(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something
soft!dark!rhysand x fem!highfae!reader
You have spent your entire life knowing that one day, you might belong to Rhysand.
cw: mdni, dark(ish) themes, possessive/obsessive behaviour, big fat power imbalance, arranged marriage kinda trope, reader is terrified of rhys, feyre and him aren't mates in this story, problematic themes overall
a/n: writing rhys is so fun
You had been promised to Rhysand long before you understood what marriage even meant.
It was one of those facts that simply existed. Like the Sidra. Like starlight. Like the mountains surrounding Velaris.
Something decided by adults in rooms you were never permitted to enter and discussed over wine while children played elsewhere.
Your father had been one of the Night Court's most trusted courtiers. One of the few males Rhysand's father had genuinely respected.
The agreement had been reached when you were barely old enough to speak in complete sentences.
If Rhysand did not find his mate by the time you came of age, if fate did not intervene with its unpredictable hand, then you would marry.
It wasn't uncommon. It was the sort of arrangement noble families made every day.
Only there was one small problem.
You were completely and utterly terrified of Rhysand.
The first time you remembered meeting him, you had been perhaps sixteen, young enough to still hide behind your father whenever unfamiliar people addressed you.
Rhysand had already been well over a century old. Already taller than most males in the room. Already powerful enough that people unconsciously moved aside when he entered. Already carrying himself like someone destined to rule.
You remembered peeking around your father's shoulder, and seeing violet eyes settle on you.
You had nearly died, not literally. But your heart had certainly attempted to flee your body.
Rhysand had smiled at you, a slow curve of his lips that was equal parts amusement and something else entirely, something you were far too young and far too sheltered to identify. And you had immediately hidden again.
The sound of his laughter had followed you all evening.
From that moment onward, you had spent most of your life avoiding him at all cost.
When he returned from training in the Illyrian mountains, you disappeared. When he attended court functions, you developed sudden illnesses. When your father informed you that Rhysand wished to spend time with you, you found increasingly ridiculous excuses.
Once, you had claimed you needed to reorganize your books, all three hundred of them, alphabetically, by color, and then by height. Another time, you insisted that a particular flowerpot in the garden required your immediate and undivided attention, as it had been looking "rather sad" lately.
Your father had nearly laughed himself sick.
Rhysand, unfortunately, had only smiled.
"You know," he'd said conversationally while watching you attempt to disappear behind a particularly decorative shrub, "I'm beginning to think she's avoiding me."
You had nearly tripped over your own feet.
Your father had sighed into his wine. "You frighten her."
Rhysand's gaze had remained exactly where you stood frozen.
Nothing more, just that quiet, god-forsaken certainty he'd always possessed.
It only made everything worse.
He never chased you. Never cornered you. Never insisted you stay. He simply watched you flee with the endless patience of someone entirely unconcerned by the distance between you.
Like he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did.
You certainly didn't. You couldn't help it.
He was overwhelming, even then. Before becoming High Lord. Before the reputation of being the most powerful male in Prythian.
He had possessed a presence unlike anyone else.
And whenever those impossible violet eyes settled on you, it felt as though he saw entirely too much.
So you hid. And he watched. Patiently, always patiently, because he had never been anything else when it came to you.
Years passed. Then decades. Then centuries.
Your father died. Soon after the tragedy that took both his sister and mother, Rhysand's father followed.
And suddenly the terrifying heir became High Lord.
The entire Night Court shifted beneath his command. Cassian became General. Azriel became Spymaster. Amren became his second-in-command. Mor his third-in-command.
The Inner Circle slowly took shape around him. They were warriors, leaders, survivors, bound together by blood, battle, and an unshakeable devotion to their High Lord.
They had fought in wars long before you were born, had bled and killed and nearly died for the court they loved.
And somehow, there was you.
You had no idea what your place among them was supposed to be.
You couldn't fight, couldn't spy, couldn't command armies. Had never even stepped foot on a battlefield. While they carried centuries of scars, your life had remained sheltered, peaceful and safe. You often felt like an accidental addition to a group you had no business belonging to.
Still, when Rhysand informed you that you too would be moving into the Town House, you weren't exactly surprised.
But disappointed. Hopeful, perhaps, because some foolish part of you had whispered that maybe, just maybe, the arrangement would die alongside your fathers. That Rhysand would become too busy, too occupied ruling an entire court, too distracted by the weight of his new responsibilities to remember an agreement made centuries ago.
Instead, your belongings were packed. Your room prepared. Before you knew it, you found yourself living beneath the same roof as the most powerful male in Prythian.
And your future remained exactly where it had always been; tied to Rhysand. The subject unspoken of, but always present. Neither of you discussed it. You certainly weren't brave enough to. And Rhysand…Rhysand never seemed interested in forcing the conversation.
Which, somehow, was even more unnerving. It was as though he had already decided the ending and was merely waiting for the story to catch up to his expectations.
You spent years navigating around him, around all of them. Growing closer to the Inner Circle while never quite feeling like one of them.
Mor dragged you shopping until your feet ached and your stomach hurt from laughing. Cassian annoyed you relentlessly and somehow made you feel more like a younger sister than an outsider. Azriel appeared silently whenever you needed help. Even Amren grew strangely fond of you, though she would sooner drink spoiled blood than admit it aloud.
But there was always a distance, an invisible line. Because they belonged to one another in a way you never quite did.
Then Amarantha came. And when Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the world changed in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.
For fifty years he was gone.
The strangest thing about those years was discovering how much space he'd occupied in your life.
Because suddenly he wasn't there. No deep laughter drifting through the Town House late at night. No familiar feeling of awareness prickling over your skin whenever he happened to look your way.
And somehow his absence felt larger than his presence had.
You hated admitting that. Especially to yourself.
You had expected to feel relief. Instead, you found yourself pausing whenever anyone mentioned Under the Mountain. Listening a little too carefully whenever the others talked of Amarantha.
Sometimes, standing on the balcony of the Town House long after everyone else had gone to sleep, you caught yourself staring toward the horizon, wondering whether someone like Rhysand could truly be broken.
Whether anything in the world was capable of dimming a force that had always seemed…inevitable.
The answer, it seemed, was yes. Though not entirely.
During those decades, life continued in Velaris. It had to. The city endured, and the Inner Circle protected Velaris with fierce determination, ensuring that Amarantha's corruption never touched the hidden sanctuary Rhysand had so carefully build.
The Town House remained full. Just…quieter. Even Cassian laughed a little less.
For the first time in your life, the future felt strangely unwritten. There was no Rhysand quietly existing at the edge of every decision, no overwhelming presence unconsciously shaping the rhythm of your days.
And somewhere during those fifty years, you began building something that belonged solely to you.
Your own friends. Your own routines. Your own apartment.
The apartment had been a battle. Not a dramatic one. There hadn't been any shouting or arguments. Just subtle resistance, the kind Rhysand's family excelled at, the kind that wore you down through sheer persistence, until surrender seemed easier than insisting otherwise.
Cassian had argued that you would be safer at the Town House, that being alone made you vulnerable. Mor had worried that you would become isolated. Azriel had said nothing, but you had felt the weight of his disapproving silence like a physical presence.
Amren, surprisingly, was the one who sided with you. "Let her go," she had said, her voice flat and disinterested. "She's not a child. If she wants to live alone, she should be allowed to."
Eventually, they relented.
You got your apartment. Under the compromise that you would stay at the Town House at least twice a week, a promise you gradually became worse and worse at keeping.
Because your apartment represented freedom. Limited freedom, certainly, but freedom nonetheless. It was a space that belonged entirely to you, filled with books you had chosen, plants you liked and paintings you had admired.
You built a life entirely separate from Rhysand. Or as separate as it could truly be.
Cassian still dropped by unexpectedly under increasingly transparent excuses. Azriel's shadows somehow always seemed to know when you walked home alone. Mor continued dragging you to Rita's whenever she decided you'd spent too many evenings hiding with a book.
You loved them for it. Even if it occasionally felt suspiciously coordinated.
Sometimes at Rita's, you watched Mor flirt openly with strangers. Watched her laugh, choose whichever male caught her interest that evening, and leave with him without a backward glance. Watched her return the following day like nothing had happened, no explanations required, no apologies offered.
You wondered what that kind of freedom felt like.
What it might be like to someday find your person. Not a future husband selected by men long gone. Not the High Lord. Not something arranged through politics.
Someone yours. Someone who chose you. Someone you chose back.
You held onto that dream stubbornly.
Even when Cassian scared away half the males who approached you. Even when Azriel's learned the identities of every male who expressed interest.
Even when part of you suspected Rhysand would never truly allow another male near you.
Not even from beneath a mountain.
Because fifty years was a very long time. Long enough, you told yourself, for promises to fade. Long enough for old arrangements to lose their meaning.
Long enough to believe that perhaps, when Rhysand finally returned—if he returned—everything would be different.
Then fifty years ended. And the world changed. Without your knowledge, without your permission, without warning.
You were finishing dinner with your friends when Rhysand returned, a mundane moment interrupted by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something had shifted in the Night Court.
You felt something deep beneath your ribs tighten so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, though you could not have named it then as anything more than unease, a strange, inexplicable wrongness threading through your thoughts like a hand brushing over the back of your neck.
The entire Inner Circle was gathered at the Town House when it happened.
You wouldn't learn exactly how furious he had been until later, how he had appeared in the Town House, exhausted and damaged and barely holding himself together. How he had embraced his family, his warriors, his closest confidants. How he had looked around the room, noting each familiar face, his expression growing darker with every moment that passed. How he asked one question.
Which, to Rhysand, became the only answer that mattered.
You would not learn later how still he had gone after that moment. How every trace of relief, every fragment of survival, every hard-earned breath Under the Mountain had been set aside like something irrelevant.
How he had simply asked again, calmer, slower this time.
And how no one had been able to answer him immediately because the implication of what it meant to return without you in sight had not yet settled properly into words.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door later that evening, your hand was trembling. You noticed it, and frowned faintly at yourself, blamed the long day, the wine you'd shared over dinner, anything except the truth your body was already beginning to understand.
He was already waiting, seated in your chair, legs crossed elegantly. Surrounded by shadows and looking impossibly beautiful, impossibly dangerous, and impossibly alive.
And when he looked at you, you stopped breathing entirely.
For a moment you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at the male you had been running from your entire life.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand times. None of those fantasies involved him being angry.
His gaze was already fixed on you, dark and intense and burning with something you couldn't quite identify. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness, your heart pound in your chest, your knees threaten to give out beneath you.
"You weren't home," was the first thing he said.
Home. You weren't sure if the Town House had ever truly felt like home.
"I…" Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "N-No."
You could see the muscle in his cheek twitch, the way something in him tightened at the sound of your voice. His gaze moved over you then, reassuring himself that you were real. That you were unharmed. That after fifty years, he had finally made it back to you.
Then the bond snapped. And the world exploded.
The word echoed through every part of you.
You had imagined the mating bond before. Dreamed of it, even. Wondered what it might feel like to experience that cosmic connection, that magical recognition, that perfect union of two souls meant for each other.
You had imagined warmth and certainty and joy.
Not your entire soul lurching forward as if recognizing something it had spent centuries searching for. Not your knees nearly giving out. Not your heart breaking and healing simultaneously.
Across the room, Rhysand had frozen. For the first time in your life, you saw him stripped utterly bare. Shock, wide and unguarded flashed across his face. Relief so profound it nearly stole your breath.
Then something else crept into his expression. Something infinitely more possessive. Something that made your blood run cold.
The expression terrified you. Because suddenly every fear you'd ever carried became real.
You had wanted a mate. You had dreamed of one.
But not like this. Not someone who already had a claim on your future. Not someone powerful enough to remove every alternative.
Tears burned your eyes, and you stumbled backward.
His face immediately changed. Something wary entered his expression. Like he recognized exactly what was happening inside your head.
You hated that. Hated that he knew you so well.
And when he took a step toward you, you ran. Actually ran. One heartbeat he stood across the room. The next you were lunging for the front door. Not because you thought you could outrun him.
Because prey ran. It was instinct. Pure, thoughtless instinct.
You barely reached the door, before a solid body blocked your path. You slammed directly into his hard chest.
A startled noise escaped you as his strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could fall.
Your palms landed flat against his chest. The entire thing happened so quickly your mind struggled to process it.
For one awful second, all you could think was that if he'd wanted to, he could have caught you before you'd even taken the first step.
"Mm," he murmured quietly above you, almost to himself. "So that's how we're starting?"
Your heart stopped. Then immediately started trying to beat its way out of your chest.
His voice was not raised, not sharp, not even angry. Nothing about this situation had surprised him at all. As though he had already seen every possible version of this moment and chosen the one where you were in his arms anyway.
His hands remained around your waist, not tightening, not pulling, only there, steadying you. It somehow felt far more intimate than if he'd held you tightly.
His eyes followed the movement instantly.
The invisible thread seemed to hum, warmer now, heavier, like it was settling into place with growing certainty that made your chest tighten painfully.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip.
You immediately stepped backward.
Rhys let you. He simply released you enough that you could move, though the space between you did not truly feel like space at all, because he followed the motion with nothing more than a subtle shift of his body, as though he had already accounted for exactly how far you might go.
As though he had already measured every possible escape you might attempt.
"I need you to breathe." The words were impossibly gentle.
You hated how your body obeyed. Air filled your lungs in one shaky inhale.
His shoulders eased. Just slightly. As though your breathing had been affecting him too.
"You don't have to run," he said. His voice was quieter now, more careful.
You looked at him, really looked.
At the tension beneath that impossible composure. At the tremor in the fingers hanging motionless beside his thighs. At the way his chest expanded a fraction too deeply before every sentence. Like speaking calmly required conscious effort. Like there was something inside him straining so violently against its leash that even breathing had become work.
"Would you let me reject the bond?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
The answer arrived instantly. Not through words. Through his expression, through the absolute steel in his eyes.
Rhysand's gaze dropped for half a heartbeat. Not to your face or your hands. But to you. Like he was seeing you in a way he had never allowed himself before.
"I need you to listen to me," he spoke, his voice even lower than before. Somehow that made it infinitely more dangerous.
"I know this isn't what you wanted." He paused, "I know. And I know you're frightened."
Something had slipped through his control like a breath he hadn't meant to let out.
"But I have waited for you for a very long time."
The words landed too softly. Because nothing about the way he was looking at you matched softness at all. His gaze held yours, unblinking and steady. Patient in a way that made your skin crawl.
"As for what happens next," he murmured quietly, a faint shift in his stance barely perceptible, "you are going to hate me for a while."
"And I will still be here."
Still, he did not move closer, did not touch you. Your gaze landed briefly to the front door. To the impossible distance between it and you. To the male standing in the way. You knew for a fact, that if he decided you weren't leaving, the door might as well not have existed.
As if he'd read your thoughts, Rhys followed your gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't amusement, not quite. Something rougher, something honest.
"That," he said, "is a different conversation."
That expression returned. The one that made him seem less like a High Lord and more like a male who had been starving for far too long.
Then, just as quickly, control slammed back into place. His throat bobbed. A swallow. A very mortal gesture.
And somehow that affected you more than anything else.
You forced your shoulders to relax. It didn't work.
The connection stretched taut.
Your weight shifted forward without you meaning it to, just slightly. A fraction of movement, the kind your body made when something inside you leaned before thought could stop it. Toward him.
It was not even conscious. Not a decision rationally made. Just the bond, pulling like gravity disguised as instinct.
And yet the effect on him was immediate. Rhysand went utterly still. Like the world had narrowed to that single, almost imperceptible motion.
His breath changed. A sharp inhale that he did not fully complete. His hands flexed once, slowly. Like he was physically stopping himself from doing something he had already begun to prepare for.
"Don't," he said, the word quiet.
But it was not directed at you. It seemed to be directed inward, at himself.
You froze, heart suddenly too loud.
"I didn't—" you started, confused, because you hadn't meant to move at all.
"I know," he interrupted gently. Rhysand took a deep breath. "But I am asking you to be careful anyway."
You frowned. "I don't understand."
"No." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. "I don't suppose you do."
The restraint was suddenly louder than anything else in the room.
Rhysand exhaled slowly. His shoulders lowered by a fraction, like he was forcing himself back into himself. Back into control. Back into the version of him you had always known.
But now you had seen the crack. And cracks did not disappear once you noticed them. They only became harder to unsee.
"You are going to make this difficult," he sighed quietly. It almost sounded like amusement, almost.
But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made you want to clench your thighs together.
And then, softer again, "I already know I won’t mind."
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