Saw that you are looking for a Feysand fic with Rhys’ mother & sister still alive. There’s a series on AO3 called “I think of you when I think about forever” by Littledidyouknow. It’s a modern AU and Rhys sister is around 20yrs old.
I didn’t see this answer before now! But thank you🫶🏼
I've seen people say otherwise, but Feyre's POV on Rhys isn’t at all unreliable. It's actually the opposite: she is by far the best POV we can get on him from a reader's perspective, other than Rhys's own.
Even discounting that Feyre has seen (and believed) the worst of Rhys so it's not like she's just been madly in love and thinking the best of him throughout her POV-
I stared at him, sending as much hate as I could into my gaze. He’d been the one who’d caused all this. He’d told Amarantha about Clare; he’d made Tamlin beg.
“Well?”
I bared my teeth. “Go. To. Hell.” -acotar
The reliability of her, and every non-omniscient narrator, is mostly rooted in how much they know and tell the reader.
And Feyre is the character who knows Rhys the best in the series. Feyre gets to see sides of Rhys that no one, not even his closest friends, do. She gets his thoughts and emotions through their mating bond. She relates to him and understands his motivations better. She spends more time with him, so we see more of his actions, words, thoughts, and feelings on page with her.
She is inarguably the best narrator on him because she's giving the reader the most information.
The king’s taunt to Rhys had been roiling through my mind for days now. Hybern expected him to give everything—everything—to stop them. Had claimed only that would give us a fighting shot. And I knew my mate. Perhaps better than I knew myself. I knew Rhys would spend all of himself, destroy himself, if it meant a chance at winning. At survival. -acowar
I knew why his eyes sometimes turned distant, why he occasionally just blinked at all of us as if not quite believing it and rubbed his chest as if to ease an ache. -Feyre, acofas
He’d always understood me best—more than the others. Save my mate. -Rhys, acofas
Bryce, Nesta, Ember, even Cassian, these other characters get pieces of Rhys and can (and do) draw incorrect conclusions about him as a result.
In an interview talking about seeing Rhys and Feyre from new POVs, sjm said of acosf:
"Rhys from Nesta's perspective, where she thinks he's like an arrogant douchebag and we know he's not."
Nesta thinks Rhys is arrogant, we see her think and get frustrated at that fact a lot, but from Feyre's POV, we see Rhys's vulnerabilities and doubts and learn about the facade of confidence that masks the truth:
I wondered, then, with his hands beneath my breasts and between my legs, what Rhys wouldn’t give of himself. Wondered if … if perhaps the arrogance and swagger … if they masked a male who perhaps thought he wasn’t worth very much at all. -Feyre, acomaf
Sjm says this because Nesta's perspective on Rhys is naturally limited because she doesn't understand him or really spend time with him. Nesta believes Rhys's arrogant mask because she doesn't know him well enough to doubt it, hasn't seen as many sides of him as Feyre, and isn't privy to his innermost thoughts.
It's also why she says stuff about Rhys that we know is untrue:
Rhys said tightly, “I don’t wish to be High King. I only wish to be here, with my mate and my people... I will not be High King. I will not consider it, not today and not in a century.” -acosf
“And Rhysand is … your king?”
Nesta snorted. “He’d like to be.” -CC3
That's not to say Nesta or Cassian or whoever are unreliable narrators (none of the acotar narrators fit that by definition), but readers get less information about Rhys's actions and feelings and motivations from their POVs, so you have to guess at some aspects or use knowledge we have from Feyre's (or Rhys's) POV to understand.
Like how sjm was counting on readers would read Nesta's POV where she talks about how Rhys is so arrogant and know better because we'd seen moments like this before that prove thinks more lowly of himself than he seems:
“Perhaps I don’t know what I want, but at least I don’t hide what I am behind a mask,” I seethed. “At least I let them see who I am, broken bits and all. Yes—it’s to save your people. But what about the other masks, Rhys? What about letting your friends see your real face? But maybe it’s easier not to. Because what if you did let someone in? And what if they saw everything, and still walked away? Who could blame them—who would want to bother with that sort of mess?”
He flinched.
The most powerful High Lord in history flinched. And I knew I’d hit hard—and deep.
“The other night you told me you wanted a distraction, you wanted fun. Not a mating bond. And not to someone like me—a mess.” So the words I’d spat after the Court of Nightmares had haunted him. -acomaf
And Cassian knows Rhys a lot better naturally, but we know he doesn't get as much from Rhys. In acomaf and acowar, it's repeatedly shown and discussed how much Rhys tries to hide vulnerabilities from even the IC. It's why Feyre says above, "what about letting your friends see your real face?", because Rhys won't let Cassian and others see the full picture, going out of his way to do things like hiding his nightmares from them in acomaf. And while they're often aware something is wrong, Rhys is known to pretend with them.
Cassian even remarks on this:
Cassian had witnessed Rhys going deep into his own head often enough. Knew his brother was prone to withdrawing while appearing perfectly fine. -acosf
But we know, even before they're mated, that Rhys confides to Feyre things he won't tell the IC, like on Starfall:
“Every year that I was Under the Mountain and Starfall came around, Amarantha made sure that I … serviced her. The entire night. Starfall is no secret, even to outsiders—even the Court of Nightmares crawls out of the Hewn City to look up at the sky. So she knew … She knew what it meant to me.”
I stopped hearing the celebrations around us. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could offer.
“I got through it by reminding myself that my friends were safe; that Velaris was safe. Nothing else mattered, so long as I had that. She could use my body however she wanted. I didn’t care.”
“So why aren’t you down there with them?” I asked, even as I tucked the horror of what had been done to him into my heart.
“They don’t know—what she did to me on Starfall. I don’t want it to ruin their night.” -acomaf
There's even moments in acowar where Rhys insists something is true to the IC and then admits otherwise to Feyre:
“If Amarantha showed up at that door right now,” Rhys snarled, pointing toward the foyer entry, “and said she could buy us a chance at defeating Hybern, at keeping all of you alive, I would thank the fucking Cauldron.”
Mor shook her head, tears slipping free again. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Rhys murmured, “If she …” His swallow was audible. “If she showed up at this house …” I knew who he meant. “I would kill her. Without even letting her speak. I would kill her.”
“I know.” I would, too.
Feyre's narrative is always going to be the best for the reader to understand Rhys other than Rhys's own POV because we get so much more of Rhys from her than we will get from someone else.
Another narrator won't let us feel Rhys's feelings, know the parts of himself that he hides from even his closest friends, get his unfiltered thoughts, and even just see him more because Feyre and Rhys spend so much time together.
Because that's another thing, Rhys isn't seen as much in non-Feyre POVs because they spend so much time with each other. That means we have to fill in certain gaps. We have to extrapolate from what we do see. For example, in acosf, Rhys tells Cassian he's having nightmares about Feyre dying and has a panic attack in front of him and shows impaired critical thinking in one or two scenes:
That Rhys couldn’t understand what Az meant told Cassian how distraught and terrified he was.
But most of Rhys's reactions are not shown to us beyond that; Rhys actually seems pretty composed most of the time with just the mildest indications of what we know: that he's a mess in a lot of acosf. We don't even know tons of details of how he learned about the baby having wings or what exactly is said, his immediate reaction.
Rhys panicking in front of Cassian is after he's spent several scenes with Cassian, knowing and freaking out, and Cassian only notices something's off because his smile doesn't reach his eyes and he seems distracted. Cassian was clueless how much of a wreck Rhys was until he confesses to him because of how good Rhys is with pretending he's fine and wearing a mask.
So we just have to make the intuitive leaps on what's going on with Rhys behind the scenes, whether his terror making him miss what should be obvious strategic connections in one scene means there are other things he's missing or other ways he's acting uncharacteristically.
There's just a lot that we don't know about Rhys in acosf because we just see him less and get told things rather than shown it as was more common in Feyre's POV.
Feyre also loving Rhys doesn't negate that she's also giving us the most information for us to judge his character, to actually understand him, to see beneath the surface of the masks he wears.
Through the bond in my hand, I could have sworn I felt a glimmer of pleased surprise. I checked my mental shields—but they were intact. And Rhysand’s calm face revealed no hint of its origin. -acomaf
I could have sworn I felt Rhys flinch through the bond. But my mate said calmly, “We did nothing. Hybern chooses its actions, not us.” -acowar
Feyre is constantly telling us in her POV that Rhys is externalizing something that contradicts how he really feels. Even beyond him confiding in her things he won't even tell his closest friends and showing sides of himself he won't show anyone else, Feyre understands Rhys better because she literally feels his emotions. This began in acotar, too:
“Your court fell, too.”
Sadness flickered in those violet eyes. I wouldn’t have noticed it had I not … felt it—deep inside me. My gaze drifted to the eye etched in my palm. What manner of tattoo, exactly, had he given me?
And then she is also constantly relating to him, she understands him what motivates him and why he makes certain choices not because she loves him, but because she's like him and she recognizes this before she's even aware they're mates:
Rhys and I were one in the same—beyond the power that he’d given me. -acomaf
Feyre has a lot of similarities with Rhys, which is commented on by others:
He gave me a grim smile. “You can rely on us, you know. Both of you. He’s inclined to do everything himself—to give everything of himself. He can’t stand to let anyone else offer up anything.” That smile faded. “Neither can you.” -Cassian to Feyre, acowar
It's part of why she forgives choices he makes that she gets mad about, because she's able to see where he's coming from and just understands him:
But he'd known I'd react badly. That it'd hurt me more than help me.
And what if I had known?
What if I had known that Rhys was my mate while I’d loved Tamlin?
It didn’t excuse his not telling me. Didn’t excuse the recent weeks, when I’d hated myself so much for wanting him so badly—when he should have told me. But … I understood. -acomaf
Rhys not sharing burdens with his family is a trait he shares with Feyre and one they acknowledge:
“They’d be happy if you let them shoulder the burden.”
“The same way you rely on others to help with your own troubles?” -Feyre telling Rhys to confide in the IC the way he does for her, acomaf
She and Rhys have tons of parallels and similarities, but they also just relate because they understand (and even share) each other's trauma:
"I felt your pain, and sadness, and loneliness. I felt you struggling to escape the darkness of Amarantha the same way I was." -Rhys to Feyre, acomaf
Maybe he only understood because he, too, had been helpless and without choices, had been forced to do such horrible things, and locked up. -Feyre on Rhys understanding her trauma, acomaf
This was mentioned multiple times by sjm, too:
"Rhys has his own history that allows him to have some perspective on how Feyre might be feeling." -on Rhys being respectful and treating Feyre as an equal
"He and Feyre are both battling trauma, despair, anxiety, and tremendous guilt. And their journey from that dark place to learning that they are worthy of being loved and accepting love is so important to me." -on acomaf's healing journey
While none of this means people can't analyze Rhys outside of Feyre's POV, everything we see of Rhys inside Feyre's POV is intended context to understand Rhys's actions and motivations outside of her POV, when we get less information on him and have to extrapolate more.
That she loves him and thinks highly of him later doesn't change any of that, especially because we have tons of examples of readers liking characters that all the narrators dislike or being critical of characters who the narrator loves. Outside of if someone projects onto narrators that their emotions become yours, Feyre's feelings shouldn't really bias readers much, or obscure any of the information that can let everyone draw their own conclusions.
But because Feyre's POV on Rhys is the most complete, detailed, and informative one we have, the one that lets us really understand why and how and what Rhys does and thinks and feels, it is also the most reliable one.
I really think everyone who has any feelings whatever way about any of the Archeron sisters could really help to be reminded that they are 22-26 and every other character in the series is like 500.
“Feyre committed war crimes” - Feyre was a 20 year old going through a bad breakup who girl bossed way too close to the sun. Take your Spring Court falling apart issues up with the 500 year old High Lords who watched and allowed it. If the man I thought I was going to marry at 19 had a Court I probably would’ve crashed that shit too. FRONTAL LOBE NOT YET DEVELOPED!!
“Nesta is a bitch/abusive/mean” Nesta is a teenage girl with a sister and they have all been put into horrible circumstances (reminder: Cassian physically beat Rhys up and no one calls him “abusive”) and then she is a traumatized S.A. survivor who literally died and is being constantly put in situations she is very uncomfortable with and has frankly incredibly tame reactions (I mean, it’s not like she goes around telling people they are unlovable and that everyone hates them).
“Elain is useless/boring/doesn’t do anything.” Oh so we hate Feyre for fucking shit up and we hate Nesta for being “mean” and now we also hate Elain for *checks notes* “nothing.” Elain is a girl whose entire life was turned upside down twice and she is quite literally navigating her mind no longer being entirely her own as well as a weird new bond she doesn’t understand. What do you want her to do, exactly? She picked up a knife when the situation call for it OK. Not to mention that we seriously have enough centuries old warriors taking up their swords we don’t need Elain and her rolling pin bonking the enemy now the war is over ok GOD FORBID A GIRL HAVE HOBBIES AND ENJOY THEM
Anyway thank you for coming to my ted talk on the infuriating state of misogyny in a series with a largely female fan base. Be mad at the men. They’re all insane frankly - and sometimes hot, and it’s fantasy, so it’s fine but GOOD LORD PEOPLE.
I wouldn't say they're exactly the same. Both are about revealing a truth the listener would rather not hear, but on what they differ is in how the listener reacts to the information. The scroll of truth showcases a listener that rejects the truth, whereas the Spider-Man one showcases a listener that accepts the truth even though it pains them. You can use them interchangeably, of course you can. But using the right one for the right occasion will help you make a meme that's more relatable for more people
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.
Gold hair caught the dim light.
My breath punched from my lungs. "Morrigan."
I tumbled out of bed, my dagger forgotten as I all but threw myself at her. She caught me effortlessly, her arms wrapping tight around my waist, solid and real, her familiar scent washing over me.
"Oh, I've missed you," she murmured, holding me as if she'd been gone for years rather than two unbearable weeks.
I pulled back just enough to take her in, my hands framing her face, my eyes darting over her features, searching for any sign of injury. My stomach knotted at the gauze wrapped around her waist, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.
"I thought you got out safe?" I whispered.
She smirked. "Forgot some things."
There was something reckless in her eyes, something sharp and unyielding.
My stomach tightened further. "Mor—"
"I'm getting you out of here."
Her grin was edged with mischief, with certainty.
—
I had heard the rumors—the hushed whispers exchanged between patrons in dimly lit taverns, drunken murmurs of a secret city our High Lord kept hidden from the rest of us. A place untouched by the cruelty of the Hewn City, a myth spun to keep fools hopeful.
I never believed a word of it.
But Velaris was real.
"The City of Starlight," Morrigan had said, her voice breathless with something I hadn't seen in her since we were reckless, ignorant children. She'd smiled then—wild, unguarded. And I had known, in that moment, that every whispered legend had been true.
The city thrived even in the late hour. Laughter and music curled through the streets, golden lights casting soft glows against dark stone. I had never dreamed a place like this could exist, not outside of bedtime stories and half-formed wishes. And yet, Mor guided me through its winding paths as if it were the most natural thing in the world, showing me pieces of the Night Court I had never dared to imagine.
Until, finally, she led me to a small cabin at the edge of a quiet clearing.
Warm light spilled from its windows, shadows dancing against the wood as the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter leaked into the night. It was a thrilling sound—carefree, safe.
Mor stepped onto the porch, her fingers curling around my wrist as she turned back to me with a smirk. "I've been living here for the past few weeks," she hummed, as if it were no great thing. "And I decided I missed my roommate."
Her words barely registered over the clatter of voices inside. I could hear the easy teasing, the playful shouts.
I hesitated.
"It's Rhysand's cabin, but—"
"The High Lord's?" I whirled on her, my stomach clenching.
Mor blinked, as if I'd said something absurd. "He's my cousin, you know?"
I did know that. Of course I did. But the knowledge didn't stop the shiver that traced my spine.
I had seen Rhysand twice in my life—twice was enough.
Both times, I had been convinced I would die right there on the spot, crushed beneath the weight of his power. It exuded from him like a second set of wings, dark and monstrous. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath his steps. To say he was powerful was an insult to the very meaning of the word. He was terror incarnate, the nightmare that lived in the dark corners of every court.
I had heard the stories—of him reaching into minds and shattering them from the inside out, twisting their own fears into weapons sharper than any blade. He did not need to lift a hand to kill.
My throat went dry. "He's not in there, is he?"
The words were barely a whisper, but Mor only shrugged, far too casual. "Sure he is."
I nearly choked. What?
"Mor—"
She didn't give me a chance to protest.
Her fingers curled around mine, firm and unwavering, and before I could think to dig in my heels, she had pulled me forward—up the steps, through the doorway, past the foyer—until I was standing in the heart of the house.
The moment we entered, the conversation stopped.
Four sets of eyes locked onto me.
Hazel. Silver.
And then—
A violet gaze, piercing and unrelenting, dilated with something unreadable.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Rhysand.
The High Lord of Night. The male who could level entire armies with a flick of his wrist, who could peel apart minds like flower petals and leave nothing behind. The nightmare whispered about in every corner of the Hewn City.
And he was staring at me.
His lips parted slightly, as if words had caught in his throat.
Mor, of course, was entirely unaffected. "Gentlemen," she said, grinning as she strode deeper into the sitting room. "And Amren."
The silver-eyed female merely flicked a gaze over Mor before cutting straight to me, a sharp, assessing glance that made my stomach twist.
I was still trying to school my expression into something other than imminent death panic when Mor gave my wrist a final squeeze and released me.
"I'd like you all to meet—"
"She's my mate."
Silence.
Utter, perfect silence.
Then—
A choked sound came from the male lounging in an armchair, wings draped lazily over its sides. He had dark hair, hazel eyes gleaming with delight, and an unmistakable aura of shit-eating amusement. That one must be Cassian.
Next to him, another male, shadows curled at his feet like living things, merely blinked—slowly, deliberately—before glancing at Rhys and murmuring, "That was subtle." And there's Azriel.
Rhys, for all his legendary cunning, looked like he wanted to launch himself into the Sidra.
"Mate?" I rasped, my stomach flipping over itself.
No. No, surely not. That was—impossible. I would've felt something.
Or have I all along?
"You must forgive our dear High Lord," Amren drawled, sipping from a glass of something dark. "He usually has more tact when announcing these things."
Rhys finally seemed to snap back into his body, straightening his spine with something like composed horror.
"What I meant to say," he amended, his voice dropping into something far smoother, far silkier—too smooth as if he were compensating, "is that it's a pleasure to meet you."
Cassian snorted. "You just said she was your mate."
"Yes, thank you, Cassian."
Azriel's lips twitched. "I think she got the message."
My head was spinning, my throat tight. But my body had stilled—not from fear, exactly, but from something else. Something coiling in my chest, something aware.
Rhys's gaze flicked to mine, and his expression softened instantly, all humor melting into something devastatingly gentle.
"It's late. You must be exhausted." His voice had dipped, his usual charm tempered with something achingly sincere. "Let me get you something to eat. Or drink. Or—are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket—"
Cassian was shaking with silent laughter. Azriel merely watched, like he was filing this away for later use.
Amren, however, had no such patience. "Oh, for Cauldron's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "She's not a wounded animal, Rhysand, stop circling her like a mother hen."
"I just want her to be comfortable," he argued, flashing her a glare before turning back to me with something so devastatingly earnest that I nearly forgot who he was. What he was.
He liked me.
No—he wanted me to like him.
Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in history, was tripping over himself to win my favor.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than any of the rumors I'd ever heard.
—
I wasn't entirely sure how I ended up sitting on a plush couch in the middle of the High Lord's cabin, wrapped in a ridiculously soft blanket that I didn't remember agreeing to. A cup of tea—also not requested—was placed carefully in my hands, steam curling in the dim candlelight.
Rhysand hovered nearby.
And I meant hovered.
He was standing at an awkward, not-quite-close, not-quite-far distance, shifting slightly as if debating whether he should sit or stand or vanish into the floor. His normally easy, fluid grace had been utterly abandoned, leaving him looking... well. Uncertain.
Cassian, sprawled in the armchair across from me, was barely keeping it together. His wings twitched every few seconds, his lips pressed tightly as if physically holding in his laughter.
Azriel, seated beside him, was far more composed—but the slight upward tilt of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
I took a sip of my tea, trying to make sense of all this.
The High Lord of the Night Court—the terror of the Hewn City, the most powerful male in existence—had declared me his mate. And then proceeded to fall apart before my very eyes.
I was still trying to process it when Rhys spoke.
"Would you like more pillows?"
I blinked. "What?"
His violet eyes were very, very wide. "You look like you could use more pillows."
Cassian made a strangled noise.
Azriel coughed into his fist.
"I—I'm fine," I said slowly, watching as Rhys's shoulders sagged in relief.
Too fast. All of this was happening too fast, I couldn't keep up.
"Are you sure? Because I can get more."
Cassian let out a wheezing breath, eyes shining with unrestrained delight. "Yes, Rhys. More pillows. That's definitely what she needs."
Rhys shot him a withering glare before turning back to me, smoothing his expression into something intended to be charming, but coming across as deeply, deeply desperate.
"Or food!" he blurted. "Have you eaten? I can make you something. Or, well, I can't make you something, but I can get someone to—"
"She has tea, Rhys," Amren cut in dryly. "You shoved it into her hands two minutes ago."
"I did not shove—"
"You definitely shoved," Cassian confirmed, barely containing his cackle. "I thought you were going to spill boiling tea all over your mate."
I flinch slightly at the term as Rhys shoots back with, "I was being thoughtful."
Azriel hummed, taking a slow sip of his own drink, the amber color telling me it was something much stronger than tea. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of this.
Rhysand—the charmer, the schemer, the legend—was unraveling at the seams in front of me.
Because of me.
"I can make my own food," I finally said, mostly just to say something.
Rhys visibly straightened. "Of course! Yes, I knew that. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, his usual ease nowhere to be found. "I want you to feel at home."
Cassian grinned. "I think she'd feel more at home if you stopped looming over her like a lovesick bat."
Rhys's glare could have melted stone.
Azriel just leaned back in his chair, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this," he mused.
Rhys turned his attention back to me, clearly trying to regain some dignity. He attempted one of his infamous smirks. "You must forgive them. They're not used to seeing me flustered."
Cassian clapped a hand to his chest, eyes sparkling. "Oh, it's a gift, truly."
Azriel nodded solemnly. "We should savor this moment."
Rhys looked seconds away from throttling them both.
I just stared at him, still gripping the cup of tea like it was the only solid thing in the world. "Are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His breath caught.
And for a moment, the amusement, the chaos—it all faded. His eyes softened, something raw flickering behind them.
"I'm fine," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "I just... I wasn't expecting this."
Neither was I. But still, something shifted in my chest at the way he looked at me—like I was something precious.
I wasn't ready to name that feeling.
But for the first time since I'd arrived, I didn't feel like running.
Slowly—mercifully—Rhys seemed to remember how to function again.
He settled into the chair across from me, still watching me with those impossibly violet eyes, but at least he wasn't hovering like I might vanish if he so much as blinked.
Not that he'd relaxed entirely.
No, because the moment I so much as shifted—adjusting the blanket, setting my tea down—he twitched as if preparing to leap to his feet and fix something.
If I asked for anything, I had no doubt he'd be up and fetching it before I could even finish the sentence.
But at least he was sitting.
Amren, on the other hand, was done with the entire situation.
With a long-suffering sigh, she stood and stretched. "Alright. That's enough of this."
Cassian perked up. "Of what?"
She shot him a withering look. "The two of you sitting here, watching this disaster unfold like it's a theatrical event."
Cassian grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, but it is."
Azriel just sipped his whiskey, but the small smirk on his lips said everything.
Amren turned her glare to them both, then pointed at the door. "Out."
Cassian gaped. "But—"
"Out," she repeated, already making her way toward him.
Cassian barely had time to dodge before she grabbed his arm, yanking him up with surprising strength for someone so small. "Azriel, move," she barked.
Azriel, for all his shadows and lethal grace, barely managed to stifle a chuckle before obeying.
Rhys, looking very much like a male clinging to the last shred of his dignity, just sighed. "Amren, I hardly think—"
"Oh, please." She shot him a knowing look. "You want them gone."
Rhys opened his mouth. Closed it. Then glanced—too quickly—at me.
Cassian cackled. "Oh, this is so good."
"I hate all of you," Rhys muttered.
Cassian just grinned, throwing an arm over Azriel's shoulder as Amren shoved them both toward the door. "Love you too, brother!"
The door shut behind them then silence settled.
I exhaled slowly, my mind still spinning from all of this—this place, these people, Rhysand, sitting before me and looking as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself.
Mor, still seated beside me, gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Ignore them," she said. "They're menaces, but they mean well."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
She nudged me gently. "You doing okay?"
I hesitated.
Then, quietly, "I think so."
Mor's smile warmed. "Good." She stood, stretching. "I'm just down the hall if you need anything, okay?"
I nodded again. "Thanks, Mor."
She winked. "Get some rest."
And then, just like that, I was alone. With Rhysand.
Who, despite his best attempts to seem relaxed, looked about two seconds away from combusting.
The silence stretched for a beat too long before Rhys cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "So," he started, voice smoother now, steadier, "what do you think of Velaris?"
I exhaled, my grip loosening on the blanket around my shoulders as I glanced toward the window. The city lights still twinkled beyond the glass, mirroring the stars above.
"It's..." I searched for the right word. Magnificent."
His lips curved. "It is." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not what you expected?"
A soft huff of breath left me. "In all honesty, I didn't even expect it to be real."
Rhys chuckled, low and warm. "Most don't."
I looked back at him. "How long has it been hidden?"
His expression turned thoughtful. "Since the war." His gaze flickered to the window, a distant look in his eyes. "My family—my court—has fought to protect it for centuries. It's the one place in all of Prythian untouched by war, by cruelty." He met my gaze again, and this time, there was something softer there. "Now it's yours, too."
Something shifted in my chest at that. The way he said it like I belonged here. I swallowed. "And the court?"
His smile returned, easy and knowing. "You've already met the worst of them."
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "I don't believe that."
"Oh, you should." He smirked. "Cassian and Azriel? Winged buffoons. Mor? Chaos incarnate." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning solemnity. "And me? Well, the stories you've heard don't paint me in the best light, do they?"
A teasing edge now, that sharp, clever humor creeping into his voice.
I tilted my head. "No, they don't."
He grinned, but it softened as he glanced back outside. "You'll see for yourself, though." He hesitated, then added, "You'll be here for Starfall."
"Starfall?"
His eyes lit up, and suddenly, it was as if the shadows in the room no longer existed.
"You've never heard of it?"
I shook my head.
Rhys leaned closer, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial, enticing. "Once a year, the sky does something extraordinary."
I raised a brow, peering out the large arched window to look at the galaxy of stars just outside. "More extraordinary than usual?"
A chuckle. "Much more." He sat back again, watching me with a quiet sort of delight, as if he already knew I'd love it. "The stars don't just shine that night. They fall."
I blinked. "They fall?"
"Mmm." He traced a circle on the arm of his chair. "Not like shooting stars—though it looks similar. The souls of long-lost beings drift across the sky, shimmering trails left in their wake. It's..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Magnificent?" I supplied, unable to help the small smile tugging at my lips.
Rhys gave a slow, approving nod. "Very."
Something warm settled in my chest. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
And then, finally, I allowed myself to really look at him.
Not the High Lord. Not the nightmare. Just Rhysand.
And gods, he was handsome.
The kind of handsome that made the room feel smaller, the air feel warmer. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, those impossibly violet eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of candlelight. And the way he looked at me—like I was something precious. Like he already knew me, in some deep, unspoken way.
I cleared my throat, shoving away the thought. "It sounds magical."
He grinned, and for the first time, it wasn't the grin of a High Lord, or a male who held the power of nightmares in his hands.
It was just a smile. For me.
A slight yawn slipped from me, Rhys was instantly moving.
"Mother above, I've kept you up too late—" He was already leading me toward the hall, his steps brisk, his hands half-lifted as if he wanted to guide me but thought better of it.
I barely had time to keep up as he strode toward a door across from Mor's, gesturing to it like it was some grand reveal. "This is yours—of course, if you don't like it, we can find you another room, or a different house entirely, or—"
"Rhys—"
"I really should have let you rest earlier, I can be insufferable when I ramble, and—"
"Rhys."
"I hope you find everything comfortable, but if you need anything—extra pillows, a softer mattress, a different view—"
I pressed my palm to his chest. He froze.
His breath hitched, just barely—but I felt it beneath my hand, the sharp inhale, the slight stutter of his heartbeat.
His eyes locked onto mine, the violet darkening, blazing.
I had only meant to stop his spiraling apologies, but now... Now the air between us was thick with tension.
Something unseen curled and tightened, coiling like a living thing beneath my skin.
Rhys exhaled sharply through his nose. Slowly—reverently—his hand lifted, covering mine where it lay over his chest. His fingers curled just enough to hold me there, as if... as if he couldn't bear to let go.
Something between us shifted and I didn't have time to decide if it was for the better or not.
A pull, deep in my ribs. An ache that hadn't been there before.
Rhys went completely still.
Like he was waging some great internal war, fighting against a force that neither of us had yet spoken aloud. But I felt it.
The way his fingers tightened just slightly over mine. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something, only to think better of it.
The way his eyes—those star-flecked, devastatingly beautiful eyes—searched mine like they held the answer to something he'd been waiting for.
I should have stepped back.
I should have moved.
Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, fingers twitching against the soft fabric of his tunic.
Rhys swallowed, his throat working around the motion, but he said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly over mine like he was grounding himself—like he needed to hold on. I knew I should step back.
We had only just met.
Yet that fact seemed irrelevant, insignificant compared to the weight of the moment curling between us, thick as smoke.
Because I could feel it—something pulling me toward him, that bond deeper than attraction, sharper than longing. It was in the way his breath came uneven, in the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes, a flicker of something raw, something wanting, breaking through his carefully placed walls.
His lips parted, like he might say something. Like he might stop this before it went too far.
I didn't let him. Didn't give myself the chance to second-guess, to think, to reason.
I surged forward.
Rhys barely had time to exhale before my lips met his. Soft. That was my first thought—how soft his lips were, warm and parting against mine as if in stunned surrender.
And then he was kissing me back.
A sharp inhale, his hand sliding up my wrist, curling around it like he couldn't quite believe this was happening—but wouldn't dare let go, either.
His other hand found my waist, light, hesitant, his fingers pressing in just enough to ground me, to anchor us both in the storm of whatever this was.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't hurried. It was slow, tentative, a gentle exploration.
His nose brushed mine as he tilted his head, his lips parting wider, and I felt the way he breathed me in—like I was something to be savored, something he hadn't known he was starving for until now.
A small sound left me—something between a sigh and a whimper—and Rhys shuddered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into my skin like he needed to remind himself this was real.
We lingered there, caught in something we didn't have a name for, something neither of us had expected but couldn't seem to pull away from.
His thumb brushed along my wrist, slow, reverent, as our lips moved together in a rhythm that felt achingly natural.
Like we had done this a thousand times before. Like we would do it a thousand times more.
When we finally parted, it was only enough to breathe, our foreheads pressing together, breaths mingling.
Rhys's fingers flexed at my waist.
"I—" His voice was hoarse, rough with something unspoken. He swallowed. "We should stop."
I exhaled shakily, my hands still fisting the fabric of his tunic.
"We should," I admitted.
His thumb traced slow, lazy circles along my wrist, like he was memorizing the shape of me, the feel of me.
And then, softer—softer than I'd ever heard anyone speak my name—
"But I don't want to."
I barely had time to whisper, "Neither do I," before he kissed me again.
His lips were still on mine, still moving, still taking, even as he rasped against my mouth, "We can't."
But he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.
If anything, his hands tightened at my waist, fingers pressing into my skin like he was anchoring himself—like he was fighting a losing battle against whatever force was unraveling between us.
I gasped as his tongue slid against mine, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize me, like he was desperate to learn every piece of me with nothing more than his lips, his hands, his breath.
"Rhys," I whispered, not knowing if it was meant to be a plea or a warning.
He groaned, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming out in short, uneven pants.
"I want to know you," he said, his voice so raw, so gutted that it sent a shiver down my spine.
Then his lips were on mine again, harder, deeper, like he was proving it, like he needed me to believe him.
"I want to know everything," he murmured against my mouth, between kisses that left me gasping, left me trembling, my fingers still tangled in his hair. Another kiss, this one rougher, hungrier. "Everything."
I whimpered against his lips, barely able to think, barely able to breathe with the way he was consuming me, the way his words were carving themselves into my ribs.
He groaned, like the sound was being ripped from him. "I—" He shuddered. "Tell me to stop."
I froze beneath him, blinking up at him, my head spinning, my lips swollen from his kisses.
He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven, his hands flexing at my sides.
"Tell me to stop," he repeated, voice ragged, "because I don't think I can on my own."
His words hung between us, raw and trembling, his breath fanning against my lips. I could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his hands at my sides, as if he had branded himself into my very skin. My heart pounded against my ribs, my body warring between the pull of the bond and the sliver of hesitation curling in my chest.
I slipped my hands from his hair, brushing my fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Rhys," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
His eyes, dark and blazing with emotion, searched mine. I saw the restraint there, the war he was fighting within himself, the way his hands trembled against my sides.
I swallowed, forcing myself to find the words through the haze of want clouding my mind. "I'll accept the bond," I murmured. His breath hitched, his entire body going utterly still. "I just need some time."
A heartbeat passed. Then another. And then—he exhaled, his forehead pressing against mine, his entire frame shuddering. His hands skimmed up my sides, gentle now, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of me before letting go.
"You could take centuries," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple, featherlight. "Beyond that, if you wanted. I'd wait for you, always."
Something in my chest ached, something too big to name. I closed my eyes, breathing him in, the warmth of him, the endless patience laced in every word.
I tilted my head up, pressing the softest of kisses against his lips—nothing like the desperate, fevered ones from before. Just a promise. Just a thank you.
His hands lingered on my waist, like he wasn't quite ready to let go, but he didn't stop me as I pulled away. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Goodnight, Rhys."
His eyes softened, something almost wistful in them. "Goodnight, my love."
With a final glance, I turned and slipped into my room, closing the door behind me. And even then, I could still feel him—like a shadow, like a promise—waiting.
Comment or reblog with a “💙” to be added to the general taglist!
summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.
The level of mental hoops that guy had to jump through to say to his wife, "No, honey! Of course I wouldn't be cheating on you! Sex during gaycations doesn't count!"
saw an absolutely hilarious animal crossing theory that i now 100% accept and it’s that in the animal crossing world, humans are going extinct, and so all the animals have locked you in an elaborate zoo enclosure and are trying to give you enrichment. and that’s why they give you infinite pointless tasks, hide money in trees and rocks, invented debt that doesnt matter etc. it’s why they always act so happy to see you even after you raze the entire island, relocate their houses twice, and always act so pleased about your choices no matter what. it’s all to keep their little endangered human healthy and enriched. and thinking of it this way has genuinely improved my experience of the game
For today’s prompt, @cauldronblssd @panicatthenightcourt and I wanted to imagine Rhys after fighting his way through the Blood Rite, earning his place among the most elite group of Illyrians.
We can’t thank @/the.angel.incarnate enough for creating this feral, bloody Rhys for us. We’re absolutely in love with their version of him, and couldn’t be happier with how this turned out!
Art by the.angel.incarnate , commissioned by @cauldronblssd @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus 💗
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
vaporwave
gamechangershow
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
izzy806
andulkaphoto
kianamaiart
