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Apologize for being late 😅 Hit a little writer’s block
Headcanons:
Warning: OC/AU mentioned
🌙 Rhysand in Lunathion tends to wear his signature black that’s casual yet classy. Black turtlenecks, silk button up shirts, wool overcoat, polished dress boots, and always paired with delicate silver or titanium jewelry. He always makes sure to look effortlessly sexy no matter where he is.
🌃 Given the fact that he does enjoy luxury, Rhys would probably rent or even purchase a nice spacious villa in FiRo or stay at a 5 star hotel penthouse near the Old Square. Since Rhys, Cass, Az, and Mor frequent Rita’s in Velaris often, I can assume he wouldn’t mind the club scenes, especially if his Inner Circle was with him. He’d probably go to some nice restaurants and spend some leisure time at an outdoor cafe.
🌌 The fact that Rhysand has an extremely distant much younger cousin with similar face structure and eye color who dresses like a rebel irks him a little. Ruhn having a vastly different personality and calling him “that Night Court guy” personally annoys Rhys to no end for some reason he can’t quite put his finger on. Once drinks get involved though, the atmosphere gets a lot more relaxed. If he’s with Cass and Az, Rhys relaxes around Ruhn’s crew a lot easier because Cassian works like a bridge between the groups, ready to challenge Ruhn, Flynn, and Dec to drinking game, roping Rhysand and Azriel on to his team.
✨ Bryce Quinlan is Rhysand’s personal headache but the fact that she is one of Selena’s best friends makes him have to hold his tongue for once. She’s fiery and bold and isn’t afraid to call out smug males like him. Given she too is his much younger distant cousin, he also sees some of himself in her, such as her habit of doing what she thinks is best without telling anyone and that little smugness they both get when antagonizing their enemies. He honestly doesn’t know if he should respect her or be wary of her, especially with her influence over Selena.
🎥 One thing Rhysand finds truly enjoyable about visiting Lunathion is the movies. He likes being able to go with Selena on little dates to the movie theater after a nice fancy dinner. Sometimes he’ll have a projector set up on a rooftop where they can watch movies with snacks and wine while cuddling against some cushions and then stargazing afterwards.
I think after the events of ACOSF Rhysand needs an emotional support animal to deal with all the stress, guilt and trauma his family went through.
He gets a new puppy but it suspiciously has golden fur and green eyes (and are those antlers coming in?) Meanwhile, no one has seen Tamlin for a while...
💕 Rhysand as a lover is intense. Once Rhysand had redeemed himself to Selena after everything they’ve been through, he wasted no time in making sure she felt like his. They spend many nights watching the stars together, talking about anything and everything, stealing kisses and maybe sharing a bottle of sweet wine. Rhys will often pull her into his lap and she’ll brush back his hair and trace the Illyrian tattoos on his chest with a gentle finger. Sometimes they’ll have conversations while kissing where she’ll open her mind to him. He finds it amusing that she’ll want to continue their conversations while their lips are preoccupied with each other.
👗 Rhysand is the type of guy who spoils his partner whether they like it or not. If he had it his way, he’d buy out a lingerie store and have her trying on a new little silky lacy set each and every night he had her near before ripping them off her. She has agreed to a couple of slip nightgowns of her choosing in midnight blue, blood red, and pine green, all with a nice slit to her hip. He loves the way it clings to her, especially the midnight blue slip. He loves pairing it with one of the tiaras from the Night Court treasury, even if it does make her roll her eyes at his dramatics.
🫣 When it comes to turn ons and spicy activity, he decides to become the artist for the night, painting masterpieces along her body with his tongue. He loves slipping into her mind to whisper filthy praises and compliments, enhancing the feeling over every touch and kiss. He’s even tried taking her on the bridge between their minds while their bodies are tangled with each other, overwhelming her with the dual sensations. Rhys is generally more dominate, using his magic to hold her down, cage her with his wings when he summons them, and gives commands he frames as always her choice, though he has taken a liking to her attempts to command him, putting him in his place, and even biting him, making him groan. When she does bite, he teases that she’s taking pages out of Tamlin’s handbook. 🤭 If he had it his way, he’d never let her leave his bed.
😈 There is nothing Rhys loves more than having his ego stroked, among other things. He loves sensually being called “High Lord” and “my Lord” in bed. It sends a thrill down his spine, especially when it’s in response to one of his commands. Rhysand knows he’s handsome as sin, so being called “pretty boy” in bed makes him chuckles and want to misbehave more.
🌌 The first time Rhysand and Selena spend the night together, it’s in the Cabin. She still doesn’t fully trust him even though she was beginning to soften to him, but the weight of everything during the war weighed heavily on her. The two of them sought comfort in each other that night and he made the decision after that night that he needed more of her. He needed more time with her in every way, but that means finally looking into that mirror she held to him whenever they argued. She was worth it for him and he wanted to be better.
Feyre plans a game night—and not only does Mor ditch, but Mor’s cousin from Illyria shows up unannounced. Rhys is just like Feyre remembers: incredibly hot, out of her league, and still has that flirty look in his eye.
She's only had two one-night stands in her life. Both were disastrous. But he doesn't need to know that.
“Tattooed daddy?” he snorts. "Who taught you guys that?"
"Oh please," she huffs, standing a little taller. “Like I needed to be taught." Just as the words leave her mouth, her eye snags on the whorls of ink on his arms and neck. They snap up faster than natural.
Holding her eye, he brings his glass to his mouth. He sips, slow. Amused. Her stubbornness clamps down, refusing to break eye contact first, even as her skin starts to burn—
Finally, he lowers the glass and brushes a thumb across his lower lip. “Is that what you call your one-night stands?”
In retrospect, this was all Feyre’s fault for not doing enough research. She had just been so relieved– she’d been putting in applications for office jobs for years and this was the first one to ever respond. Somehow she had made it through three rounds of interviews and she was finally here, on her first day.
It was technically just a job in the mail room, but still: it was a 9-5 position with full benefits, something Feyre had never had before. She’d only held a series of shitty service jobs in the past, but now that Nyx was older, she needed stability. Needed a daytime job that would pay her bills. Needed health insurance– god, did she need health insurance.
After a one night stand that resulted in pregnancy, Feyre has every intention of never seeing the father of her child again. Life has other plans.
Written for Rhysand Week Day 6: Daddy @officialrhysweek
Sorry this is late 😅 had to re-listen to the UTM section of ACOTAR. Hopefully what I ended up with is good.
Headcanons:
Warning: OC/AU mentioned, violence, evil Rhysand
🎭 When it came to masks, Rhysand wore his so well that sometimes he didn’t know where the mask ended and he began. Cruel, manipulative, and willing to use an innocent girl as a tool to reach his goals so long as she proved herself useful. He couldn’t let himself falter or show kindness because he had too much at stake. He was constantly at war with his interests; on one hand, he wanted his freedom more than anything, but on the other hand, his rivalry with Tamlin made him want to prolong his suffering just a little longer almost to the point of obsession.
🦴 The reason Rhysand bets on Selena during the first trial is because when he saw her in that throne room when she made the bargain with Amarantha, she had a feral, unyielding look in her eye that intrigued him. He wanted to test if she simply had the eyes of a wolf or if she had the teeth to back it up. He learned by holding her mind for Amarantha that she once trapped small game and was interest to see if she had survival instinct and cleverness to be worth his time so when she has to trick and trap the Middengard Wyrm, he watched with a cruel smirk to see if she was truly some doe-eyed girl foolish enough to love Tamlin or the key to his salvation out of this cursed court.
🌌 The first time guards tricked Selena into Rhysand’s chambers for some ridiculous menial task, after Rhys entered, she grabbed the fire poker and pointed it at him, asking if he was planning to force himself on her and make her his plaything since the guards were so gracious to drop her into the room for him. The suggestion alone angered Rhys enough to grab her by the throat and squeeze until she dropped the poker, his shadow mirroring his irritation before he quickly schooled his face and dropped her. Her words triggered him because she didn’t yet know what Amarantha was putting him through behind closed doors as her so-called “whore”. Her words did spark an idea as he looked at the bargain tattoo he left on her so he gave her a choice to play the role of his obedient captive for the night or he’d find even worse ways to humiliate her in front of all the courts from every night on. He had Nuala and Cerridwen dress her in that poor excuse for a dress and paraded her around Amarantha’s ball in front of Tamlin because he wanted everyone to believe she was his new plaything. It gave him an excuse to be around her whenever he wished.
🎶 The first time he paraded her as his plaything amongst the court, Rhysand made sure she stayed alert and aware of her surroundings, making her sit on his thigh and watched her size up the room. No faerie wine, he wanted her to see and hear everything around her, even if it was a nightmare. Only when he believed she had seen what she needed to see did he force her to drink until she woke up in her cell the next morning. Entertained by Rhys making what was suppose to be her captive into his plaything, claiming he was bored, Amarantha ordered Rhysand to make Selena entertain them at the next gathering. Selena was put in a golden cage for everyone to see and forced to sing haunting melodies devoid of hope until her throat hurt. Amarantha repeated this for many nights until she got bored. Rhysand knew this would only burn a fire in Tamlin so he let it continue just enough before he found something else for Amarantha to focus on. Most nights he made Selena act like his servant, pouring him wine and hand feeding him fruit. He kept her close because he wanted her in the center of gossip and drama at all times.
🧹 Rhysand under the Mountain played more psychological games with Selena compared to canon. He constantly spoke in double meanings and played mind games with her that kept her thinking. He shoved her in small dark broom locked closets and compelled her not to scream for a couple hours when Amarantha’s goons prowled heavily in the halls. Being unable to control her own body in that dark space was suffocating. In the closet, she not only avoided being beaten or worse but she was allowed to listen in on conversations.
🥖 Making everyone believe Selena was his plaything meant Rhysand had an excuse to summon her and bring her to different parts of the court, where if she was smart, she’d keep her eyes and ears open. He bullied and toyed with her but in reality, he wanted to know if she was observant enough to pick up clues to help her prepare for the second trial and the riddle. Everything he did was a test but it also kept her out of Amarantha’s goons hands and allowing her food that wasn’t rotten. Two birds with one stone, piss off Tamlin and make sure this girl wasn’t incompetent so they’d have a chance of stopping Amarantha’s hold on Prythian. To Rhysand, this human girl had to be his tool so he wore a mask of cruelty to make sure she didn’t falter. Even if she looked at him with hatred, it was worth it to him.
“I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.”
One-Shot • 2.6k words • CW: Nonconsensual sex is depicted, but not gratuitously.
Just one more night. One more. Tomorrow, we’ll all be free, or we’ll both be dead.
For @officialrhysweek Day 5, "Masks:" Rhys's POV of the night before the third trial.
“I’m tired of you for tonight,” I say, smooth and sardonic. Like kissing her meant nothing, like the ink on my hands means nothing. Like my body isn’t screaming to drag her back, get her out.
I shove her toward the door and smile when she stumbles. “Go back to your cell.”
She looks over her shoulder, and for one treacherous heartbeat, I think she’s looking at me. But her eyes slide past, to where Tamlin stands at Amarantha’s side.
Whatever she sees makes her face crumple—Cauldron, this human can’t keep her emotions hidden for one godsdamned second—and she sulks out of the throne room, bare feet slapping on the cold stone, door thudding shut behind her.
If Tamlin had any sense, he’d ignore her.
If he really loved her, he wouldn’t be able to.
My own gaze lingers on the door for a moment too long. When I finally turn, Amarantha is grinning, and I can’t tell if it’s from genuine, wicked pleasure, or from having caught me staring. I let the cruelty linger on my lips, shooting her a smirk before sauntering toward the opposite end of the room, to a red couch tucked in the corner. She’ll find me if she wants to.
I can’t help but reach along the bond, gently enough that she won’t notice my presence. An unusual connection, our bargain. Probably because it’s tied to her life. I remind myself of this often, which is almost the same as believing it.
There’s anger on the other end. Disgust.
Tonight, it’s hard to remember that this is what I want. Disgust is better than apathy. Anger is less painful than torture at Amarantha’s hands. I should be grateful that she’s alive to hate me at all.
I slump in my seat and hope that I look merely lazy. Just one more night. One more. Tomorrow, we’ll all be free, or we’ll both be dead.
The green-skinned female from earlier is slinking across the throne room, perhaps keen to finish what we’d started. She’s new here. From Spring. She doesn’t yet know that no one has me but Amarantha.
I sit up straighter and beckon her anyway, encouraging her to crawl back onto my lap. In the throne room, it’s better to be occupied. Her fingers begin to trace over my chest, lingering at the buttons of my jacket, and I swallow a shudder. It’s natural to cling to whatever scraps of power we can down here, and even in this state, I have more to offer than most.
She smells like sea foam and freshly cut grass, and I breathe it in. She’s not the one I want, but she’s not Amarantha, either.
“What a stupid girl,” she croons in my ear. “Thinks she’s worth something.” But her glamour is poor, and her fear clogs my nostrils. Anticipation for tomorrow seeps like mud from around her mental shields.
“A silly human,” I agree. “Impatient and stubborn. Imagine falling in love with her.”
For @witchlingsandwyverns and @officialrhysweek 2026!
Summary: When Elain goes missing after being enthralled by the church's new priest, Feyre goes on the hunt. She's not prepared for what she finds.
Just a lil one-shot for Rhys week! I'm in love with evil Priest Rhys...please join me.
This one is for witchlingandwyverns for her beautiful art and inspiration she gives me all the time! Please enjoy my priest paper doll rhys and the fic below or read on AO3.
Propped up on the massive bed, the bindings dig deeply into the skin of Feyre’s arms. Holding still, muscles burning, she’s competing with her body to see what gives out first.
The priest sits across from her, his back to her plight, writing at his desk as if he didn’t just catch her rifling through it twenty minutes ago.
The bindings are not made of rope.
“You’ll never get away with this,” she whispers fiercely, more out of anger than any confidence in her plans.
The man is unphased. Still in his grand, embroidered vestments, the scratch of quill on paper doesn’t even pause at her words.
“Get away with what?” he asks, still turned away.
The devil wears many faces, her mother had once told the girls. Some friendly, some familiar, but always evil underneath.
Feyre clamps her mouth shut. Her mother had another invective: your temper will be the death of you. Still, it served to keep her above her fear so far, every moment he’s left her bound on his bed. Ignoring her.
If only she had told Nesta where she was going.
Three months ago, Elain had burst into their dreary tenement apartment, her face glowing, her arms full of bread. Exclaiming over the new priest at the parish, who preached fire and brimstone from the pulpit but gave soft smiles and generous offerings after mass. He’s so kind - high-minded, but fair, she had told her sisters, skeptical but with mouths full of fresh bread.
One week ago, Elain had disappeared.
And Feyre had entered the grand cathedral for the first time since their mother died.
When she first laid eyes on him - Father Rhys - stepping onto the pulpit, something had filled her - a stillness, a dread, something other inside her body. Her muscles went rigid as she had stared up - at his impossible beauty, the heavy cloaks draped around him like armor. Feyre had felt dizzy until the first words of prayer spilled from his mouth, and she finally took a breath.
Afterwards it had seemed so easy - to follow him down the busy, dark halls, to note which foreboding wooden door he went into. When he left for the evening meal, he didn’t even lock it behind him.
In retrospect, she has been a perfect fool.
Blinking out of her reverie, Feyre jolts to see him turned around, watching her. An amused smile alights his face.
“Where is my sister?” she demands.
A mischievous glint is in his eye. But there’s something else - some predatory darkness that keeps her muscles trembling. Deep down she has memories - nightmares - of when her mother forced them all to weekly mass, and she’d be taken out crying when the father had preached of fire-born demons coming for her soul.
The memory has her pulling at her restraints again, the motions useless. They’re so cold they burn against her skin. He hadn’t even touched her - one look at her in his room and he had simply closed the door, and then she was bound with nothing more than the flick of his fingers and a gust of wind flickering the candles. With the click of the door she was trapped with the inevitability of her fate - he is not human.
“Are you a believer, darling? Somehow I don’t think so. I would have noticed someone like you in the pews.”
“I know enough to know you blaspheme.”
He laughs, the rich sound filling the small, dark room. The words he spoke from the pulpit still echo in her mind - the sneer on his face, the way his fists pounded the pulpit as he told the story of their collective fates - bound to a distant, careless God.
“Has God provided for you and your sister? What has he done that was more generous than the loaves of bread I give from my kitchens? I see you - your face is sunken with hunger. Your clothes are worn and threadbare. And you came here alone to find her - knowing full well the polizia care nothing about missing urchins from the street. God has given you nothing. So why do you defend him?”
As he speaks, something changes in his face. The insouciant charm makes way to anger, a flicker of flame in his dark, amethyst eyes. Perhaps it is the light but she thinks his teeth grow longer, that his form expands as his chest heaves.
“Who are you?” she whispers, anger ebbing further away into fear.
Rhysand stands. His eyes are far away. On the bed her muscles ache, her thighs burning as she kneels on the soft mattress.
Walking to his closet, he takes his time undoing the buttons and ties of his grand vestments, heavy and curved over his shoulders. They hang on a hook in the shadows, looming like a sleeping winged creature. Next are his robes, embroidered and fine with red and gold threaded through black. The fire crackles in the corner. Heavy perfumes of frankincense and myrrh tickle her nose. Underneath his robes he wears plain clothes: wide black trousers, a buttoned tunic that hugs his shoulders. Simple, but finely tailored. Almost in the shape of a man.
Feyre wonders if he’s going to answer her at all when he finally returns to the foot of the bed. She has not yet cried out. She imagines it’s futile. He watches her with a fearful intensity. Flickering, the fire casts light upon his face - dark smudges under his eyes, his cheekbones sharp, his lips plush and sinful. A shadow dances, tethered behind him, wild as the flames.
“I was devout, once. I believed with a fervor to make the saints take notice. This was long ago, an age before your time. But God was still the same. Mysterious. Quiet. And he was never quieter than when my family - my mother and sister, were slaughtered without mercy.”
Feyre’s pulse pounds in her throat.
“I was the one who found their heads severed from their bodies. They were innocent - not that it mattered in the end. I fell to my knees in the cold mud and wept. My cries should have raised the angels. I offered him anything - everything - to bring them back. To ease my pain. And what was his answer? Only more blood. My father was dead the next night, chasing revenge. Chasing justice. Which God had failed to provide.”
Feyre keeps her heart from softness. “You haven’t answered my question.”
The priest smiles. His teeth are sharp. Absently, he pulls at his shirt cuff, rolling them higher as if he has work to do.
“God didn’t answer me that day, or any that followed. But someone else did. And they offered me the means for my revenge.”
In an instant, they unfurl - with a leathery rustling and the flames bursting high in the grate. A pair of dark bat-like wings spreading wide, wider, each tipped with a sharp talon at the joint.
Her breath wooshes from her lungs. Feyre screams, and writhes in her bindings, and falls back onto the bed.
She can't even catch her breath until he’s over her - wings broad, his eyes black as tar.
“Isn’t this what you came to see?”
Her whole body trembles, her knees pressing up against his ribs in her last line of defense. His body is fever-hot. His breath is sweet like incense. When he smiles, she sees two sharp fangs glisten in what’s left of the candlelight.
Is this the last thing Elain saw? Feyre chokes back a sob, and prays that Nesta doesn’t follow them both.
Instead of descending upon her, he pauses, his head cocked as if hearing some far off sound.
“Your sister isn’t dead.”
“What?” Her voice is a shaken rasp from her throat.
“She yet lives. She’s sleeping soundly, under the stones of this very church. But I have need of her.”
The words are out of her mouth before she can think. “Take me instead.”
She doesn’t miss the heat in his eyes as he looks at her, covetous and hungry.
“You don’t know what I need her for.”
It doesn’t matter. If Feyre can spare her sister this fate, torn apart at the hands of this demon, then she’ll do it.
She does not remember her prayers. Instead she has only a single plea on her tongue - “Please.”
A fingernail, sharp as a claw, scrapes down her cheek and she shivers.
“I’m not like him, you know. I do not demand sacrifice without thanks, or take what is not offered.” With a snap, the scent of ozone in the air, her arms are suddenly free. Feyre scrambles and braces her hands against his chest, the weight of him still bearing down.
She cannot trust a word he says. And yet - her heart still beats. He looks upon her strangely.
“Wh-what do you need me for?”
He smiles. Takes her hand. She waits to feel the scrape of his teeth but instead he presses a kiss upon her palm, soft and lingering.
