he knows your heart and soul. You don't have to tell him you are feeling overwhelmed.

He can feel it, he can see it. He notices everything about you. He clocks the crinkle of concern between your eyebrows, the way your hands shake ever so slightly as you read through and sign the most tedious and boring paperwork, the way you twist and turn the custom wedding ring on your finger, the way you shake your right leg as it rests across your other leg and how you pause it when you finally become aware you are doing it, only to start again. You are teeming with anxiety, and he will do everything in his power to get you to relax. He can't have his beautiful wife worried like this, oh no, not at all. You are too good, too pure, too precious to him to ever allow such a thing.

After deciding he has seen enough of his pretty girl worrying, he swoops you up, out of your chair and into his arms, right where you belong, carrying you just like he did on your wedding night, his stunning bride. He ignores your protests with a firm shake of his head, and kissing the side of your head with a small hum, tightening his grip on your squirming thighs and right at the edge of your breast, carrying you out of your office and into your shared bath. Halfway to the bathroom, you gave up your fussing and settled into his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your head into his warm chest. He sets you down gently onto the counter, and traces his hands up your sides and settling onto your jaw, softly kissing every part of your face he can reach, focusing his attention on your rounded cheeks, pouted lips, fluttering eyes and your temple instead of answering your questions on what you are doing in your bathroom when you each have mountains of paperwork lining your desks that need to be completed before the winter solstice next week. "Darling, I don't mean to hush you, but hush. You, my mesmerizing mate, are too stressed out for your own good. I don't want you to worry about a single thing, and I will take care of it."

You immediately go into full denial mode, rambling with a quivering lip, "I can handle it Rhys, I am High Lady, and this is my duty, and I know what I am doing." Your husbands violet eyes twinkle as they normally do when they are focused in on you, and he listens on as you bubble out excuses and far fetched tales describing how you "really aren't stressed" and have "no idea what he is talking about," all the while rubbing at your tense shoulders and kissing the side of your mouth until he finally hushes you again. "S'alright baby, I know. I know you can handle it and that you know what you are doing. But if I am being honest, sometimes I get overwhelmed. And I just need you, I need you to be close to me. So will you please take this bath with me doll? I will even feed you chocolate covered strawberries and give you a massage with that lavander oil you love so much after."

The pecks to the side of your mouth were enough to convince you to stay with your mate, and follow through on his plans for a relaxing evening, but you didn't need to tell him that. The chocolate covered strawberries and full body massage are just an added bonus. The quirk of your lips is enough for your mate to vanish both your clothes and place you into the warm bath in front of him, holding your back close to his chest. He washes your hair, even letting the conditioner sit in while he presses his fingers into the tight knots in between your shoulder blades. After washing each other off, you both find yourselves snuggling in your bed designed for his large illyrian wings. You lay your head against his corded chest, giving into the deep sleep that calls you as he holds you pressed up against him.

Thank you so much for reading! Please like, comment, and reblog! It mean's the world to me.

A/N: This 🤝 Rhys just makes me so happy

Warnings: smut, breeding kink😋, slight praise kink I guess?

Word count: 1,163