#rhys x reader

Reader getting challanged to a drinking match with Cass which she fails horribly at and starts asking for her husband, so when rhys gets jealous and asks who this husband is? She's like "you, silly"

And que extremely flustered rhys, he's like darling we aren't married, which makes her really upset so he has to play along (he loves it)

cute idea!

Rhysand x fem!reader who is looking for her husband [913 words]

CW: 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

“Mor, you’re being absolutely no help right now,” Cassian huffs, causing Rhysand and Azriel to pause their conversation at the sound of the rest of the family returning to the House of Wind.

“I’m not the one who made this mess now, am I?” Mor hisses back, clearly trying to keep quiet though the other two occupants are very much already aware of your presence.

The two males share a quick look before quietly standing and making their way towards the grumblings, murmurs, and awkward thumps coming from the trio.

“M’not a mess!” You all but wail in response, and Rhysand’s steps speed up as he follows the sound of your distress.

Background Noise

pairing: rhysand x reader

warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows

—

Solitude and you had become fast friends.

You were used to being left alone.

Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.

They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”

“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.

No one wants to be friends with a dud.

A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.

You learn to adapt.

Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.

“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.

“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.

“I’d rather suffer.”

Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”

“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”

Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.

You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.

Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.

The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.

He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”

“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”

Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”

“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”

He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”

The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”

“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”

Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.

It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.

Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.

It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”

“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”

Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”

“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”

“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”

His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.

He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.

It doesn’t work.

Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.

“Maybe we should go look for her?”

“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”

Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.

It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.

“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”

You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.

To find safety.

Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”

“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.

It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”

Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.

Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.

The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.

You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.

Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”

They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.

Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.

Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.

He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.

You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.

“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”

“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”

“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”

The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”

“What? No. This is your home.”

“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”

The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.

Confess.

Or watch you flee.

His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”

You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.

He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.

You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.

He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”

“Rhys.”

Rhysand x mate!(female)reader

Summary: Rhysand is distracted by his newly found mate when she decides to sit in his lap during a meeting with Azriel and Cassian.

Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (female), unprotected sex (wrap it kids), dirty talk.

Authors note: I’m back… again. So sorry, I have been unpacking and back to my summer job but I am editing stories still. Also I don’t think if people read this all but I am starting to think to do different stories of characters from different shows and such, like I am some about Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody (Shawn Hatosy🤭) and such. Just lmk if yall would like to see more! But as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻!

Main Masterlist:

𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐

The study is quiet save for the low murmur of voices and the scratch of a pen against paper.

Rhysand stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the dark wood as he listens to Cassian ramble about Illyrian training camps for what feels like the tenth hour in a row.

Azriel leans against the bookshelf nearby, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders while he flips through reports.

And Rhys... Rhys is trying very hard to focus.

Truly.

He stands behind his desk with all the effortless authority expected of the High Lord of the Night Court—shoulders relaxed, expression composed, violet eyes sharp as Cassian drones on about patrol routes and Illyrian camp disputes.

On the surface, he looks perfectly in control.

But beneath it?

He's unraveling.

Because the mating bond hums constantly at the back of his mind, warm and alive and impossible to ignore. Every emotion you feel brushes against him in soft waves, every distant thought tugging at his attention like invisible fingers beneath his skin.

And after only two days—two miserable, interrupted days—of being allowed to have you entirely to himself before duty dragged him away again, his self-control is hanging by a thread.

The scent of you still lingers on him.

On his clothes.

In his sheets.

On every inch of his skin.

Cassian keeps talking, Azriel occasionally adding something low and practical to the conversation, but Rhys hears barely half of it. His pen taps once against the desk as he forces himself to focus on the reports scattered before him instead of the empty doorway across the room.

Because if he lets himself think too hard about you, about the way you looked beneath him.

The soft sounds you made when he kissed down your throat.

The feeling of your hands in his hair while you whispered his name like a prayer—

He is absolutely not surviving this meeting.

So he focuses.

Or attempts to.

Right up until the doors open.

But the mating bond hums warm and alive in his chest, distracting in the most unbearable way imaginable.

Two days.

Two miserable, pathetic days.

That was all the time the Mother had apparently deemed appropriate for him to spend with his newly discovered mate before the responsibilities of being High Lord came crashing back down onto his shoulders.

Two days before meetings.

Before stacks of reports began appearing across his desk again like a personal punishment from the Cauldron itself.

Before politics and court tensions and trade disputes demanded his attention from sunrise to well past midnight.

Before Cassian resumed stomping through his study at all hours, loudly complaining about Illyrian commanders, training budgets, and "idiotic warriors with the survival instincts of drunk goats."

Two days.

That was all Rhysand had been given with his mate before the world came crashing back in.

And he is handling it very poorly.

A fresh report lands onto the growing pile at the edge of his desk, and Rhys signs it with visible irritation, the elegant scratch of his pen just slightly too sharp against the parchment.

Cassian keeps talking.

Something about the northern camps.

Or maybe the eastern ones.

Rhys honestly has no idea anymore.

Because every few minutes, his mind drifts helplessly back to you.

To waking up tangled in soft sheets and warm skin.

To your sleepy smile against his throat.

To the feeling of your fingers tracing along his wings while the bond between you glowed so brightly it nearly drowned him in it.

It's maddening.

He's one of the most powerful males in Prythian.

A High Lord.

Ancient. Feared. Respected.

And yet the mere thought of his mate is enough to make him stare blankly at a report for three straight minutes without reading a single word.

Cassian notices immediately, unfortunately.

"You haven't heard a damn thing I've said, have you?"

Rhys signs another document with unnecessary force. "I heard enough."

"You heard nothing."

"I heard you whining."

"It's called military strategy."

"It's called complaining with maps."

Azriel snorts softly from where he stands near the bookshelf.

Cassian glares at both of them. "You're impossible."

Rhys leans back slightly in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as exhaustion and frustration pull at the edges of his composure.

Because the truth is simple:

He does not want to be here.

He wants to be upstairs with you curled against his chest while the rest of Prythian figures itself out without him for a few more days.

"You're glaring at the paper like it insulted your bloodline," Cassian notes lazily.

"It did," Rhys replies flatly.

Azriel snorts quietly, shadows flickering once around his shoulders in silent amusement at whatever insult Cassian is currently muttering under his breath.

Rhys barely notices.

He's halfway through signing another report, attention split between the parchment in front of him and the constant ache of the mating bond pulling at his chest, when—

The doors open with a quiet creak, the sound barely cutting through the low hum of the study, soft enough that it shouldn't have drawn anyone's attention at all.

But Rhys looks up instantly anyway, his focus snapping toward the doorway with a speed that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with something deeper—something wired into him now in a way he's still not entirely used to.

The pull of the mating bond, steady and insistent beneath his ribs, drags his attention there before he even consciously decides to move.

And the moment he sees you standing in the doorway, everything in him shifts.

The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders from hours of meetings starts to ease without permission, his expression softening in a way that would scandalize half of Prythian if they ever saw it.

The careful, controlled edges he wears like armor fall away piece by piece, replaced by something unguarded and wholly focused on you.

It isn't just recognition—it's relief, it's warmth, it's the simple, undeniable fact that you're there and suddenly nothing else in the room matters nearly as much as that.

The tension sitting heavily across his shoulders eases first.

Then the crease between his brows disappears.

The cold, carefully controlled mask he wears through meetings and politics and endless responsibilities melts away so quickly it would be almost shocking to anyone who didn't know him.

Cassian notices immediately.

Azriel does too.

Because one second Rhys looks like the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court—

And the next he simply looks like a male hopelessly in love.

There you are.

His mate.

His beautiful, devastating mate.

Framed by the doorway beneath the soft glow of starlight spilling through the study windows, looking entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.

Or perhaps fully aware.

With you, Rhys is never completely certain anymore.

The bond between you brightens instantly the moment your eyes meet his, warm and golden and alive enough that he feels it clear down to his bones.

Gods.

He missed you.

It's ridiculous considering he saw you barely an hour ago, but after only two days together before duty tore him away again, every moment apart feels wrong in a way he still hasn't adjusted to.

His mouth curves before he can stop it. Not the arrogant smirk he gives the rest of the world.

Not the sharp grin that usually accompanies his teasing. No, this smile is softer. It's warmer and entirely yours.

And for a brief moment, Rhys forgets completely that Cassian and Azriel are even in the room.

Down the bond, his voice slips smooth as silk into your mind.

'Go in our bedroom for me, sweet girl.'

Heat flashes through the bond immediately—amusement, affection, something teasing—and Rhys narrows his eyes slightly.

You ignore him.

Completely.

Cassian notices first, because of course he does.

"Oh, that's dangerous," he mutters under his breath.

You walk toward Azriel instead, holding out a folder. "You asked for these earlier."

Azriel reaches for it with a quiet, "Thank you."

His fingers brush yours for half a second as Azriel takes the folder from your hands—an entirely accidental, insignificant touch that means absolutely nothing.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Rhysand sees it.

And his reaction is immediate.

The warmth leaves his expression in an instant, violet eyes narrowing with terrifying focus as his stare locks onto Azriel like he's personally committed treason against the Night Court.

Pure territorial instinct flashes across Rhys's face before he can stop it, the possessive edge of the mating bond rearing its head so fast it's almost impressive.

Azriel freezes mid-motion, shadows going still around him as realization dawns.

Cassian watches the entire thing happen from across the room.

Then outright chokes on his own laugh.

Not a normal laugh either—a startled, wheezing sound of disbelief as he stares between them.

"Rhys," Cassian says carefully, already grinning, "you know Az isn't trying to steal your mate because she handed him paperwork, right?"

Azriel slowly lifts one brow, still holding the folder while Rhys continues glaring at him like he's debating how difficult it would be to bury a Spymaster's body.

And the worst part?

Rhys knows he's being unreasonable.

Knows it.

But the mating bond thrums hot and possessive through his chest anyway, especially when you remain entirely oblivious to the silent male drama unfolding around you.

Rhys watches you round the desk toward him, and his heartbeat immediately picks up.

Finally.

Maybe you listened after all. Maybe you're going to kiss him. Maybe you're going to whisper something filthy down the bond just to torture him in front of his brothers—

But no.

Instead, you simply settle yourself into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Rhysand stops functioning the second you settle into his lap. Not metaphorically, not briefly—actually stops.

His entire body goes rigid beneath yours, every thought in his head scattering so fast it's almost embarrassing.

The pen in his hand stills against the parchment mid-signature while his breath catches hard in his chest, violet eyes widening just slightly as he stares up at you in complete disbelief.

One moment he's the composed High Lord of the Night Court discussing military reports and politics, and the next his mind has gone utterly, catastrophically blank because his mate just climbed into his lap in the middle of an Inner Circle meeting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Heat floods up his neck almost instantly, his heartbeat turning uneven as the scent of you surrounds him completely, warm and familiar and impossible to think through.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that you look entirely comfortable there, tucked against him without a hint of hesitation, while Rhys sits frozen beneath you trying and failing to remember how to form a single coherent thought.

You curl comfortably against his chest, completely content, one arm sliding loosely around his shoulders as you glance at the reports scattered across the desk.

"What were you talking about?"

Silence falls over the study so abruptly it's almost deafening.

One second Cassian is mid-sip from the glass in his hand, smirking like usual, and the next he slowly lowers the drink while staring at Rhys with open disbelief.

Across the room, Azriel immediately looks down at the floor, shadows twitching violently around him as if even they are struggling not to react.

Because sitting behind that desk is not the cold, untouchable High Lord the rest of Prythian fears.

Not the ancient, devastatingly powerful male capable of bringing entire courts to their knees.

No—Rhysand is blushing. Brightly.

Color spreads unmistakably across his cheeks and down the elegant line of his neck while his hands remain frozen at your waist, violet eyes locked helplessly on you like he's forgotten how breathing works.

And somehow, the sight of the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court completely short-circuiting because his mate climbed into his lap is so absurd that neither Cassian nor Azriel can process it for a solid five seconds.

The color spreads from the tips of his ears down his neck while he stares at you like you personally descended from the stars to ruin him.

"My love," he says weakly.

You blink innocently. "Yes?"

Cassian loses it.

A sharp bark of laughter explodes out of him as he doubles over in his chair.

"Oh, he's done for," Cassian wheezes. "Completely destroyed."

Rhys glares at him, but it lacks any real threat because one of your hands has started absentmindedly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Mother save him.

His wings twitch violently behind the chair.

Azriel finally looks up, mouth suspiciously tight like he's suppressing a smile.

"You were saying something about the northern camps," Azriel prompts.

Rhys stares at him.

Northern camps?

What in hell is a northern camp?

Your lips twitch against his jaw like you know exactly what you're doing to him.

Down the bond comes your soft, smug amusement.

'You told me to go in the bedroom. You never said I couldn't wait here.'

Rhys nearly inhales his own tongue.

Cassian groans loudly. "Please stop flirting through the bond during meetings."

"We aren't," Rhys snaps automatically.

"You're blushing so hard your ears match the Sidra at sunset," Cassian replies.

Rhys opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you shift slightly in his lap to get comfortable, and every coherent thought leaves his body immediately.

Azriel outright turns away now, shoulders shaking once.

Traitor.

"You know," Cassian says thoughtfully, "for a male who only got two days of mating frenzy, you're surprisingly easy to break."

Rhys finally drags his eyes from you long enough to glare murder at him.

"Leave," he says flatly.

Cassian grins. "No."

You look up at Rhys sweetly. "Am I distracting you?"

The genuine confusion in your voice makes it worse.

So much worse.

Rhys stares at his mate sitting innocently in his lap while his brothers watch him unravel in real time.

Then he sighs deeply, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his chest.

"Meeting adjourned."

Cassian is still laughing when he rises from his chair.

Actually laughing.

The kind that makes him wipe at his eyes as he points at Rhys like he's just witnessed something historic.

"Oh, this is priceless."

"Get out," Rhys growls.

But there's no bite behind it now—not when you're curled against him, not when one of your hands is lazily tracing circles against the back of his neck.

Azriel quietly gathers the reports from the desk, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away entirely.

"You're never going to recover his reputation after this," Cassian says to you.

You blink up innocently from Rhys's lap. "I don't know what you mean."

Cassian snorts.

Rhys just narrows his eyes, though the effect is ruined completely by the pink still dusting his cheeks.

"Leave," Rhys repeats, more tired this time.

Azriel finally takes pity on him.

He moves toward the door, shadows swirling with obvious amusement. Cassian follows beside him, still grinning like a menace.

"You know," Cassian says as he reaches the doorway, "I always wondered what would finally humble the mighty High Lord of the Night Court."

Rhys flips him off without hesitation, violet eyes narrowing with all the exhausted irritation of a male who knows he's being mocked mercilessly and deserves every second of it.

Cassian only grins wider.

The sound of his laughter fills the study—loud, shameless, echoing off the dark stone walls as he backs toward the doorway with Azriel beside him.

Even Azriel looks dangerously close to smiling now, shadows curling restlessly around his shoulders like they, too, are entertained by the sight of the High Lord of the Night Court blushing over his mate sitting in his lap.

"You're finished," Cassian says with the confidence of someone who knows he's just gained years' worth of blackmail material. "Completely finished."

Rhys opens his mouth, undoubtedly to threaten him, but your fingers drift lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck at the exact wrong moment.

His entire train of thought vanishes instantly.

But Cassian notices immediately. The Illyrian lets out another victorious bark of laughter while Azriel lowers his head slightly, shoulders tightening once in what looks suspiciously like suppressed amusement.

Traitors. Both of them.

Then Cassian reaches for the door handle, still shaking his head in disbelief. "The mighty Rhysand," he mutters dramatically. "Brought down by a female in his lap."

"Get out," Rhys growls, though the command has lost nearly all its power beneath the warmth spreading up his throat.

Cassian salutes mockingly.

Azriel finally pulls the door open.

Cool air from the corridor slips briefly into the room as the two males step out, both still grinning like they've just witnessed the downfall of a kingdom instead of their High Lord completely melting beneath his mate's attention.

Then the heavy doors swing shut behind them with a soft click.

And silence settles over the study at last. For approximately two seconds...

Because the moment the latch clicks into place, you turn in Rhys's lap and press your mouth softly against the side of his throat.

Rhys freezes.

A shudder rolls through him instantly.

"Sweetheart," he breathes.

You kiss lower, slow and absentminded, like you aren't fully aware of the effect you're having on him.

Which is a lie.

A complete lie.

He knows it from the way amusement flickers teasingly down the bond.

Rhys's hands tighten instinctively around your waist.

Outside the study, Cassian's loud voice echoes faintly through the corridor.

"Oh, they're absolutely making out already."

Azriel actually laughs quietly.

Rhys closes his eyes in suffering while you hide your smile against his neck.

"They can hear us," he mutters.

"And?"

Gods.

You press another kiss just beneath his jaw, and Rhys's head tips back against the chair before he can stop himself.

The High Lord of the Night Court—feared across Prythian—reduced to helpless silence because his mate decided to sit in his lap and kiss his neck during a meeting.

Cassian is never going to let him live this down.

The moment your lips meet his, Rhys groans into the kiss—low and desperate, like he's been holding himself back for far too long. His tongue slides against yours, tasting you, claiming you, as his hands grip your hips and lift you effortlessly off his lap.

You gasp against his mouth as he sets you on the edge of the desk. Papers scatter. A glass of wine tips and spills, but neither of you care. His palms sweep across the surface, shoving everything aside until there's nothing left but you, laid out for him like an offering.

He doesn't break the kiss. Not when his fingers find the buttons of your shirt. Not when he rips them apart with an impatient growl, sending tiny buttons skittering across the floor. The fabric falls open, and he pulls back just long enough to look at you—breasts bared, nipples already peaked from the cool air, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough.

Then his mouth is on your stomach. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your sternum, over your ribs, tasting every inch of skin. When his lips close around your nipple, you arch into him with a sharp moan, fingers threading into his dark hair and pulling.

He sucks hard, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak, and the vibration of his answering groan sends heat pooling between your thighs. His hips grind against the edge of the desk, and you feel exactly how much he wants you—hard and ready, straining against his trousers.

You reach for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons.

He chuckles against your skin, warm and breathless. The sound vibrates through your core.

"Impatient, aren't you?"

But he doesn't stop you. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulls them down your legs in one smooth motion, along with your underwear. You're bare beneath him now, exposed and wanting, spread out on his desk like a feast.

And then he drops to his knees.

The sight steals the breath from your lungs.

The High Lord of the Night Court. Most powerful High Lord in Prythian. On his knees. For you.

His violet eyes meet yours, dark and blazing with hunger, as he spreads your legs wide and settles between them.

"Watch me," he commands.

And you do.

You watch as he lowers his head. As his tongue drags slowly, deliberately, through your slick folds. The first taste draws a groan from deep in his chest, and his eyes flutter shut like he's savoring something exquisite.

Your head falls back, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your hands fist in his hair as his tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, tormenting. He licks into you like he's starving, like he's been waiting his entire existence for this moment.

"Rhys—" His name is a whine on your lips.

He hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck.

"Say it again," he murmurs against your flesh, not pausing.

"Rhysand—please—"

He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth, and your vision whites out for a moment.

His tongue works you relentlessly, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks, reading your body like he's memorized every reaction. And he has.

He knows exactly when to speed up, when to slow down, when to press his tongue flat and let you grind against his face.

The sounds you're making are shameless. Whines and moans and half-formed pleas that fill the study. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady as he drives you higher and higher.

"Come for me," he says against you, the words barely coherent. "Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you."

That's all it takes.

You shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash through you. He doesn't stop. He laps at you through every pulse, drawing it out, groaning against your cunt like your release is his greatest achievement.

When you finally stop trembling, he rises—slowly, deliberately. His chin glistens. His lips are swollen, wet. His eyes are nearly black with desire.

He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

"Good girl," he breathes against your lips. "Such a good mate for me."

Before you can catch your breath, he's pulling his pants down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and he wraps a hand around himself, pumping slowly as he meets your gaze.

"Ready for me?"

You nod, still breathless.

He lines himself up and pushes inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust.

The moan that tears from both of you fills the room.

He bottoms out and stills, letting you adjust. His forehead presses against yours, breath ragged.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—gods, you feel incredible."

You clench around him deliberately, and his hips jerk.

"My little minx." Then he starts to move.

Slow at first—long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you need them. His rhythm is punishing in its gentleness, each thrust grinding against your clit, building that coil in your belly again.

"You're being so good," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so well. My perfect mate."

But when you start to grind against him, meeting his thrusts with increasing desperation, his tone shifts.

"Ah, ah," he chides, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Someone's eager. Grinding against me like an animal in heat."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't stop.

"Please," you whimper. "Rhys—please—"

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me harder."

His eyes flash.

He gives you exactly what you want.

His pace turns brutal. The desk creaks beneath you, papers long forgotten, as he pounds into you with relentless intensity. Each thrust drives you higher, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucks you toward another peak.

"That's it," he growls. But when the wave crests and you tighten around him, crying out his name.

He pulls out.

The sudden emptiness makes you sob in frustration. "Rhysand!"

He shakes his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Bad girl. You came without permission."

Before you can protest, he grabs your hips and flips you over. Your chest presses against the cool wood of the desk, ass in the air, completely exposed. His hand comes down on one cheek with a sharp crack.

You yelp.

"That's what happens to bad girls," he says, voice low and dangerous.

He spanks you again, and the sting radiates through your skin, mixing pleasure with pain.

"Count."

"Two," you gasp.

Another slap.

"Three."

Your whine is pathetic, desperate.

He runs his palm over the heated skin, soothing the burn.

"You want my cum, bad girl?"

"Yes—please—I'll be good—"

"I know you will."

He lines himself up again and slams into you from behind. The new angle is deeper, harder, and you moan into the desk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.

His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.

"You don't come until I say so," he pants, fucking into you with deep, punishing strokes. "Understand?"

"Yes—yes, Rhys—"

"Good girl."

He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His breathing is ragged, his composure cracking with each thrust.

"I'm close," he admits, voice strained. "Where do you want it?"

"In me—please—"

"Beg for it."

"Please, Rhysand," you whimper, voice breaking. "Please come inside me. I need to feel you—I need—"

He groans, and you feel him thicken, pulse.

"Come with me," he commands. "Now."

The permission is all you need. Your release crashes into you, and as your walls clench around him, he follows—hot and deep, filling you as he groans your name like a prayer.

You collapse together, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of your mingled breathing.

Then he kisses your shoulder.

"My good girl," he murmurs. "Even when you're bad."

Outside, distant laughter echoes from the corridor. Cassian's voice carries through the stone walls, "told you. Absolutely making out."

And Azriel's quiet reply, “that’s not making out, dipshit.”

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Get behind me."

Authors Note: Protective Rhysand? YES PLEASE. Request by @callmeleighd

The first thing you noticed was the silence.

Not complete silence—there was never complete silence in an Illyrian war-camp—but the sudden absence of laughter from the group of warriors behind you.

It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You were carrying a basket of supplies across the camp when a shadow fell over you.

"Where are you rushing off to?"

The male's voice was thick with amusement.

You recognised him immediately. Older. Bigger. One of the warriors who thought rank and size entitled him to whatever he wanted.

You offered a polite smile and stepped around him.

"Busy."

His hand caught your wrist.

Your stomach dropped.

Not because you couldn't handle yourself—you absolutely could—but because you knew exactly how these interactions tended to go.

"You could spare a minute."

You tried pulling free. His grip tightened.

"Let go."

The smile on his face only widened. "Or what?"

The words had barely left his mouth when another voice cut through the air.

Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

"She said let go."

The warrior's expression faltered.

You looked up.

Rhysand was striding across the training field, heading straight to you.

The warrior let go of your wrist, but he didn't back down. Instead he angled himself between you and Rhysand, his friends now gathering behind you, effectively caging you between them.

You could see Rhys's nostrils flare in anger, his teeth gritted as he stopped in front of you.

He didn't say anything at first, simply held his hand out for you. You scurried out from behind the Illyrians, immediately going to his side.

For a moment, the camp seemed to hold its breath.

Rhys stood between you and them now, shoulders squared, violet eyes fixed on the male who had initially grabbed you with a calmness that somehow felt far more dangerous than shouting ever could.

The warrior cracked his knuckles.

"You got a problem, boy?"

Rhys didn't even blink. "You touched my mate."

Your heart skipped. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them.

Simple. Certain. Dangerous.

As if there was no force in Prythian capable of changing that fact.

The warrior scoffed. "Wasn't doing any harm."

"You grabbed her."

"She's fine."

Rhys took a step forward. "So now you're telling me how she feels too?"

The warrior's expression darkened.

Then, from the edge of the crowd that had slowly began gathering, three of his friends drifted closer.

Not rushing. Not openly threatening. Just slowly appearing at his shoulders in a silent show of support.

Your stomach tightened.

Rhys sensed immediately.

Of course he did.

Without looking away from them, one arm extended behind him.

Searching. Finding you. His hand wrapped around yours in silent reassurance. Then he pulled you slightly behind him.

"Get behind me. Stay there." The command was quiet, but firm.

Then Rhys took a step forward.

The warrior laughed.

"You really think you can take all of us?"

Rhys smiled.

The smile made you nervous. Not because it was aimed at you, but because it wasn't. You were nervous for them.

"I think I'd enjoy finding out."

The temperature around the group seemed to drop. Several warriors nearby suddenly found other places they desperately needed to be.

The warrior took another step.

Rhys didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't give an inch.

And then—

A familiar voice called from behind.

"Well, this looks fun."

Cassian.

The crowd immediately parted as he approached. Broad shoulders. Training leathers. A grin that promised violence.

Beside him walked Azriel. Silent. Expressionless. Even more intimidating.

Cassian stopped on Rhys's right. Azriel on his left.

Neither asked what was happening. Neither needed to.

Cassian glanced at your wrist and immediately saw the red marks. His grin vanished.

"Oh."

That single word carried an alarming amount of meaning.

Azriel's hazel eyes settled on the warrior. Cold. Deadly.

The warrior visibly swallowed. The odds had changed rather dramatically. Three against four was one thing. Three against Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel?

Entirely different.

Cassian folded his arms. "So."

The warrior shifted.

"You grabbing females now?" Cassian asked pleasantly.

"No."

Cassian pointedly raised an eyebrow.

Azriel finally spoke. Just two words.

"Walk away."

The warrior looked between the three of them.

Rhys.

Cassian.

Azriel.

Three future legends, even if nobody knew it yet. Even if they were still just boys in a brutal camp.

You could feel it. Their power. So could everyone else.

Eventually, the warrior muttered something under his breath. Then turned and walkway away. His friends followed. The crowd slowly dispersed and the tension broke.

And the very second it did, Rhys spun around, his entire focus landing on you.

"Are you hurt?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Are. You. Hurt?"

"No."

He grabbed your wrist anyway, gently inspecting it. Turning your hand over. Checking the marks. Checking your fingers. Your arm. Your shoulder. Like he expected to find some hidden injury.

"Rhys."

His jaw was clenched. "Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Did he scare you?"

"No."

"Did—"

"Rhys."

He stopped. You could practically see the protective instincts fighting for control behind his eyes.

Cassian snorted. "Here we go."

"Don't start," Rhys practically snarled.

"Oh, I'm absolutely starting."

Rhys ignored him entirely.

His hands settled on your waist instead. Checking that you were really there. That you were alright.

You could feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him. The anger. The fear.

Because that was the part Rhys would never admit. He hadn't been angry first. He'd been scared. For half a second he'd seen another male put his hands on you and his mind had immediately jumped to every possible outcome.

You reached up and touched his cheek.

"I'm okay."

His eyes closed briefly. Just for a second in relief at your calming touch.

Then they opened again. He pulled you even closer, as if the previous distance of six inches had been completely unacceptable.

"Rhys," you laughed.

"What?"

"You look like you're about to wrap me in blankets and lock me in a tower."

Cassian barked a laugh. "That's exactly what he wants to do."

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

Rhys ignored him once again.

One hand moved to the small of your back. The other found your face. Thumb brushing your cheek. Checking. Always checking.

Azriel watched the entire thing with the expression of someone witnessing a very predictable disaster.

"You realise she's fine."

"I know she's fine."

"Then why are you looking at her like that?"

Rhys frowned. "Like what?"

Cassian groaned. "Oh, Cauldron save us."

You smiled despite yourself.

Rhys immediately looked down at you. The tension finally easing from his shoulders.

"There you are."

"There I am?"

"You're smiling." As though that explained everything in his reasoning as the last of his anger disappeared.

Maybe it did.

His forehead rested briefly against yours. A small gesture, private despite the crowd and for a moment the future High Lord disappeared. Leaving only your ridiculously overprotective mate who had nearly started a war because someone put a hand on you.

Behind him, Cassian looked at Azriel.

"We should leave."

"Agreed."

"They're going to be insufferable."

"Already are."

Rhys didn't even acknowledge them.

He was too busy making sure you were still tucked safely against his side as the four of you headed back towards the training rings.

And every few steps, his hand would tighten slightly on your waist.

Just enough to reassure himself that you were still there.

Taglist:

pairing: rhysand x reader

summary: it's absolutely impossible to resist the magic that is rhysand's face, even when you're angry with him.

wc: 1.3k+

Pairing: Rhysand x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rhys is a bumbling buffoon when it comes to meeting his mate for the first time.

Warnings: awkward tension, reader lives in the hewn city

A.Note: not totally proud of this one since it’s hard for me to write first meeting stories with a concluding ending, but I hope you guys enjoy :)

Word count: 4.8k words

The scratching at my door had me sitting up in an instant, my back pressing against the cold stone wall as my hand slid beneath my pillow, fingers curling around the worn hilt of my dagger. My breath came shallow, controlled, as I listened—waiting for another sound, another shift in the air that might give away whoever had decided to test their luck tonight.

Life in the Hewn City never allowed for restful sleep. Not when shadows slithered in every alley when cruelty pulsed like a second heartbeat through its streets. And especially not now that Morrigan was gone.

Her father's estate had been far from a sanctuary, but at least the sheer power Keir wielded had kept the worst of the monsters at bay. Here, in my apartment on the outskirts of town, I had no such protection. Only thin walls, shattered locks, and neighbors who wouldn't need a reason to break into a young female's bedroom—who wouldn't care that I was High Fae, not when my magic was little more than a flickering candle in the wind.

A shiver danced down my spine as I gripped my dagger tighter, pulling it free just as the handle of my door twisted. My breath stilled.

Wards should have held. I'd watched Mor herself etch them into the worn wood, her golden power laced with every careful stroke. And yet the door creaked open, the darkness beyond bleeding into my already shadowed room.

I made myself as small as possible, the blanket of night cloaking me enough to fool a drunk—most in this wretched place were—but if they stepped inside if they came closer...

A head popped through the gap.

“uh-huh, come play with my pussy!”

pairing: acotar men x f!reader

summary: visual links of how the acotar men fuck 😉

warnings: nsfw, porn links, squirting, handjobs, blowjobs, rough sex, teasing, spitting, slapping, public sex, messy makeout session

amara’s note: yum and if you can’t see the links, remove safe search on web reader then go back to twitter

azriel

when everyone’s out

eating you out

backshots pov

cross-eyed fingering

head game goes crazy!

put it in and let’s watch tv!

fingering turns you into a squirting mess

jerking off inside

hungry!

Summary - One bed doesn't work well for 3 illyrians and their mate.

Warnings - Azriel's slutty sweatpants, mentions of wing clipping but nothing graphic, swearing

A/n - Anyone else wonder how any quad would handle a one bed situation?

Written for @polysjmweek day three: Will there be enough room?

SJM Poly+ Week Masterlist

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