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.”
rhys x reader whos a thief and he catches her during a party- the mating bond slaps them in the face (she hates him 🌚)
slaps them in the face you say...
--
"You're early. I hadn't planned on bringing you here for hours."
The voice that seems to snake beneath the silence of the room, infiltrate without shattering it like ducking just beneath the motion sensor of an alarm, is velvet-smooth, low and calm. You'd have expected more outrage from the High Lord of the Night Court, especially since you've got your hand wrist-deep in the jewelry box that rests atop his dresser, but he's throwing up a fairly convincing facade.
Your spine straightens, and you turn on your heel, not too fast and not too slow, hands behind your back to stuff a jeweled choker into the lined seam of your skirt. He's watching you like a hawk, his eyes practically glowing, maybe with bloodlust, maybe with whatever dark magic he must possess.
"Pardon me, my Lord." You ignore his greasy insinuation, "I'd intended to find a bathroom, but everything is so opulent here that I couldn't tell the difference."
His smirk deepens, and his teeth glint in the room's low mood lighting, "Well, one way you can tell the difference is to figure out whether you're standing in front of a toilet or a bed."
"It looks like I've got the wrong one, then," You breathe a sheepish-sounding laugh, glancing at the High Lord's massive four-poster, elegant and as dark as his reputation, "Your residence is very- impressive," You nearly choke on the words, watching as he begins walking towards you, his polished shoes treading over the floor until he's only one step away from you. You're trapped against the dresser, the knob digging painfully into your back, the High Lord looming over you in front. You wonder if the jewels stuffed into your skirt are cut sharp enough to wield as weapons- could you slice his throat and run away before anyone else caught you?
"So is my jewelry collection," Rhysand purrs, and the cunning in his voice makes sense now- he wasn't going to look the other way or let you distract him; he's not stupid.
"Ehm, yes. I'll admit," You duck your head to stare at his collar, the space between it where his tanned skin narrows to a point near his navel, "-I got distracted in here."
"I know," He hums, reaching around to your back with one hand while the other closes the lid of the jewelry box. He slips his fingers between the ornately-carved knob of the dresser and the ridge in your spine that it had been biting, soothing the pain by circling the spot with the pads of his fingers. "And I also know," He moves his hand now to the waistband of your skirt, both palms now spreading over your skin, "That you've snuck about ten-thousand gold marks worth of rubies into the lining of your skirt."
Your throat dries but you swallow regardless, stomach melting and dripping down into your feet, "I won't return- please, let me go."
"You were foolish to think you could get here undetected," Rhysand croons undeterred, ducking his head down to meet your gaze, "Even if my shadowsinger hadn't alerted me to your deviation in course, I'd have felt you trip the wards of my private bedroom."
It was a foolish endeavor. Really, it was. You should have known better, but at the first chance to rob the infamous High Lord of the Night Court, you'd lost all of your sense.
You begin straining against Rhysand's hold, but unsurprisingly, it doesn't go well. You pant, chest rising and falling rapidly, and the more you struggle, the more he grins. He doesn't drag you off into his dungeons, he merely holds you tighter, uses more and more of his manpower until he must be squeezing your flesh to the bone. You can't escape, and though you know it's a piss-poor idea, your panic sets in, and one of your palms flies straight towards his face.
His wings jolt forwards, perhaps to block the slap or perhaps to slice your skin with the clawed tips. But evidently you catch him off-guard enough that he doesn't make it in time, and your palm connects with his face hard enough to jerk it sideways.
When his head snaps back towards yours, your heart stops in your chest.
His hands are no longer the tightest thing that's got a hold of you. Suddenly, the strength of his fingers falls dreadfully short of the golden thread binding your souls together, a tangible thing you feel like you can reach out and pluck like the string of a violin.
Rhysand recovers before you, pulling the ruby-encrusted choker out of your skirt's hem and dropping your waist. You're no longer physically restrained, but suddenly your fight is gone with the bruising force of his grip. You've lost the urge to run, and Rhysand deftly strings the choker around your neck, clasping it and sheathing you in ten-thousand gold marks.
"Well I don't suppose this was your plan," The corners of his mouth pull briefly upwards, carefully, hesitantly, "But you're walking away much richer regardless. If you walk away, that is."
"I'm allowed to?" You ask, not sure if it's because of the mating bond or because you'd just been caught giving yourself the five-finger discount of his personal wares, "I- um, I didn't expect to leave here tonight."
"You don't have to," He smirks, and you try remembering if the expression had made your heart pound pre-bond, because it certainly does now, "I wasn't lying earlier when I said I'd planned on bringing you here."
"How flattering." You groan, forgetting for just a moment that you're speaking to the most feared High Lord, even if he is your mate, "You wanted to disrobe me even before the Cauldron told you to."
"'Disrobe' seems unfair," His face shifts into a pensive one, "I have a little more decorum than that. I don't shove my guests into the hallway when I'm done with them. No matter- the bed is yours, if you want it."
You cast a glance over to the satin-clad mattress, the choker of rubies resting lightly on your neck. For such an opulent piece it doesn't weigh you down, and you feel it settle against you like a second skin.
Rhysand's palms press to your hips again, sliding behind you to take up his former grip on your waist. it's a lot lighter now, you're being held instead of restrained, and you breathe a long sigh into the dwindling space between you.
"I was going to rob you because I dislike the way you hoard your wealth." You admit, stabbing the words into the silence between you when it begins seeming meaningful, "Ten-thousand gold marks could feed the entire Hewn City for a month, and yet, I have to fight for my scraps."
His eyes darken slightly, dimming as he edges backwards. His hands still hold your waist, but he's not angling his face towards yours anymore, giving you space to fill with any more biting words.
"Would you like to sell it?" He asks, fingers reaching up to ghost over the necklace, "Or would you like to keep it, and feed the city with my other funds?"
You reach for the choker yourself, fingers coiling around it dangerously, like a snake prepared to strike and snap the chain, "I'll only keep it if every mouth is fed. The moment someone goes hungry," You tighten your grip, and Rhysand's eyes track the movement, deepening as he notes that you're speaking of more than a choker in the moment, "It's gone."
"I understand." He nods, his jaw tight and his words clipped, "My court's politics are... complicated, at best. But," He bites the inside of his cheek, "No one should starve."
"Fix it." You snap without thinking, and you wonder belatedly how you'd begun commanding your High Lord when a mere ten minutes ago had you pilfering through his dresser, "And- I will consider staying."
"Stay tonight," He glances slyly at you, "Relax- I will stay in my office. Your plan is ambitious, and I'll need to work on the schematics. But tomorrow," He releases your waist, and your back hits the knob of the dresser once more, "We'll put boots on the ground. And you can make your decision."
You nod, your jaw clenched just as tightly as his. You exhale, and he steps away from you to eye the way you drift towards his expansive bed- it's big enough for his wings, you realize, the ones he'd almost slit your throat with.
"Sleep." He gestures towards the bed, but his gaze is piercing as he eyes you amusedly, "Just remember- the mating bond will prevent you from slipping out without my knowledge. Should you run off with any more of my family jewels," He reaches for the box in his dresser, tucking it beneath his arm, "I will know. And I will find you."
"To get your jewels back?" You ask, despite knowing you shouldn't.
"To get you back," His face drops determinedly, and your stomach flips again, "The jewels are yours now, but you? You are mine."
ok i have a request 🙊🙊with either rhys or az where after they have sex - reader is a little shy/embarrassed and is avoiding eye contact and stuff and rhys/az is confused and teases her 🧍♀️🧍♀️
Fancy, Messy Sheets
Pairing: Rhysand x f!reader
Word count: 787
Warnings: talk of sex and squirting
Main Masterlist | Rhysand Masterlist | AO3
Spent and panting, Rhys kissed you one last time before collapsing onto the bed next to you.
He immediately felt your absence—your warmth enveloping him, your bodies joined as if you were one, your breaths mingling.
His arms slid around your trembling form, pulling you close as he kissed your forehead and buried his face in your hair. Your perfume filled his nose, mixing with the sweet fragrance of your shampoo and the lingering scent of sweat and sex.
He could get drunk on it. On you.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“Love you too,” you replied.
But even as you curled up against him, your voice was small, too quiet. He thought you might just be sleepy and tired, but when he tried to look down at you, you buried your face in his chest.
Rhys frowned. You'd never hidden from him before.
“Are you okay, darling?”
You mumbled a yes.
His eyes dimmed with concern. “Did I hurt you?”
You glanced up at him, shook your head, then quickly hid your face again.
“No,” you murmured. Your breath was warm against his flushed skin. “You didn't hurt me. I'm fine.”
“Then why are you hiding?”
When you didn't answer, he let his power uncoil. He reached out with a mental hand, gently caressing your shields in a silent request. But the gates of your mind remained closed.
Concern quickly turned to worry.
“Darling,” he called softly, fingertips trailing up and down your spine. You shivered slightly. “Can you tell me what's wrong?”
After a too-long silence, you pulled back. But your eyes still didn't meet his, and you stared at his nose instead.
“It's just…” you began, cheeks flushed. “It's embarrassing…”
Rhys searched his mind, going through everything he'd said and done, trying to understand what had made you feel uncomfortable.
“I don't think I've ever… come like that before.”
The last few words were a barely audible whisper.
For a moment, he was too stunned to speak.
And then he laughed.
Your gaze snapped to him.
“It's not funny,” you complained.
“It is,” he countered. “It's funny that you think it's embarrassing.”
“But it is! I made a mess…”
Your eyes flicked to the wet spot on the white sheets, the fabric nearly transparent now.
Rhys was still smirking as he looked too.
“That you did,” he agreed. “You came so hard for me.” He moved closer to whisper in your ear. “Good girl.”
“Rhys!”
You smacked him on the shoulder, but his smile only widened.
“I'm being serious.”
Oh, your pout was adorable.
“I know you are,” he teased. “You did make a mess. On the bed, on me… but that's a good thing.”
The feeling of you coming undone lingered—the way you'd clenched around him, the way you'd squirmed and moaned as he thrust into you again and again, your release gushing out and dripping onto the bed and down his thighs.
He could still feel it. Slick and warm, it coated his skin like a declaration that he belonged to you.
His hands cupped your cheeks, framing that beautiful scrunched-up face and gently forcing you to look at him.
Yet you still averted your gaze.
“Sweetheart, look at me. Please.”
Sighing, you finally met his violet eyes.
“It's a good thing,” he repeated, his voice softer now, void of the teasing note from a moment ago. “I mean it. Your pleasure is a good thing.”
You looked uncertain, a small crease forming on your brow. “But what about the sheets?”
Rhys chuckled low. “Since that seems your main concern…”
He waved a hand, and the wet spot disappeared. The fabric still wasn't clean, but at least it was dry now.
“There,” he said. “We can change them tomorrow. Is this better?”
Hesitantly, you reached out to touch the sheets. Seemingly satisfied with their apparent cleanness, you looked at Rhys with a sheepish smile.
“Did I overreact?”
“A little,” he quipped. His hands caressed down your body, settling on your waist as he drew you closer again. “But I understand. They're very nice sheets, after all.”
You snorted, hitting him again, this time on the arm. “Stop making fun of me.”
“Alright, alright. I promise.”
Settling in his embrace, you rested your head on his chest and draped an arm over him. Rhys kissed your forehead, gentle fingers resuming their lazy pattern along your back.
A comfortable silence settled over you while you basked in the afterglow. But just as you began to drift off, Rhys spoke again.
“You know I'll try to make you come again like that again next time, right?”
You sighed, but he could hear the smile in your voice as you answered.
Could you write a smut between peregryn reader and Rhysand that includes wing play, pretty please?🥺
I hope you have a great day and week💜
Oooo this sounds fun! I don’t know much about peregryns but I’ll try my best for a little blurb-
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, SMUT, peregryn!reader, piv, wingplay, rough sex, orgasms, sub&dom, teasing, taunting, dirty talk, rhys having an obsession with our wings
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“Your wings always betray you first… long before that pretty mouth does.” Rhys murmured, fingers gliding beneath the arch of soft feathers as they fluttered open behind you. “I don’t know about that…” Speaking softly to the male, he took a step closer to you.
A sly and wicked smirk painted across his darkened features as he held his hand up to your wings. Not touching them yet. “Do you know what you sound like when I touch them?” Shit— His strong hand gently caressed over the velvet feathers.
You shuddered. Whimpering under your breath as goosebumps pricked over your entire body. “Beautiful- absolutely beautiful.” Rhysand whispered before you could even get a word out. Any words really. Because after that his soft lips slammed to yours in a heated kiss.
“Gods— you know exactly what I like. Feeling your wings on my own- fuck!”
Your moans were soft and delicate just like the arches along your back. The arches that were met with rhysands own leathery wings. The roughness skimming against the feathers only building your arousal more so. “So damned gorgeous— your body, your wings, you.” He growled inbetween his thrusts.
The tickles of both of your wings touching sending your body into overdrive. That warm euphoric sensation running through your veins as your nectar pooled along Rhys’s pulsating cock. Ready to explode his seed himself. And where better would his cum look than on those glorious wings of yours?
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Hehehe I hope you enjoyed this anon! If you’d like to teach me more about peregryns I’d love that
summary: Law books, bare shoulders, and a little harmless multitasking.
word count: 368
content: [ light flirtation, slightly suggestive ]
author's note: my brain got one stray thought of rhys as a law student when i needed someone to study with and RAN with it <3
✦ . Masterlist . ✦
He’d taken over your desk again.
The lamp threw warm light over the heavy spine of the law textbook cracked open beneath his hands, the edges of the pages softened and thumbed through so often they curled. His hair had fallen into his eyes—dark, a little unruly, like he’d run a hand through it too many times trying to make sense of whatever case he was buried in.
You were half-buried in your comforter, laptop balanced on your knees, tabs and spreadsheets crowding your screen. The soft tapping of your keys filled the spaces between the quiet turns of his pages, the two of you orbiting in the same still night.
A plate of fruit sat by his elbow—your doing, because otherwise he’d forget to eat something that wasn’t caffeine. You’d watched, earlier, as he’d leaned back in the chair, took a piece between his fingers, and popped it into his mouth without looking away from the text. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was—somehow—achingly pretty.
His bare shoulders caught the light every time he shifted. You pretended to focus on cell counts and variables, but your eyes kept drifting anyway. To the curve of his spine as he leaned over a highlighted paragraph. To the way his lips moved faintly as he read under his breath. To the little sound he made—half sigh, half laugh—when something finally clicked. He absently reached for a grape, popped it into his mouth, and leaned back with a quiet exhale that made heat curl low in your stomach.
“You’re staring,” he murmured, not looking up from the page.
“I’m multitasking,” you countered, though your cursor hadn’t moved in… longer than you wanted to admit.
He glanced over his shoulder then, and the corner of his mouth curved—lazy, smug, too pretty. “You always say that when you’re staring.”
“Maybe you should stop being so distracting,” you said, softer now.
Rhys’ laugh was quiet, sliding through the warm room. He plucked another piece of fruit from the plate, held it up to you without turning, like an afterthought—but his voice dipped, low and deliberate, when he said, “Come get it, then.”
A/N: Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! 🎄✨ This is a collection of short drabbles of how I imagine ACOTAR men would give the reader a gift during Solstice. I originally planned to write for all the High Lords, but I ran out of time (and ideas). Still, I hope you enjoy this!
Azriel
Being Feyre’s younger sister, you were new to Rhys’s inner circle and Azriel wasn’t sure if you would accept a gift from him, or if it would even be appropriate. So when the time came for exchanging presents, he didn't immediately hand you his.
As a Shadowsinger and a Spymaster, he had observed what you liked and wanted. So when he decided to get you a gift, he let his shadows quietly place it in your room, unwilling to cross that boundary himself.
When you returned that evening, you found it waiting for you, simply wrapped with a small card in his neat handwriting: For you. From Azriel.
The simple words made you smile, warmth blooming in your chest. But your surprise only grew when you unwrapped the gift and found the very thing you’ve been quietly wanting for so long.
Later that night, you made your way to his room, your nerves making you knock so soft you almost hoped he wouldn’t hear it. But his sharp senses caught it anyway, and when he opened the door, his eyes widened slightly in surprise at the sight of you standing there.
You stammered a little before managing to thank him, your cheeks warm. He dipped his head slightly, his voice low as he replied, “I wanted you to have something that mattered, something that you truly wanted.”
On impulse, you stepped onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. You thanked him again, before pulling back and reluctantly walking back to your room.
His heart skipped a beat, shadows curling around his shoulders as he watched you go. Part of him wanted to call after you, to say something to make you stay, but he held back. It wasn’t the right time…not yet.
Cassian
Unlike Azriel, Cassian was anything but subtle. When you joined Rhys’s inner circle, he couldn’t resist flirting with you at every opportunity. Your friendship quickly became filled with playful banter, though you almost always dismissed his shameless remarks with an eye roll or a sharp retort.
On Winter Solstice evening, as everyone exchanged presents, he plopped down beside you on the couch, his thigh pressing comfortably against yours. You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously. “What do you want?” you asked, half exasperated, half amused.
“I want nothing,” he said, grinning as he handed you a small box. The wrapping was so crumpled it looked as though he’d wrestled it into submission. You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head as you opened it.
Inside was a stunning necklace with a rare gemstone. For a moment, you were speechless. His taste had completely taken you by surprise, you hadn’t thought a warrior like Cassian would pick out something so elegant. “This is…beautiful,” you said softly, unsure of what else to say as you leaned in and wrapped your arms around him in thanks.
When you pulled back, his grin widened, and you knew what was coming even before he opened his mouth. “I thought about how good that stone would look between your breasts and couldn’t resist getting it,” he muttered, his tone dripping with playful mischief.
Your jaw dropped, your face heating as you stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then, you elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “You’re absolutely shameless.” Though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
Cassian only laughed, leaning back into the couch with a satisfied smirk. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Rhysand
Rhys whisks you away to the top of the House of Wind, Velaris glittering below you. With a wave of his hand, a small box appears in his grasp. “Go on, open it,” he urges, his violet eyes sparkling with anticipation.
You do as he says, carefully unwrapping the box to reveal a pendant with a tiny glowing star encased within. “Rhys, you shouldn’t have,” you murmur, awe and gratitude flooding your voice.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple before replying with a smirk and a wink. “Oh, that’s nothing…wait till you see what I’ve got planned for you in the bedroom.”
You give him a pointed look before shaking your head. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he quips, his smirk widening. “And I don’t just mean in the bedroom. There are more gifts waiting for you there. Come on, let’s go.” He takes your hand and begins leading you downstairs, his excitement barely contained.
“Rhysss!” you groan, pouting slightly as he tugs you along. “I told you, I don’t need gifts. Having you is enough.”
He pauses mid-step, turning to cup your cheek and pinch it playfully. “I know, darling,” he says softly. “But I can’t help it. I want to shower you with gifts and spoil you like you deserve. After all, you are my greatest gift, and there’s nothing I can do that could ever compare.”
Lucien
Feyre had invited Lucien to this year’s Winter Solstice, and although his duties kept him busy, he had agreed to come, if only for the chance to spend more time with you, his mate. Though you hadn’t accepted the bond yet, you hadn’t rejected it either. This was all new to you, and Lucien had resolved to give you as much time and space as you needed, not wanting to push or make you uncomfortable in the slightest.
He had missed you. It had been months since he last saw you, back in the summer. So when you descended the stairs that evening, his heart drummed wildly in his chest. His amber eye and russet gaze tracked your every step until your eyes met his. You greeted him with a polite nod, and he returned it, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.
Throughout the evening, he lingered on the edge of the festivities, watching you from afar as the others exchanged gifts, laughed, and drank. Finally, mustering his courage, he approached you, his palms damp with nervousness.
“I came across this during my travels,” he muttered softly, handing you a small package wrapped in elegant paper. “I thought you might like it.” Curiosity piqued, you unwrapped the gift, revealing a vintage wooden box. Inside lay a pair of earrings, their intricate design unlike anything you’d ever seen. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the kind of artistry that carried stories within its details.
When you looked up, you found him watching you intently, his gaze warm but hesitant. “It’s nothing compared to what you deserve,” he murmured in a low tone. “But…it’s from the heart.” A small, almost shy smile curved his lips. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before speaking. “I have a small gift for you too.”
His brows furrowed in confusion as you disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, you returned, holding a single cupcake on a small plate. Handing it to him, you said softly, “I hope you like chocolate. I baked it myself.”
At first, Lucien didn't react. Then realization dawned on his face. “Oh. OH!” His voice rose slightly as the significance of your gesture hit him. “Is this wh- are you aware of what this means in fae tradition?”
You nodded, a faint blush dusting your cheeks.
His breath hitched. “Are you sure?” He searched your gaze for any hesitation. But when you smiled and nodded again, his resolve melted.
Lucien carefully picked up the cupcake, taking a deliberate bite. His eyes closed briefly as he savored it before opening again, now glowing with warmth and joy. “It’s delicious,” he said, his voice dipping slightly as he stressed the word. “Thank you.”
Setting the cupcake aside, he stepped closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “May I?” he whispered.
When you nodded again, he closed the small distance between you, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss so soft and full of longing it stole your breath. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a promise, a declaration, and the sealing of the bond he had waited so long for.
Eris
Being Rhysand’s sister and Eris being Beron’s son made your relationship…complicated, to say the least. Some days, you couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Other days, the tension simmered so hot it was impossible to think of anything but dragging each other to the nearest bed…or any available surface to fuck.
Eris, of course, would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was in love with you.
On Winter Solstice, he sent an urgent message demanding you meet him halfway between your courts, in a clearing deep in the forest. His tone had been curt, and you’d feared the worst as you rushed to the meeting spot.
When you arrived, he stepped out of the shadows with his usual smirk. Before you could say a word, he tossed something at you. “Catch.”
Instinct kicked in, and you lunged to catch the small package before it hit the ground. Straightening, you narrowed your eyes at him, holding the elaborately wrapped gift in your hands. “This was the ‘urgent’ matter?” Eris shrugged, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His gaze flickered to the horizon, refusing to meet yours. “It’s nothing big. Don’t read too much into it. Just…open it.” His voice was smooth, nonchalant, but you could sense the tension beneath it. He stood rooted in place, his head tilted as though he wasn’t watching you, but you could feel the weight of his focus. A part of him feared you’d hate it. Another part clung to the hope that you’d like it, that your eyes would sparkle and you’d smile, that rare, genuine smile he secretly craved.
Slowly, you unwrapped the package. Inside was a bracelet, simple yet elegant, crafted with the kind of skill only found in the Autumn Court. The small fire-red gemstone set into it caught the light like a glowing ember, warm and alive.
And there it was…that flicker of surprise, the soft curve of your lips, the quiet joy in your eyes. He’d found what he was looking for, and it was enough. That moment was his true gift this Solstice.
But when you glance up to thank him, he was already turning away. “Happy Solstice,” he murmured, his voice cool and distant, as though the gift hadn’t taken him weeks to choose.
Before you could respond, he winnowed out, disappearing into the night without a backward glance. Because if he’d stayed, if he’d looked into your eyes again, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop himself.
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Rhysand had taken his time, intricately wrapping silk restraints around your wrists and holding them above your head, attached to the bed frame. You were laid bare, thighs spread, also restrained to your calves so your legs are folded and then further tied to the corners of the bed, keeping your legs open.
Being so exposed was only one of the many reasons your cunt was dripping, anticipation being the following reason.
Feyre, sweet innocent Feyre, sat between your legs in nothing more than a lace shift that floated around her. Her tattooed fingers tentatively brushing against the damp slick of your inner thighs.
Rhysand stood behind her, fully clothed, looking immaculate, his voice commanding in a purr of authority as he guided her movements.
“She wants it, Feyre, darling. She needs it.” His violet eyes gleamed, firelight crackling behind his handsome smirk. “Don’t be afraid to be cruel to her. She’s been begging for punishment all day.”
And you had. Teasing Rhysand in front of the court, whispering your filth into Feyre’s ear until her cheeks flushed. You’d earned this. Gods, you wanted this.
Feyre hesitated, then gave a testing slap to your soaked pussy. The sound cracked through the room, and you halted, hips arching, a whimper slipping from your throat.
“Again,” Rhysand ordered, moving closer to the edge of the bed until his fingers skimmed over her shoulders. “Harder.”
This time, Feyre’s palm landed with more force, right between your legs. The sting bloomed sharply, pain laced with molten pleasure. You gasped, pussy fluttering, already clenching around nothing.
“Fuck! That felt so good, darling, please, more, give me more Feyre,” you mewled, eyes glassy as your hisp rolled, chasing any friction.
Feyre glanced over her shoulder at Rhys, and he smiled, proud. “She lives for it, don’t be scared. Make her sob for it, darling.”
Another slap. Another. You were panting now, tears welling as your slick dripped down your ass and onto the bed below as you felt your labia beginning to swell slightly.
“She’s so messy,” Feyre said softly and also in awe, her hands tickling over your stomach and down your thighs. “All because we haven’t let her cum.”
“Exactly,” Rhys encouraged. “Don’t let her yet, she was so naughty for us today, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Please, I can’t– I need–” You sobbed as Feyre’s fingers teased over your clit, only to disappear. “I’ll be good from now on, I’ll do anything. Please!”
But she only gave another slap, harder than the last, as she built up her courage, and your back arched off the bed. The pain sent you spiralling, stars behind your eyes as the mixture of burn and pleasure was just perfect.
“Such a good girl,” Rhys purred from above, fingers trailing down Feyre’s back. “Now make her cum from it. I want to hear her pretty little cries.”
Feyre obeyed.
Her delicate fingers curled inside you whilst her palm rubbed hard, relentless pressure against your clit. You screamed as your body responded, cunt pulsing hard as you orgasm, body spasming as tears fell freely, the sting of her punishment still throbbing through your swollen pussy.
Only when your convulsions eased did you collapse, trembling and boneless. Rhys, who had remained at the bottom of the bed, now moved to sit by your head, his fingers cool as they stroked against your cheek.
“Now. Let’s fuck her properly, what do you say, Feyre darling?”
And they did. Again. And again. Until you were nothing but whimpers, wetness and praise, your body theirs to ruin.
DESCRIPTION: an anonymous journalist exposes the dark secrets of prythian’s elite, but when rhysand, the sharp and relentless owner of the night court gentleman’s club, uncovers her identity, she’s thrust into a dangerous game of blackmail, power, and unexpected attraction. NOTES - i HAD to do an ACOTAR fic. this is a modernish au with the brother’s best friend & enemies to lovers tropes. rhys is a rich playboy, reader hates him. steaminess ensues. leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part
one;
“I’m going to tear that wretched bitch limb from limb the moment I find them.”
You flinched as glass slammed against the counter, the sharp sound reverberating through the otherwise quiet house.
Rhysand was never subtle. Even in stillness, he commanded a room like a shadow cursed to expand—endless, suffocating, all-consuming. Tonight, he was a storm unrestrained.
He didn’t look at you. He never did. Then again, no one else did either, not with you tucked behind a fortress of old books. Romances, plenty to keep you sated. Tonight, you sat at the table, half-buried in their pages, your too-large glasses slipping down the bridge of your pointy nose.
And there he was—draped in black silk and leather, his movements precise despite the whiskey in his hand. The veins in his forearm protruded most inhumanly as he gripped his glass, his jaw taut with sparsely-contained frustration. Lucien, ever the diplomat, poured him another drink with the practiced ease of someone who’d been smoothing over Rhysand’s outbursts for years. He had.
“The fine people of Prythian won’t care about whatever drivel this so-called author is printing,” Lucien said smoothly. “The Night Court has been thriving, Rhys. No need to let petty gossip get under your skin.”
Gossip.
You winced at the dismissal, your knuckles tightening around the spine of your book. It wasn’t just gossip. It was your work. Your words. The invisible sister of Lucien Vanserra had finally found her voice—albeit from the shadows. If no one would listen to your words spoken aloud, they’d damn well read them. At first, it had been an act of silent rebellion, a catharsis as much as a challenge.
It wasn’t supposed to go this far.
Behind closed doors had spread like wisteria vines through Prythian’s small town and beyond, and the Night Court’s elite. And while they laughed and whispered about the scandalous columns over their evening drinks, you watched from afar, quietly vindicated. No one could suspect the shy, unassuming adoptive sister of Lucien—odd, foreign, and entirely overlooked. It was empowering. It was ironic.
And it was dangerous.
“Trashy gossip?” Rhysand echoed, his voice low and cutting, dragging your thoughts back to the present. He smoothed a sheet of parchment across the counter, your latest piece, the inked words practically searing into his violet eyes. “Do you think the author would call it merely gossip? Or perhaps truth, Lucien?”
He read aloud, mockery dripping from his tone. “‘The pretty ladies of the Night Court have found their respect elsewhere. Swaying hips grow tired of catering to the insatiable demands of Prythian’s elite, their so-called leader no better than the braying beasts who frequent his clubs.’”
Your heart hammered as his voice sliced through the air, cold and unrelenting. Hatred dripped like serpent’s venom from his pearled teeth. Rhys crumpled the paper in one hand and let it fall to the floor, his lips curling into a humorless smile.
“Poetic, isn’t it?” he sneered, downing the last of his whiskey. “Two of my finest dancers fled last month, and suddenly, every fool with a pen thinks they’re the arbiter of truth. Do you think they imagine themselves clever?”
Lucien frowned, pouring himself a drink now. “You’re letting this rubbish get under your skin. I doubt anyone takes it so severely.”
“Oh, they do take it severely,” Rhys said darkly, quickly— running a hand through his perfected raven locks. “Whoever’s writing this isn’t just clever. They’re precise. Calculated. This isn’t some scorned drunkard’s ramblings; it’s surgical. And you—” he jabbed a finger in Lucien’s direction, “—you’re telling me to laugh it off while my name and my life’s work is dragged through filth?”
You sank deeper into your chair, praying they wouldn’t notice you. A silly worry seeing as most times, they never did.
“Whoever wrote this, I imagine they know you well,” Lucien said, his tone light but edged with something sharper. “You think it’s a man?”
Rhys scoffed. “Of course, it’s a man. No woman is that cunning.”
A sour taste filled your mouth, and you finally dared to glance up. His words, so casually spoken, ignited something in your chest. He was dismissing you. Because what, you didn’t hone the same parts as he did? Annoyance surged your posture straighter and your palms to fists. Before you could stop yourself, you muttered under your breath, “I think whoever wrote it doesn’t like you very much, Rhysand.”
The room stilled.
Lucien choked on his drink, half-shocked, half-amused. Rhysand, however, turned slowly, his violet gaze locking onto you with the weight of a predator assessing prey. Bat to bleeding, weak little bug. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow to the space between the two of you. You only dared a blink when his lips curved into a slow, mocking smile.
“And what would you know of such things?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “You hardly seem the literary type.” His sarcasm was a direct mockery of what he’d called “rubbish” on more than one occasion. Your romance novels.
“Works of the devil, himself. Keep reading that rubbish and it will keep you lonesome forever.” He’d said once, one of the only times he’d spared you any words.
Heat flared in your cheeks, but you held his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath it. “Maybe not,” you said, barely above a whisper, “but I know truth when I read it.”
Rhys tilted his head, the smile slipping from his face. His stare lingered, uncomfortably long, as though he were trying to peel back your skin and see what lay beneath. You squirmed in your seat.
Lucien stepped in before the tension could thicken further. “Careful, Rhys. She’s sharper than she looks.” He gave you a fond glance, but his words carried an undertone of warning. Behave.
“Sharper?” Rhys echoed, turning back to his drink. “Hardly. Your sister is as meek as they come.”
You gritted your teeth, your nails digging into the dilapidated cover of your book. Without another word, you stood abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. You gathered your things with deliberate slowness, each movement a silent protest, before stomping toward the stairs.
Behind you, Lucien sighed. “She won’t appreciate your company if you spend the night.”
Rhys’s laugh was low and awfully amused. “Even more reason to stay, then.” There was a gleam in his wicked eyes.
You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to turn back. But as you ascended the stairs, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Rhysand’s violet eyes lingered on you far longer than they should have.
“She doesn’t like you,” Lucien said once you were out of earshot.
Rhys was silent for a strained moment before he finally spoke, his tone almost… thoughtful. “No,” he murmured, more to himself than his old friend. “She doesn’t.”
The realization hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. And somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, you felt the first flicker of unease. Why had he assessed you, spared you a glance for a moment longer than necessary? It was unlike him. It was for a reason. It had to be.
Though you tried to convince yourself that your mind was only making shadows from things that were not in the light yet— you just couldn’t shake the feeling…
