Reader getting challanged to a drinking match with Cass which she fails horribly at and starts asking for her husband, so when rhys gets jealous and asks who this husband is? She's like "you, silly"
And que extremely flustered rhys, he's like darling we aren't married, which makes her really upset so he has to play along (he loves it)
cute idea!
Rhysand x fem!reader who is looking for her husband [913 words]
CW: pre-established relationship, mentions drinking, reader is very drunk and apparently a bit of an emotional drunk, reader is also single and the bane of Cassian's existence, fluff/crack
“Mor, you’re being absolutely no help right now,” Cassian huffs, causing Rhysand and Azriel to pause their conversation at the sound of the rest of the family returning to the House of Wind.
“I’m not the one who made this mess now, am I?” Mor hisses back, clearly trying to keep quiet though the other two occupants are very much already aware of your presence.
The two males share a quick look before quietly standing and making their way towards the grumblings, murmurs, and awkward thumps coming from the trio.
“M’not a mess!” You all but wail in response, and Rhysand’s steps speed up as he follows the sound of your distress.
“No, of course you’re not, gorgeous,” Cassian backtracks immediately, though the exhaustion in his voice is palpable.
“You’re not a mess, sweets. Cassian’s just an ass,” Mor agrees, imbuing her tone with a sticky sweetness that has even the shadows curling.
You sniffle. “He’s s’mean to me.”
“Oh, Cauldron,” Cassian groans, “Rhys is gonna kill me.”
“Kill you for what?” Rhysand asks as he finally makes his presence – and the fact that he was aware of your arrival – known.
“Mother abo- hey, Rhys,” Cassian starts, nearly dropping your rather listless frame in his surprise before hauling you back up against his side.
“What am I going to kill you for, brother?” Rhysand asks again, though he’s beginning to make some educated guesses at the fact that you can barely stand and are rather distraught in his arms.
“What? Oh! No, nothing, we-”
“Cassian challenged Y/N to a drinking challenge and she lost and now everything he says makes her cry,” Mor quickly spews all in one breath.
Cassian swears under his breath. “First of all, she challenged me. Secondly, not everything I say makes her cry, just-”
“He’s been s0- s’mean, Rhys,” you lament around a hiccup, turning your glassy eyes and pouty lip towards him and Rhysand is a sad, pathetic male because he folds immediately.
“What’s he done to you, darling?” He coos rather pathetically, earning him a huff of amusement from Azriel.
“I only told her the truth,” Cassian grumbles under his breath as he transfers your weight over to Rhysand.
“He sa- he said he wouldn’t bring me t’my husband,” the end of your sentence is punctuated by a sob and Rhsyand’s unsure which has him feeling more murderous: the idea of you with a husband, or your brokenhearted wailing.
“Now, why would you say such a thing, Cass?” Azriel deadpans so earnestly that Rhysand’s lips threaten to pull up at the corners.
Cassian, though, turns to glare at him with a look that could level battlefields. “Because she doesn’t have one.”
“I do too!” You almost squeal, letting your arm fall in a way that Rhysand thinks was meant to simulate a stomp of your foot, if only your feet weren’t actively working against you at the moment.
“And, who is this…husband?” Rhysand finally manages to ask, crouched on the floor of his home with the female he’s been in love with for nearly as long as he can remember – curled up in his arms and drunk six ways to Sunday – sobbing into his chest about a husband he’s quite sure you don’t have.
You suck in a hiccuping breath, roughly rubbing the back of your fist along your eyes before looking up at him as though he might be the saviour from whatever strife you’re currently experiencing.
“It’s you,” you murmur, bottom lip somehow finding a way to jut out even further as you blink wet lashes at him. Fissures fracture across Rhysand’s heart, leaving spidery splinters in its wake.
Mor, it seems, takes pity on her poor High Lord, attempting to placate the teary fae currently torpid in his arms. “Sweetheart, you and Rhys aren’t-”
But Rhsyand’s immediately shushing you (and her) when your eyes squeeze shut as though Morrigan telling you that Rhysand isn’t your husband causes you actual, physical pain. Rhysand is starting to wonder if he doesn’t feel it, too.
“Sh, sh, sh. Of course I am; why would they say such things, hm?”
He’s immediately fussing over you, brushing a few baby hairs licked with sweat from drink and dance away from your temples with gentle thumbs before moving to clean away the tears marring your perfect face.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs as he presses fleeting kisses to your hairline.
“Unbelievable,” Cassian huffs from somewhere to his left; Rhysand has effectively shut the rest of the world out as he leans into his new role, his favourite role.
“So mean,” you repeat, though your ire is significantly swayed in the face of Rhysand’s affections.
“They’re just terrible, aren’t they? Cruel, wicked fae. Let's get you cleaned up and ready for bed, hm?”
Rhysand makes quick work of collecting you from the floor, tucking your head under his chin as he supports you with one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees before he makes his way towards your chambers.
He’s too busy murmuring sweet nothings into the crown of your head to pay much mind to the family snickering behind him, watching the two of you leave.
“He is so whipped,” Azriel murmurs, offering Cassian a conciliatory pat to the shoulder for thinking he could hide you from Rhysand at all, let alone when you were so distressed.
“Y’gotta admit, though,” Mor adds, “he’s a pretty good husband.”
hi!! I have this little idea (if you’re okay with that) of reader being cassian or azriel’s sister who has a thing for rhysand, and growing up she would always want to spend time with them but they would always just leave her chasing behind them because they’re doing “boy stuff”. Fast forward, they’re all grown up and Rhysand sees that her friend group treated her badly and they keep making plans without her and he goes all protective over her and realizes he has feelings for her
Background Noise
pairing: rhysand x reader
warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows
—
Solitude and you had become fast friends.
You were used to being left alone.
Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.
They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”
“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.
No one wants to be friends with a dud.
A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.
You learn to adapt.
Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.
“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.
“I’d rather suffer.”
Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”
“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”
Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.
You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.
Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.
The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.
He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”
Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”
“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”
He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”
The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”
“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”
Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.
It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.
Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.
It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”
“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”
Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”
“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”
“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”
His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.
He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.
It doesn’t work.
Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.
“Maybe we should go look for her?”
“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”
Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.
It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.
“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”
You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.
To find safety.
Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”
“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.
It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”
Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.
Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.
The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.
You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.
Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”
They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.
Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.
Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.
He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.
You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.
“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”
“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”
“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”
The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”
“What? No. This is your home.”
“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”
The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.
Confess.
Or watch you flee.
His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”
You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.
He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.
You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.
He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”
“Rhys.”
“I will choose her,” He confesses, his heart pouring out on a platter and seeping into the rug below. “She belongs to me, brother. If you don’t fix this, I will choose her over you.”
Summary: Rhysand is distracted by his newly found mate when she decides to sit in his lap during a meeting with Azriel and Cassian.
Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (female), unprotected sex (wrap it kids), dirty talk.
Authors note: I’m back… again. So sorry, I have been unpacking and back to my summer job but I am editing stories still. Also I don’t think if people read this all but I am starting to think to do different stories of characters from different shows and such, like I am some about Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody (Shawn Hatosy🤭) and such. Just lmk if yall would like to see more! But as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻!
Main Masterlist:
𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐
The study is quiet save for the low murmur of voices and the scratch of a pen against paper.
Rhysand stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the dark wood as he listens to Cassian ramble about Illyrian training camps for what feels like the tenth hour in a row.
Azriel leans against the bookshelf nearby, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders while he flips through reports.
And Rhys... Rhys is trying very hard to focus.
Truly.
He stands behind his desk with all the effortless authority expected of the High Lord of the Night Court—shoulders relaxed, expression composed, violet eyes sharp as Cassian drones on about patrol routes and Illyrian camp disputes.
On the surface, he looks perfectly in control.
But beneath it?
He's unraveling.
Because the mating bond hums constantly at the back of his mind, warm and alive and impossible to ignore. Every emotion you feel brushes against him in soft waves, every distant thought tugging at his attention like invisible fingers beneath his skin.
And after only two days—two miserable, interrupted days—of being allowed to have you entirely to himself before duty dragged him away again, his self-control is hanging by a thread.
The scent of you still lingers on him.
On his clothes.
In his sheets.
On every inch of his skin.
Cassian keeps talking, Azriel occasionally adding something low and practical to the conversation, but Rhys hears barely half of it. His pen taps once against the desk as he forces himself to focus on the reports scattered before him instead of the empty doorway across the room.
Because if he lets himself think too hard about you, about the way you looked beneath him.
The soft sounds you made when he kissed down your throat.
The feeling of your hands in his hair while you whispered his name like a prayer—
He is absolutely not surviving this meeting.
So he focuses.
Or attempts to.
Right up until the doors open.
But the mating bond hums warm and alive in his chest, distracting in the most unbearable way imaginable.
Two days.
Two miserable, pathetic days.
That was all the time the Mother had apparently deemed appropriate for him to spend with his newly discovered mate before the responsibilities of being High Lord came crashing back down onto his shoulders.
Two days before meetings.
Before stacks of reports began appearing across his desk again like a personal punishment from the Cauldron itself.
Before politics and court tensions and trade disputes demanded his attention from sunrise to well past midnight.
Before Cassian resumed stomping through his study at all hours, loudly complaining about Illyrian commanders, training budgets, and "idiotic warriors with the survival instincts of drunk goats."
Two days.
That was all Rhysand had been given with his mate before the world came crashing back in.
And he is handling it very poorly.
A fresh report lands onto the growing pile at the edge of his desk, and Rhys signs it with visible irritation, the elegant scratch of his pen just slightly too sharp against the parchment.
Cassian keeps talking.
Something about the northern camps.
Or maybe the eastern ones.
Rhys honestly has no idea anymore.
Because every few minutes, his mind drifts helplessly back to you.
To waking up tangled in soft sheets and warm skin.
To your sleepy smile against his throat.
To the feeling of your fingers tracing along his wings while the bond between you glowed so brightly it nearly drowned him in it.
It's maddening.
He's one of the most powerful males in Prythian.
A High Lord.
Ancient. Feared. Respected.
And yet the mere thought of his mate is enough to make him stare blankly at a report for three straight minutes without reading a single word.
Cassian notices immediately, unfortunately.
"You haven't heard a damn thing I've said, have you?"
Rhys signs another document with unnecessary force. "I heard enough."
"You heard nothing."
"I heard you whining."
"It's called military strategy."
"It's called complaining with maps."
Azriel snorts softly from where he stands near the bookshelf.
Cassian glares at both of them. "You're impossible."
Rhys leans back slightly in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as exhaustion and frustration pull at the edges of his composure.
Because the truth is simple:
He does not want to be here.
He wants to be upstairs with you curled against his chest while the rest of Prythian figures itself out without him for a few more days.
"You're glaring at the paper like it insulted your bloodline," Cassian notes lazily.
"It did," Rhys replies flatly.
Azriel snorts quietly, shadows flickering once around his shoulders in silent amusement at whatever insult Cassian is currently muttering under his breath.
Rhys barely notices.
He's halfway through signing another report, attention split between the parchment in front of him and the constant ache of the mating bond pulling at his chest, when—
The doors open with a quiet creak, the sound barely cutting through the low hum of the study, soft enough that it shouldn't have drawn anyone's attention at all.
But Rhys looks up instantly anyway, his focus snapping toward the doorway with a speed that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with something deeper—something wired into him now in a way he's still not entirely used to.
The pull of the mating bond, steady and insistent beneath his ribs, drags his attention there before he even consciously decides to move.
And the moment he sees you standing in the doorway, everything in him shifts.
The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders from hours of meetings starts to ease without permission, his expression softening in a way that would scandalize half of Prythian if they ever saw it.
The careful, controlled edges he wears like armor fall away piece by piece, replaced by something unguarded and wholly focused on you.
It isn't just recognition—it's relief, it's warmth, it's the simple, undeniable fact that you're there and suddenly nothing else in the room matters nearly as much as that.
The tension sitting heavily across his shoulders eases first.
Then the crease between his brows disappears.
The cold, carefully controlled mask he wears through meetings and politics and endless responsibilities melts away so quickly it would be almost shocking to anyone who didn't know him.
Cassian notices immediately.
Azriel does too.
Because one second Rhys looks like the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court—
And the next he simply looks like a male hopelessly in love.
There you are.
His mate.
His beautiful, devastating mate.
Framed by the doorway beneath the soft glow of starlight spilling through the study windows, looking entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.
Or perhaps fully aware.
With you, Rhys is never completely certain anymore.
The bond between you brightens instantly the moment your eyes meet his, warm and golden and alive enough that he feels it clear down to his bones.
Gods.
He missed you.
It's ridiculous considering he saw you barely an hour ago, but after only two days together before duty tore him away again, every moment apart feels wrong in a way he still hasn't adjusted to.
His mouth curves before he can stop it. Not the arrogant smirk he gives the rest of the world.
Not the sharp grin that usually accompanies his teasing. No, this smile is softer. It's warmer and entirely yours.
And for a brief moment, Rhys forgets completely that Cassian and Azriel are even in the room.
Down the bond, his voice slips smooth as silk into your mind.
'Go in our bedroom for me, sweet girl.'
Heat flashes through the bond immediately—amusement, affection, something teasing—and Rhys narrows his eyes slightly.
You ignore him.
Completely.
Cassian notices first, because of course he does.
"Oh, that's dangerous," he mutters under his breath.
You walk toward Azriel instead, holding out a folder. "You asked for these earlier."
Azriel reaches for it with a quiet, "Thank you."
His fingers brush yours for half a second as Azriel takes the folder from your hands—an entirely accidental, insignificant touch that means absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Rhysand sees it.
And his reaction is immediate.
The warmth leaves his expression in an instant, violet eyes narrowing with terrifying focus as his stare locks onto Azriel like he's personally committed treason against the Night Court.
Pure territorial instinct flashes across Rhys's face before he can stop it, the possessive edge of the mating bond rearing its head so fast it's almost impressive.
Azriel freezes mid-motion, shadows going still around him as realization dawns.
Cassian watches the entire thing happen from across the room.
Then outright chokes on his own laugh.
Not a normal laugh either—a startled, wheezing sound of disbelief as he stares between them.
"Rhys," Cassian says carefully, already grinning, "you know Az isn't trying to steal your mate because she handed him paperwork, right?"
Azriel slowly lifts one brow, still holding the folder while Rhys continues glaring at him like he's debating how difficult it would be to bury a Spymaster's body.
And the worst part?
Rhys knows he's being unreasonable.
Knows it.
But the mating bond thrums hot and possessive through his chest anyway, especially when you remain entirely oblivious to the silent male drama unfolding around you.
Rhys watches you round the desk toward him, and his heartbeat immediately picks up.
Finally.
Maybe you listened after all. Maybe you're going to kiss him. Maybe you're going to whisper something filthy down the bond just to torture him in front of his brothers—
But no.
Instead, you simply settle yourself into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Rhysand stops functioning the second you settle into his lap. Not metaphorically, not briefly—actually stops.
His entire body goes rigid beneath yours, every thought in his head scattering so fast it's almost embarrassing.
The pen in his hand stills against the parchment mid-signature while his breath catches hard in his chest, violet eyes widening just slightly as he stares up at you in complete disbelief.
One moment he's the composed High Lord of the Night Court discussing military reports and politics, and the next his mind has gone utterly, catastrophically blank because his mate just climbed into his lap in the middle of an Inner Circle meeting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Heat floods up his neck almost instantly, his heartbeat turning uneven as the scent of you surrounds him completely, warm and familiar and impossible to think through.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that you look entirely comfortable there, tucked against him without a hint of hesitation, while Rhys sits frozen beneath you trying and failing to remember how to form a single coherent thought.
You curl comfortably against his chest, completely content, one arm sliding loosely around his shoulders as you glance at the reports scattered across the desk.
"What were you talking about?"
Silence falls over the study so abruptly it's almost deafening.
One second Cassian is mid-sip from the glass in his hand, smirking like usual, and the next he slowly lowers the drink while staring at Rhys with open disbelief.
Across the room, Azriel immediately looks down at the floor, shadows twitching violently around him as if even they are struggling not to react.
Because sitting behind that desk is not the cold, untouchable High Lord the rest of Prythian fears.
Not the ancient, devastatingly powerful male capable of bringing entire courts to their knees.
No—Rhysand is blushing. Brightly.
Color spreads unmistakably across his cheeks and down the elegant line of his neck while his hands remain frozen at your waist, violet eyes locked helplessly on you like he's forgotten how breathing works.
And somehow, the sight of the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court completely short-circuiting because his mate climbed into his lap is so absurd that neither Cassian nor Azriel can process it for a solid five seconds.
The color spreads from the tips of his ears down his neck while he stares at you like you personally descended from the stars to ruin him.
"My love," he says weakly.
You blink innocently. "Yes?"
Cassian loses it.
A sharp bark of laughter explodes out of him as he doubles over in his chair.
Rhys glares at him, but it lacks any real threat because one of your hands has started absentmindedly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Mother save him.
His wings twitch violently behind the chair.
Azriel finally looks up, mouth suspiciously tight like he's suppressing a smile.
"You were saying something about the northern camps," Azriel prompts.
Rhys stares at him.
Northern camps?
What in hell is a northern camp?
Your lips twitch against his jaw like you know exactly what you're doing to him.
Down the bond comes your soft, smug amusement.
'You told me to go in the bedroom. You never said I couldn't wait here.'
Rhys nearly inhales his own tongue.
Cassian groans loudly. "Please stop flirting through the bond during meetings."
"We aren't," Rhys snaps automatically.
"You're blushing so hard your ears match the Sidra at sunset," Cassian replies.
Rhys opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you shift slightly in his lap to get comfortable, and every coherent thought leaves his body immediately.
"You know," Cassian says thoughtfully, "for a male who only got two days of mating frenzy, you're surprisingly easy to break."
Rhys finally drags his eyes from you long enough to glare murder at him.
"Leave," he says flatly.
Cassian grins. "No."
You look up at Rhys sweetly. "Am I distracting you?"
The genuine confusion in your voice makes it worse.
So much worse.
Rhys stares at his mate sitting innocently in his lap while his brothers watch him unravel in real time.
Then he sighs deeply, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his chest.
"Meeting adjourned."
Cassian is still laughing when he rises from his chair.
Actually laughing.
The kind that makes him wipe at his eyes as he points at Rhys like he's just witnessed something historic.
"Oh, this is priceless."
"Get out," Rhys growls.
But there's no bite behind it now—not when you're curled against him, not when one of your hands is lazily tracing circles against the back of his neck.
Azriel quietly gathers the reports from the desk, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away entirely.
"You're never going to recover his reputation after this," Cassian says to you.
You blink up innocently from Rhys's lap. "I don't know what you mean."
Cassian snorts.
Rhys just narrows his eyes, though the effect is ruined completely by the pink still dusting his cheeks.
"Leave," Rhys repeats, more tired this time.
Azriel finally takes pity on him.
He moves toward the door, shadows swirling with obvious amusement. Cassian follows beside him, still grinning like a menace.
"You know," Cassian says as he reaches the doorway, "I always wondered what would finally humble the mighty High Lord of the Night Court."
Rhys flips him off without hesitation, violet eyes narrowing with all the exhausted irritation of a male who knows he's being mocked mercilessly and deserves every second of it.
Cassian only grins wider.
The sound of his laughter fills the study—loud, shameless, echoing off the dark stone walls as he backs toward the doorway with Azriel beside him.
Even Azriel looks dangerously close to smiling now, shadows curling restlessly around his shoulders like they, too, are entertained by the sight of the High Lord of the Night Court blushing over his mate sitting in his lap.
"You're finished," Cassian says with the confidence of someone who knows he's just gained years' worth of blackmail material. "Completely finished."
Rhys opens his mouth, undoubtedly to threaten him, but your fingers drift lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck at the exact wrong moment.
His entire train of thought vanishes instantly.
But Cassian notices immediately. The Illyrian lets out another victorious bark of laughter while Azriel lowers his head slightly, shoulders tightening once in what looks suspiciously like suppressed amusement.
Traitors. Both of them.
Then Cassian reaches for the door handle, still shaking his head in disbelief. "The mighty Rhysand," he mutters dramatically. "Brought down by a female in his lap."
"Get out," Rhys growls, though the command has lost nearly all its power beneath the warmth spreading up his throat.
Cassian salutes mockingly.
Azriel finally pulls the door open.
Cool air from the corridor slips briefly into the room as the two males step out, both still grinning like they've just witnessed the downfall of a kingdom instead of their High Lord completely melting beneath his mate's attention.
Then the heavy doors swing shut behind them with a soft click.
And silence settles over the study at last. For approximately two seconds...
Because the moment the latch clicks into place, you turn in Rhys's lap and press your mouth softly against the side of his throat.
Rhys freezes.
A shudder rolls through him instantly.
"Sweetheart," he breathes.
You kiss lower, slow and absentminded, like you aren't fully aware of the effect you're having on him.
Which is a lie.
A complete lie.
He knows it from the way amusement flickers teasingly down the bond.
Rhys's hands tighten instinctively around your waist.
Outside the study, Cassian's loud voice echoes faintly through the corridor.
"Oh, they're absolutely making out already."
Azriel actually laughs quietly.
Rhys closes his eyes in suffering while you hide your smile against his neck.
"They can hear us," he mutters.
"And?"
Gods.
You press another kiss just beneath his jaw, and Rhys's head tips back against the chair before he can stop himself.
The High Lord of the Night Court—feared across Prythian—reduced to helpless silence because his mate decided to sit in his lap and kiss his neck during a meeting.
Cassian is never going to let him live this down.
The moment your lips meet his, Rhys groans into the kiss—low and desperate, like he's been holding himself back for far too long. His tongue slides against yours, tasting you, claiming you, as his hands grip your hips and lift you effortlessly off his lap.
You gasp against his mouth as he sets you on the edge of the desk. Papers scatter. A glass of wine tips and spills, but neither of you care. His palms sweep across the surface, shoving everything aside until there's nothing left but you, laid out for him like an offering.
He doesn't break the kiss. Not when his fingers find the buttons of your shirt. Not when he rips them apart with an impatient growl, sending tiny buttons skittering across the floor. The fabric falls open, and he pulls back just long enough to look at you—breasts bared, nipples already peaked from the cool air, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough.
Then his mouth is on your stomach. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your sternum, over your ribs, tasting every inch of skin. When his lips close around your nipple, you arch into him with a sharp moan, fingers threading into his dark hair and pulling.
He sucks hard, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak, and the vibration of his answering groan sends heat pooling between your thighs. His hips grind against the edge of the desk, and you feel exactly how much he wants you—hard and ready, straining against his trousers.
You reach for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons.
He chuckles against your skin, warm and breathless. The sound vibrates through your core.
"Impatient, aren't you?"
But he doesn't stop you. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulls them down your legs in one smooth motion, along with your underwear. You're bare beneath him now, exposed and wanting, spread out on his desk like a feast.
And then he drops to his knees.
The sight steals the breath from your lungs.
The High Lord of the Night Court. Most powerful High Lord in Prythian. On his knees. For you.
His violet eyes meet yours, dark and blazing with hunger, as he spreads your legs wide and settles between them.
"Watch me," he commands.
And you do.
You watch as he lowers his head. As his tongue drags slowly, deliberately, through your slick folds. The first taste draws a groan from deep in his chest, and his eyes flutter shut like he's savoring something exquisite.
Your head falls back, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your hands fist in his hair as his tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, tormenting. He licks into you like he's starving, like he's been waiting his entire existence for this moment.
"Rhys—" His name is a whine on your lips.
He hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck.
"Say it again," he murmurs against your flesh, not pausing.
"Rhysand—please—"
He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth, and your vision whites out for a moment.
His tongue works you relentlessly, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks, reading your body like he's memorized every reaction. And he has.
He knows exactly when to speed up, when to slow down, when to press his tongue flat and let you grind against his face.
The sounds you're making are shameless. Whines and moans and half-formed pleas that fill the study. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady as he drives you higher and higher.
"Come for me," he says against you, the words barely coherent. "Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you."
That's all it takes.
You shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash through you. He doesn't stop. He laps at you through every pulse, drawing it out, groaning against your cunt like your release is his greatest achievement.
When you finally stop trembling, he rises—slowly, deliberately. His chin glistens. His lips are swollen, wet. His eyes are nearly black with desire.
He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good girl," he breathes against your lips. "Such a good mate for me."
Before you can catch your breath, he's pulling his pants down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and he wraps a hand around himself, pumping slowly as he meets your gaze.
"Ready for me?"
You nod, still breathless.
He lines himself up and pushes inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust.
The moan that tears from both of you fills the room.
He bottoms out and stills, letting you adjust. His forehead presses against yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—gods, you feel incredible."
You clench around him deliberately, and his hips jerk.
"My little minx." Then he starts to move.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you need them. His rhythm is punishing in its gentleness, each thrust grinding against your clit, building that coil in your belly again.
"You're being so good," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so well. My perfect mate."
But when you start to grind against him, meeting his thrusts with increasing desperation, his tone shifts.
"Ah, ah," he chides, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Someone's eager. Grinding against me like an animal in heat."
Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't stop.
"Please," you whimper. "Rhys—please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me harder."
His eyes flash.
He gives you exactly what you want.
His pace turns brutal. The desk creaks beneath you, papers long forgotten, as he pounds into you with relentless intensity. Each thrust drives you higher, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucks you toward another peak.
"That's it," he growls. But when the wave crests and you tighten around him, crying out his name.
He pulls out.
The sudden emptiness makes you sob in frustration. "Rhysand!"
He shakes his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Bad girl. You came without permission."
Before you can protest, he grabs your hips and flips you over. Your chest presses against the cool wood of the desk, ass in the air, completely exposed. His hand comes down on one cheek with a sharp crack.
You yelp.
"That's what happens to bad girls," he says, voice low and dangerous.
He spanks you again, and the sting radiates through your skin, mixing pleasure with pain.
"Count."
"Two," you gasp.
Another slap.
"Three."
Your whine is pathetic, desperate.
He runs his palm over the heated skin, soothing the burn.
"You want my cum, bad girl?"
"Yes—please—I'll be good—"
"I know you will."
He lines himself up again and slams into you from behind. The new angle is deeper, harder, and you moan into the desk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.
His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.
"You don't come until I say so," he pants, fucking into you with deep, punishing strokes. "Understand?"
"Yes—yes, Rhys—"
"Good girl."
He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His breathing is ragged, his composure cracking with each thrust.
"I'm close," he admits, voice strained. "Where do you want it?"
"In me—please—"
"Beg for it."
"Please, Rhysand," you whimper, voice breaking. "Please come inside me. I need to feel you—I need—"
He groans, and you feel him thicken, pulse.
"Come with me," he commands. "Now."
The permission is all you need. Your release crashes into you, and as your walls clench around him, he follows—hot and deep, filling you as he groans your name like a prayer.
You collapse together, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck.
For a long moment, there's only the sound of your mingled breathing.
Then he kisses your shoulder.
"My good girl," he murmurs. "Even when you're bad."
Outside, distant laughter echoes from the corridor. Cassian's voice carries through the stone walls, "told you. Absolutely making out."
And Azriel's quiet reply, “that’s not making out, dipshit.”
Authors Note: Protective Rhysand? YES PLEASE. Request by @callmeleighd
The first thing you noticed was the silence.
Not complete silence—there was never complete silence in an Illyrian war-camp—but the sudden absence of laughter from the group of warriors behind you.
It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You were carrying a basket of supplies across the camp when a shadow fell over you.
"Where are you rushing off to?"
The male's voice was thick with amusement.
You recognised him immediately. Older. Bigger. One of the warriors who thought rank and size entitled him to whatever he wanted.
You offered a polite smile and stepped around him.
"Busy."
His hand caught your wrist.
Your stomach dropped.
Not because you couldn't handle yourself—you absolutely could—but because you knew exactly how these interactions tended to go.
"You could spare a minute."
You tried pulling free. His grip tightened.
"Let go."
The smile on his face only widened. "Or what?"
The words had barely left his mouth when another voice cut through the air.
Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.
"She said let go."
The warrior's expression faltered.
You looked up.
Rhysand was striding across the training field, heading straight to you.
The warrior let go of your wrist, but he didn't back down. Instead he angled himself between you and Rhysand, his friends now gathering behind you, effectively caging you between them.
You could see Rhys's nostrils flare in anger, his teeth gritted as he stopped in front of you.
He didn't say anything at first, simply held his hand out for you. You scurried out from behind the Illyrians, immediately going to his side.
For a moment, the camp seemed to hold its breath.
Rhys stood between you and them now, shoulders squared, violet eyes fixed on the male who had initially grabbed you with a calmness that somehow felt far more dangerous than shouting ever could.
The warrior cracked his knuckles.
"You got a problem, boy?"
Rhys didn't even blink. "You touched my mate."
Your heart skipped. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them.
Simple. Certain. Dangerous.
As if there was no force in Prythian capable of changing that fact.
The warrior scoffed. "Wasn't doing any harm."
"You grabbed her."
"She's fine."
Rhys took a step forward. "So now you're telling me how she feels too?"
The warrior's expression darkened.
Then, from the edge of the crowd that had slowly began gathering, three of his friends drifted closer.
Not rushing. Not openly threatening. Just slowly appearing at his shoulders in a silent show of support.
Your stomach tightened.
Rhys sensed immediately.
Of course he did.
Without looking away from them, one arm extended behind him.
Searching. Finding you. His hand wrapped around yours in silent reassurance. Then he pulled you slightly behind him.
"Get behind me. Stay there." The command was quiet, but firm.
Then Rhys took a step forward.
The warrior laughed.
"You really think you can take all of us?"
Rhys smiled.
The smile made you nervous. Not because it was aimed at you, but because it wasn't. You were nervous for them.
"I think I'd enjoy finding out."
The temperature around the group seemed to drop. Several warriors nearby suddenly found other places they desperately needed to be.
The warrior took another step.
Rhys didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't give an inch.
And then—
A familiar voice called from behind.
"Well, this looks fun."
Cassian.
The crowd immediately parted as he approached. Broad shoulders. Training leathers. A grin that promised violence.
Beside him walked Azriel. Silent. Expressionless. Even more intimidating.
Cassian stopped on Rhys's right. Azriel on his left.
Neither asked what was happening. Neither needed to.
Cassian glanced at your wrist and immediately saw the red marks. His grin vanished.
"Oh."
That single word carried an alarming amount of meaning.
Azriel's hazel eyes settled on the warrior. Cold. Deadly.
The warrior visibly swallowed. The odds had changed rather dramatically. Three against four was one thing. Three against Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel?
Three future legends, even if nobody knew it yet. Even if they were still just boys in a brutal camp.
You could feel it. Their power. So could everyone else.
Eventually, the warrior muttered something under his breath. Then turned and walkway away. His friends followed. The crowd slowly dispersed and the tension broke.
And the very second it did, Rhys spun around, his entire focus landing on you.
"Are you hurt?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Are. You. Hurt?"
"No."
He grabbed your wrist anyway, gently inspecting it. Turning your hand over. Checking the marks. Checking your fingers. Your arm. Your shoulder. Like he expected to find some hidden injury.
"Rhys."
His jaw was clenched. "Did he hurt you?"
"No."
"Did he scare you?"
"No."
"Did—"
"Rhys."
He stopped. You could practically see the protective instincts fighting for control behind his eyes.
Cassian snorted. "Here we go."
"Don't start," Rhys practically snarled.
"Oh, I'm absolutely starting."
Rhys ignored him entirely.
His hands settled on your waist instead. Checking that you were really there. That you were alright.
You could feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him. The anger. The fear.
Because that was the part Rhys would never admit. He hadn't been angry first. He'd been scared. For half a second he'd seen another male put his hands on you and his mind had immediately jumped to every possible outcome.
You reached up and touched his cheek.
"I'm okay."
His eyes closed briefly. Just for a second in relief at your calming touch.
Then they opened again. He pulled you even closer, as if the previous distance of six inches had been completely unacceptable.
"Rhys," you laughed.
"What?"
"You look like you're about to wrap me in blankets and lock me in a tower."
Cassian barked a laugh. "That's exactly what he wants to do."
"It is not."
"It absolutely is."
Rhys ignored him once again.
One hand moved to the small of your back. The other found your face. Thumb brushing your cheek. Checking. Always checking.
Azriel watched the entire thing with the expression of someone witnessing a very predictable disaster.
"You realise she's fine."
"I know she's fine."
"Then why are you looking at her like that?"
Rhys frowned. "Like what?"
Cassian groaned. "Oh, Cauldron save us."
You smiled despite yourself.
Rhys immediately looked down at you. The tension finally easing from his shoulders.
"There you are."
"There I am?"
"You're smiling." As though that explained everything in his reasoning as the last of his anger disappeared.
Maybe it did.
His forehead rested briefly against yours. A small gesture, private despite the crowd and for a moment the future High Lord disappeared. Leaving only your ridiculously overprotective mate who had nearly started a war because someone put a hand on you.
Behind him, Cassian looked at Azriel.
"We should leave."
"Agreed."
"They're going to be insufferable."
"Already are."
Rhys didn't even acknowledge them.
He was too busy making sure you were still tucked safely against his side as the four of you headed back towards the training rings.
And every few steps, his hand would tighten slightly on your waist.
Just enough to reassure himself that you were still there.
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.
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summary: it's absolutely impossible to resist the magic that is rhysand's face, even when you're angry with him.
wc: 1.3k+
The morning light filtering through the House of Wind's windows had absolutely nothing to do with your mood, which remained, despite the sun's best efforts, stormy.
Rhysand had done something unforgivable the night before. He'd promised (with that solemn hand-over-heart nonsense he knew always made you laugh) that he'd be home in time for the dinner you'd spent all afternoon planning. A ridiculous wager about who could actually cook a decent meal without cheating and using magic to speed things along. You'd marinated, you'd chopped, you'd burned your knuckle on the pan and refused to heal it just so you could hold the injury over him dramatically at dinner.
And then he simply hadn't come home.
Some court business with Keir had swallowed him whole, four hours past when he'd said he'd be back, and by the time he finally winnowed into the dining room, you'd already eaten alone.
You'd gone to bed and pretended to be asleep when he slid in beside you murmuring apologies into your hair, one hand splayed warm over your stomach like he could apologize his way through your skin if words wouldn't do it.
You were not currently speaking to him.
This was, you'd decided somewhere around three in the morning while glaring at the ceiling, a matter of principle. It wasn't about the dinner…not really. It was about the look on his face when he'd finally arrived, like he expected you to simply forgive him on the spot because he was Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, devastatingly handsome and devastatingly aware of it. Well. Not today.
You descended the stairs into the main room with your chin high and your resolve firmly buckled into place, sailing past where Cassian and Rhys sat hunched over a spread of papers.
"Morning, Cass," you chirped, leaning down to press a bright, affectionate kiss to his cheek.
Cassian blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden enthusiasm. "Uh—morning?"
"Good morning, darling," Rhys said, looking up with an easy, hopeful smile.
You hummed and glided straight past him toward the kitchen with the singular purpose of a woman who had a cup of tea to make and absolutely no High Lords to acknowledge in the process.
Behind you, the silence stretched. One second. Two.
Then Cassian's low, delighted snort, badly disguised as a cough. "Oh. Oh, that's bad."
"Shut up."
"No, no, take your time, genuinely, this might be the single greatest thing I've witnessed all week—"
"I said shut up, Cassian."
You allowed yourself a small smirk as you reached the kitchen, already reaching for the kettle, already congratulating yourself on your flawless execution of Operation Ignore Rhysand Into Submission.
You heard the scrape of a chair, papers rustling with far less diplomatic care than they probably deserved, and then the unmistakable, rapid cadence of footsteps closing the distance behind you at a speed that was unfair.
You picked up your pace, aiming for the far counter like it was a finish line in some race you hadn't agreed to enter.
You did not make it. Obviously. He had wings and several centuries of reflexes and you had a nightgown and injured pride.
An arm banded around your waist, spinning you with a dizzying ease that made your stomach swoop despite your best efforts, and then your back met the edge of the kitchen counter, Rhysand's body caging you in on either side with his forearms braced against the counter, close enough that you could smell that maddening scent of his.
You squirmed. Half-heartedly. In the specific way that technically qualified as resistance on paper but wouldn't have dislodged a mildly determined kitten, let alone a male who had absolutely zero intention of letting you go anywhere.
This is, annoyingly, your favorite place in the entire world.
Still, you fixed your gaze pointedly on the small, fascinating patch of wall just past his left ear.
Rhysand groaned. "Darling."
You said nothing. The wall was really quite an interesting shade of gray.
"You're doing the thing," he said, "where you look at literally anything except me. I invented that move. You cannot use it against its creator."
Still nothing. Riveting wall. Truly.
His hand came up, catching your chin with a gentleness that was almost more infuriating than if he'd been rough about it, tilting your face up until you had nowhere left to look but directly into those wounded violet eyes.
"Please talk to me," he murmured, thumb brushing along your jaw. "I'm sorry."
You jerked your chin sideways out of his grip with as much dignity as you could muster, reinstating your glare at a slightly more aggressive angle.
He simply followed, tugging your face back to his with unbothered patience.
"Stop it!" you burst out, voice cracking with something caught halfway between fury and helpless laughter. "I can't be mad at you when I have to look at you! That's not fair, that's basically cheating, you know what your face does to me—"
Something amused flickered across his features, entirely too pleased with himself for someone who was technically still in trouble. His head tilted slightly, dark hair falling across his forehead, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. "Then stop being mad at me, you stubborn monster."
"I don't want to!" The words came out wobbly, more frustrated than you intended, and to your absolute horror you felt your eyes go hot and prickling at the edges. Not sad, just overflowing with the sheer indignity of being furious and thoroughly charmed in the very same breath.
Rhysand's expression melted instantly, all traces of smugness gone, replaced by something so soft and worried it was borderline unfair on top of everything else. "What's wrong now, my love?"
"I'm mad at you," you said thickly, glaring through the threatening tears with everything you had, "for making me mad at you. Which means it's still your fault, so don't look at me like that."
He pressed his lips together, valiantly fighting back a smile and losing rather badly. "Okay. Noted. How do I fix it?"
"I don't know!" You shoved uselessly at his chest, which accomplished nothing except reminding you exactly how solid he was, which was, again, deeply unhelpful to your cause. "Apologize properly, you overgrown bat. Grovel a little. I want groveling."
He brought both hands up to frame your face fully now, thumbs brushing gentle, reverent strokes at your cheekbones, all traces of teasing finally gone soft and sincere, that particular quiet voice he only used for you and no one else in any court. "I'm sorry I made you be mad at me. I should have known better than to behave so despicably. You're perfect, and you're never wrong, even when you're glaring at me like I've personally offended your entire bloodline. And I love you."
You glared up at him, eyes still glassy, jaw stubbornly set, fighting the traitorous twitch pulling at the corner of your mouth. A long beat passed, tense and ridiculous and entirely too fond.
"Fine," you finally grunted, like the word cost you something precious. "You're forgiven. But I'm still telling everyone I won the cooking bet."
"You didn't even finish the bet—"
"You are so—"
He didn't wait a heartbeat longer, hauling you flush against him and kissing you deeply, thoroughly, one hand sliding into your hair while the other pressed warm against the small of your back like he was trying to physically communicate every apology he hadn't managed with words. You melted into it despite yourself, despite the whole morning, despite Cassian's very audible presence somewhere behind you, and Rhysand laughed low into the kiss, delighted and relieved in equal measure.
"You ridiculous woman," he murmured against your lips, "conceding a war over one bowl of cold soup."
"It was excellent soup," you muttered back, "and you missed it."
"I did." He kissed you again, softer. "Never again."
From the doorway, Cassian's voice rang out, thoroughly unbothered by decency. "You two are disgusting, and also I'm telling Mor she owes me money. She bet you'd hold out until lunch."
Summary - One bed doesn't work well for 3 illyrians and their mate.
Warnings - Azriel's slutty sweatpants, mentions of wing clipping but nothing graphic, swearing
A/n - Anyone else wonder how any quad would handle a one bed situation?
Written for @polysjmweek day three: Will there be enough room?
SJM Poly+ Week Masterlist
Master Masterlist
“Oh you have got to be shitting me,” Azriel grumbled. “Rhys, you were supposed to ask for 2 beds.”
“I did,” The High Lord pulled off the hood that did nothing to disguise him, prompting a giggle from you and Cassian. The look of annoyance he gave the two of you had you hiding your face in Cassian's chest. “I suppose you two think this is very funny.”
“Very,” Cassian chuckled. “Azriel is acting like the 4 of us haven't been sharing a bed for, what, 200 years?” Cassian's hands guided you into the room, setting your bag down. “Go bathe first.”
216 years, you would never correct Cassian, and they still ensured you showered first in these situations. It wasn't the first time you four found yourselves in a rundown inn seeking shelter after a rough mission. It wouldn't be the last either. Peeling off the sweat and dirt-caked clothing made your skin crawl. You four had been hunting Illyrians that had crossed Rhysand for the last time. Your husband was tired of the clippings and the fighting.
All three of your husbands were, actually.
It had started with you and Cassian. The bond had snapped when he saw you on the Summer Court's pleasure barge, per his banishment from your home. He had introduced you to Azriel a few days later, the fight between them now being the cause of the infamous sand castle collapse that shook the Summer Court. Not wanting to live without them, you left when they did, arriving at the Night Court and causing another fight the second you laid eyes on Rhysand. The four of you worked hard to make the dynamic flow, but once it fell into place, the three of them all admitted their lives and connection made so much more sense.
“Do you need help, sweetheart,” a purr made you pause, hands moving away from the corset you wore for extra protection. Rhysand began to work on the ties. “We are attempting to figure out the bed situation,” his voice was slightly annoyed. “With two males with wings-”
“Baby, I can sleep on the floor,” you offered.
“Over my dead body,” his eyes met yours in the mirror. “If we move the bed to the center of the room, we can have Azriel and Cassian take the outsides-”
“And squish you in the middle with me on the floor,” your voice was meant to be firm, but the relief as he finally finished unlacing your corset made it more of a relaxed sigh. “You can't handle sleeping on floors or the couch. your knees will get stiff, and then you will become grumpy.”
He nipped at your ear playfully, “I do not get grumpy.” He walked with you toward the tub, arms around your waist as he hugged you from behind. He kept you practically glued to him, turning the faucet on, “I fear the water won't get warm.”
“It's okay. One cold bath won't kill me,” your fingers traced his forearm tattoos. “We get to go home tomorrow, right?”
He nodded, “Azriel found and took care of the last group while you and Cassian were doing whatever you two were doing.”
You leaned back to narrow your eyes, “Very serious mission things.” A lie, and Rhysand knew, but he wouldn't push it. “We were critical to the success of this operation.” Not a lie.
A dark brown lifted as his smirk began to form. “I will pretend I didn't just see a flash of what you two were doing in the woods today. Bathe while I get the bed figured out.” He left after smacking your ass, laughing as he did.
You sunk into the water, the harsh drag of wood on wood outside the door. The rules of your missions typically involved bathing quickly so you could all wash up, but with the water cold, there was little reason not to soak longer than you normally would. Once you were chilled to the bones, you stepped out and drained the tub, cringing at the sight of the dirty water.
A real bath, preferably with 3 sets of hands helping you, would be a must once you were back in Velaris. You wrapped yourself in the towel, walking out to where Azriel was situating things. “And where did the other two go?”
“They claim food,” he murmured. “Rhysand said the water is cold.” His hand reached for your hair, twisting a lock. “Are you cold?”
“A bit.”
“Start a fire if you'd like,” the tone of his voice was soft and almost musical, as it always was when he relaxed. His lips were warm on your forehead as he went to bathe, leaving you to try to heat the cold room with the small hearth. You studied the bed once you had it going, changing into your last clean pair of leggings and finding one of Cassian's shirts to wear.
There was no possible way all four of you would fit. Your bed in Velaris was custom-made, allowing all three males to stretch out their wings. That wouldn't be possible here. Rhysand would have to keep his tucked in with his magic, Azriel and Cassian would have to let theirs rest on the floor.
You had a plan. One they'd hate. You grabbed a blanket from the corner of the room and a pillow and laid in front of the fireplace. They'd believe you fell asleep warming your skin back up and hopefully, they'd let you sleep there. Maybe that would allow the three of them some sort of comfort. You shut your eyes, the warmth so enjoyable it lulled your mind into relaxing.
Cassian and Rhysand walked back into the room, Cassian quick to notice your form curled up under a blanket. “We should have just pushed and flew her home,” he told Rhysand. He kneeled down next to you, waving the questionable soup in front of your nose. Your tummy grumbled, forcing you to open your eyes from the sleepy state. “Eat.”
You took the bowl, sitting up to see Azriel coming out and Cassian motioning for Rhysand to go in. Azriel's sleeping pants hung loose on his hips as he grabbed a bowl as well. His waist looked fsr more interesting than the grey and clumpy soup, but you resisted the temptation. “Like bathing in a damned river,” he muttered to Cassian. “What are you doing on the floor,” he glanced at you.
“Sleeping,” your face, as you took a spoonful of soup, made both males pause.
“Can't be picky, sweetheart,” Azriel said softly. “Picky starves.”
“I know.”
Rhysand took the fastest bath you think he'd ever done, shivering as he walked back out in his towel and began to change. He said nothing as he took his first bite of food, nor did Azriel. Cassian had got to take his turn by the time you looked up. Once he was back, his own pants did not rest as low as Azriel's. He glanced at you. “That is my shirt,” his face was bright as he took you in, the material hanging almost drowning you in it. “But yes, you can wear it.”
All eyes were on that single bed. Rhysand appeared to be calculating the space, as if he could ensure his little plan would work. You laid back on the floor, stretching and then curling back to the fireplace. Wordlessly defiance was something you specialized in, but the three of them weren't stupid, and it didn't take them long to begin situating.
Azriel wanted the spot that'd allow him to lay facing the door, always on high alert when your little pack found itself away from home. Cassian took the side that allowed him to face the window, another watchful eye to where any threats may come. Rhysand was forced between them, a silent conversation before Cassian walked over and picked you up.
That's how you found yourself laying on Rhysand. One of his arms held your hips as the other moved to cup the back of your head. One wing rested on the two of you like a weighted blanket, then another. “Go to sleep,” Rhysand whispered to you. “You may not realize this, but you are trapped.” There was no response from you, no argument. The soft sound of your breathing was the only thing coming from you as you laid on what would now Be your favorite bed.
“Next time, we will fly home,” Azriel stated.
Cassian immediately agreed, “This isn't fair to y/n.” They both glanced at Rhysand when he didn't respond, only to find him asleep. “Or maybe it wasn't fair to us,” Cassian added.
“Thinking it definitely wasn't fair to us,” Azriel chuckled. “He worked this to his advantage.”
“He always does,” Cassian said. His voice was getting deeper and slower. “Always does.” It did not take long for the two of them to fall asleep, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of a dying hearth and four hearts beating in sync.
