Can I get HCs for the Bat Boyz & the autumn boyz (Eris & Lucien, my favourites) with this dialogue:
“There’s nowhere to sit” “My lap is right here.”
Bonus points: if it’s not always the boyz’ lap that’s being referenced here. Personally I think Lucien, Rhys and Cass would find it hilarious.
Thank you! 💀
“My lap is right here.”
Pairing: ACoTaR men x Fem!Reader (separately)
Summary: requested above.
Warnings: All fluff with some suggestiveness!
A. Note: this is just a little something for you guys while I finish my Azris x Reader story (it’s already 10k words…) it’s gonna take me a minute to edit that so enjoy this while you wait! :)
Rhysand
Rita's was packed, the music thrumming through the air, a bass-heavy pulse that vibrated through the floor. Laughter and conversation wove together, filling the space with an electric kind of energy. You should have expected this—should have known that a night out with the Inner Circle would be anything but quiet.
The lot of you had managed to snag one of the larger rounded booths, a semicircle of plush velvet meant for maybe six or seven people. But there were ten of you, and despite the shuffling, adjusting, and outright shoving that had taken place, only nine had managed to squeeze in.
Which left you standing there, arms crossed, staring at the filled seats.
"Well, where am I supposed to sit?" you asked, arching a brow as your so-called friends barely spared you a second glance. Even Amren—tiny, ruthless Amren—had somehow managed to claim a spot.
Before anyone could answer, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you forward with a familiar, effortless strength. A gasp left your lips as you tumbled into a broad, solid chest, your mate's scent of sea salt and citrus washing over you as he caught you with ease.
"My lap is right here, darling," Rhys purred into your ear, his voice a velvety caress. His arms caged you against him as he leaned back into the booth, utterly at ease with you in his lap. "This seat is always reserved for you."
A flush crept up your neck, heat coiling low in your stomach as his lips ghosted over the sensitive spot just below your ear. You swatted at his arm half-heartedly, though you didn't move away.
"Get a room," Cassian groaned, shaking his head. "Or at least wait until we've had a few drinks before you start eye-fucking each other."
"Oh, please," Mor cut in, already sliding out of the booth. "Tell me about it, Cass. I'm getting a round."
"Get us doubles!" Amren called after her. "We're going to need them." She sighed beneath her breath.
The table erupted in laughter, but Rhys barely paid them any mind. His fingers traced idle patterns along your thigh, his lips still dangerously close to your ear.
"You don't mind sitting here, do you?" he murmured, the hint of amusement in his voice making it clear he already knew the answer.
You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze, violet eyes dark with mischief. "I think you planned this," you accused, narrowing your eyes.
His smile was all wickedness and charm. "And if I did?"
You huffed, shaking your head—but you didn't move from his lap. And judging by the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, you doubted he had any intention of letting you go.
Let Mor bring the drinks. You had everything you needed right here.
Azriel
"Hi, handsome," you greet, a smile curling at your lips as you swing open the door to your apartment. The crisp scent of rain drifts in with the night air, mingling with the warmth of your cozy home. Azriel stands in the doorway, shadows curling subtly around him as if hesitant to cross the threshold.
His hazel eyes soften as he takes you in, lingering on the comfortable sweater you've thrown on, the glow of candlelight flickering in the background. He steps inside, shaking a few stray raindrops from his hair, and you close the door behind him, shutting out the storm.
"You're soaked," you remark, reaching out to help him shrug off his damp jacket. His fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, and even with the chill clinging to the fabric, his touch is warm.
"It's cold out there," he murmurs, eyes scanning the space around him. He's never been to your apartment before, and you watch with amusement as his gaze sweeps over the small but welcoming interior—books stacked in uneven piles, a few blankets draped over the couch, a candle flickering on the coffee table. A place lived in. A place entirely yours.
"But it's nice in here," he adds, his voice dipping lower as he turns back to you.
You barely have time to process his words before his lips are on yours—slow, deliberate, his hands coming up to cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss. You melt into him for a moment, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest before you pull away with a playful smile.
"Come on," you say, tugging him toward the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."
Azriel hesitates. It's subtle—the slight shift of his weight, the way his wings twitch behind him as he glances at the couch. It's not exactly built to accommodate a six-foot-something Illyrian warrior with a wingspan that could cast an eclipse over your entire living room.
"Uh... where should I sit?" he asks, the uncertainty in his voice so rare it almost makes you laugh.
You smirk, patting your lap in invitation. "Right here's an option."
His lips twitch in amusement, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze before he makes his decision—easing down onto the couch beside you instead. His wing unfurls slightly, shifting behind you before settling around your shoulders like a warm, protective cloak.
You hum contentedly, pulling a blanket over both of you and nestling into his side. The steady beat of his heart thrums against your ear as you relax into the comfort of his presence.
"Thought you'd take me up on my offer," you tease, tilting your head to glance up at him.
His lips brush against your temple, voice low and amused. "Maybe next time."
For now, you're more than happy with this—wrapped in the warmth of him, the scent of rain and cedarwood clinging to his skin, and the quiet, unspoken promise that he is exactly where he wants to be.
Cassian
"Babe, you in here?"
Cassian's voice carries through the library just before his head peeks around the doorway. You don't bother looking up, too engrossed in the book cradled in your hands—a detailed account of art created during the war. Nestled beneath a thick pile of blankets in a massive leather chair that practically swallows you whole, you simply lift one hand from the cocoon of warmth and wave lazily.
"Here."
He steps inside, brows knitting together. "I called you through the bond. You didn't answer."
"I'm reading," you murmur distractedly, flipping a page without sparing him a glance.
"Reading or not, answer next time. I was worried, okay?" His voice dips into something softer, more serious as he strides deeper into the room.
You hum in vague acknowledgment but don't respond, eyes locked on the words before you.
“Baby," he tries again, tapping a finger against the edge of your book.
You snap your gaze up at him, blinking as if just now remembering his presence. "Huh?"
Cassian exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Okay?" he repeats, waiting for some kind of confirmation.
Not entirely sure what you're agreeing to but wanting to return to your book, you nod absently. "Yeah, okay."
He watches you for a long moment, his broad shoulders deflating when you go right back to reading. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the soft crackling of the fireplace and the faint rustle of pages.
"Aren't you going to ask why I was looking for you?" His voice carries the weight of expectation.
"...No." You shrug, completely unrepentant.
Cassian lets out a dramatic sigh, his hope for your attention swiftly diminishing. "If you look at me right now, I'll leave you alone with your book," he mutters.
Your head snaps up instantly, locking onto his warm caramel gaze.
"Cauldron, you're determined," he grumbles. Then, in one swift motion, he swipes your book from your hands and snaps it shut.
You gasp, eyes widening as you reach for it. "Cassian!"
"You can read later. Give me attention now," he hums, looking far too pleased with himself.
You narrow your eyes at him, lips parting to protest, but then an idea strikes. You soften your expression, tilt your head slightly, and give him the biggest, most pitiful puppy-dog eyes you can manage.
His smirk falters. Then crumbles entirely.
"Okay, I'm sorry," he blurts, scrambling to return your book. He flips it open and, somehow, miraculously lands on the exact page you were on.
You blink in surprise before shooting him a suspicious look.
"What?" he says innocently, though the glint in his eye suggests he knew exactly what he was doing.
Still, you smile in triumph, sinking deeper into the chair and pulling the book back into place.
Cassian frowns at you, clearly still unsatisfied, and before you can react, he swoops in, effortlessly lifting you from your seat.
A startled yelp escapes you as he sets you on your feet, stealing your chair for himself. You huff but refuse to be deterred, standing directly in front of him, reading as if nothing had happened. Every so often, you flick a page, ignoring the weight of his amused stare.
A sudden shiver wracks through you, the realization settling in—you had been so warm under that blanket. You glance up to find Cassian comfortably wrapped in it now, looking entirely too smug.
"Give me my spot back," you grumble, crossing your arms.
"My lap is right here," he counters smoothly, patting his thigh.
You roll your eyes but don't hesitate long before crawling into his lap. His arms immediately come around you, securing you against his chest as he reclines the chair back. The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your back, melts away any lingering annoyance.
Without another word, you resume reading, far more comfortable now than you had been before. Cassian presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair in a way that is both distracting and soothing.
You silently thank him for keeping your hair out of your face, appreciating, despite everything, that he always finds a way to take care of you—even when he's being insufferable.
Eris
The golden throne is a masterpiece—intricate carvings of twisting flames and autumn leaves adorning the armrests, the deep red cushions a striking contrast against the polished gold. But the true vision of perfection is the male seated upon it.
Eris, legs spread carelessly, his head resting against his palm, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. His auburn hair catches the flickering candlelight, a halo of fire framing his sharp, impossibly beautiful features. His amber eyes—always so sharp, always so calculating—soften slightly as they land on you.
You shift your weight, feeling oddly out of place as you stand before him. "So... do I get a throne too?" you ask, tilting your head.
Eris raises a single brow, amusement flickering across his face. "Why?"
You blink at him. "Because this is the throne for the ruler of Autumn," he explains, as if the answer is obvious.
"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "But I just mean... I'm High Lady. Shouldn't I have a throne too?"
It feels strange, asking for something like this, but before you were even married, Eris made it abundantly clear—you are his equal in all things. He's never once treated you as anything less.
He exhales softly, watching you as if he's trying to puzzle something out. Then, finally, he shrugs. "We share a bed. Shouldn't we share a throne?"
Your lips part in protest. "It's not exactly large enough—"
But before you can finish, Eris moves. With a fluidity that makes your breath hitch, he reaches forward, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward him. A startled gasp escapes you as you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the throne just as you land in his lap, straddling one of his thighs.
The position leaves your faces mere inches apart—your wide eyes meeting his entirely relaxed, smirking expression.
His hands settle on your waist, fingers drumming idly against the fabric of your dress. "We can get you your own throne if you really want, pretty," he murmurs, his voice a silken promise. "But what's mine is yours. So share this with me—for now, okay?"
You stare at him, still slightly stunned by the sudden shift, the warmth of him seeping into you, the firm press of muscle beneath you. His scent—smoke and crisp autumn air—wraps around you, grounding you in the moment.
Slowly, you nod.
"Good," he whispers, his smirk softening into something dangerously close to adoration before he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.
A kiss that lingers, that tastes of fire and devotion.
And as you melt into him, you think—perhaps his lap as a throne was a perfectly good alternative.
Lucien
The gathering was already in full swing by the time you and Lucien arrived. The grand hall, adorned in golden candlelight and autumnal tapestries, was packed with High Fae from various courts. A long banquet table stretched through the center of the room, lined with platters of rich food and goblets of deep red wine.
You had expected a formal meeting—discussions of trade agreements, court relations, maybe a bit of posturing. What you hadn't expected was an entire buffet spread out on the table, and for every seat to be taken.
Lucien, of course, had found one easily, already seated comfortably among the dignitaries. His russet-red hair gleamed under the chandelier's glow, and he looked completely at ease, one arm draped over the back of his chair, a goblet in his other hand. He was already speaking with someone from the Winter Court, his voice warm and smooth—an effortless diplomat.
You stood at the edge of the table, scanning for an open seat. Nothing.
Lucien's keen gaze flicked to you. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips. "Problem, darling?"
You crossed your arms, pursing your lips. "There's nowhere to sit."
Lucien took a languid sip of his wine, clearly reveling in your predicament. Then, with all the smugness in the world, he patted his thigh. "My lap is right here."
You shot him a sharp look, but he only raised a brow, entirely unbothered. His amber eye gleamed with mischief, the gold in it catching the candlelight. "Unless you'd rather sit in one of my brother’s advisor’s lap?" he mused, tilting his head toward the older men at the end of the table, who were giving you disgusting looks but thankfully too far away to catch wind of Lucien's ridiculous suggestion.
Your glare hardened. "Absolutely not."
Lucien grinned like the cat that got the cream. "Then by all means, make yourself comfortable."
You let out a long, suffering sigh before lowering yourself onto his lap, doing your best to maintain your dignity. His arms came around you without hesitation, one resting lightly at your waist while the other adjusted to make space.
“You know,” He started, lips brushing your ear. "You could have at least pretended to resist a little longer," he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you.
"If this makes a scene, you suffer the consequences."
Lucien hummed in amusement, fingers absently tracing patterns against your hip. "I think I rather like these consequences."
You were about to retort when a voice from across the table chimed in. "Comfortable?"
You looked up to find Helion watching the two of you with raised brows, his expression far too entertained.
Lucien didn't miss a beat. "Very," he replied smoothly, fingers tightening just slightly at your waist.
Helion chuckled, shaking his head, but said nothing more. Like father like son.
You, on the other hand, were going to murder Lucien the second you were out of sight of the High Lords.
But for now, as the night carried on, his warmth steady beneath you, his presence grounding in a way you weren't entirely ready to admit—you allowed yourself to relax, just a little.
And if Lucien pressed an occasional kiss to your shoulder throughout the evening, well... you supposed you could let that slide.
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