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.”
Pre established relationship Bat boy (could be rhys or az) who physical can't say no to reader, so the ic take full advantage of that and reader thinks he's like that with everyone and is very confused why she has to ask
Ps. I saw your page a LONG time ago and unfortunately I lost it. When I tell you I actually screamed when I found it again 😞😞 bestie I missed uuu
oooh I like this request; thank you! and omg noooooo!! well I'm so glad you found your way back to me xoxoxoxoxo
Rhysand x fem!reader who is sent to ask Rhys for a favour [1.1k words]
CW: pre-established relationship, mutual pining, conspiratorial friends, mentions of drinking and drunkenness but not on screen, fluff fluff FLUFF it's so soft guys
“Wait, why do I have to ask?”
Cassian scoffs as though you’ve asked something ridiculous while Mor continues ushering you (read: shoving you) in the direction of Rhysand’s office.
“Because you’re his favourite, obviously.”
You whip your head towards Cassian to gawk at him. “Since when?!”
“Uhm,” he starts, looking to Mor for help. “Since forever?”
A disbelieving sound leaves your lips. “And what am I to do if he says no?”
Cassian laughs — actually laughs, a chesty chortle that threatens to rattle the frames on the wall – at you.
“He’s not going to say no,” Mor assures you as she positions you in front of the High Lord’s office.
“I’m not sure how you can be so certain.”
“Just trust us on this one, okay?” Mor whispers encouragingly, offering you a pat to your shoulder. “Have we ever led you astray before?”
You’re too busy tallying the number of drunken nights you almost regret, all of which were spent in the company of these two very fae, that you fail to notice they’ve knocked on the door and fled before you hear Rhysand on the other end tell you to come in.
You do, because it doesn’t sound like an order from a High Lord but rather an invitation from a dear friend and you think he’s been in this office far too long today, long enough that you’ve begun to miss his beautiful face.
Perhaps you aren’t as mad at your friends for sending you to ask as you pretended to be.
His head raises from his paperwork before his eyes do, quickly crossing some T’s and dotting some I’s before he officially moves his gaze to you.
His entire demeanour softens.
“Hello, darling girl.”
“Hi, Rhys,” you hum in response, moving further into his office to peer down at the files on his desk. “What’s been keeping you away from your family all day?”
You swear he looks almost chagrined as he joins you in glancing down at the forms he was perfecting. “Just some trade agreements with Summer; I hoped to have this finalized and sent to Tarquin by the end of the day.”
You’re suddenly embarrassed for having burst into (better understood as having been shoved into) the High Lord’s office for such a frivolous reason, now seeing with your own eyes just how dutiful Rhysand is working to keep his court – and thus all of you – safe and prosperous.
“Is there something I can help you with?” He asks; tone, smile, eyes so gentle, so in contrast with the intensity of the power he exudes, the reputation he upholds, the sharpness of his features.
“Not if you’re busy,” you say with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You’ve never once disturbed me,” he counters quickly, letting the quill fall from his fingers at last and leaning further back into his chair as though providing a physical display of his attention being solely on you. It’s a lot to take in. “I always have time for you.”
Huh…maybe Mor and Cassian were onto something.
“Well, I mean, we were just wondering-”
“We?” He asks, interest piqued.
“-I was just wondering,” you quickly amend, missing the knowing smile that graces his face and the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight, “if we might be able to host a small dinner party tonight?”
“A small dinner party?” He parrots; violet, star-filled eyes betraying not a single thought or emotion.
“Right.”
“How small?”
Oh…Cass and Mor didn’t exactly elaborate. “Just a few people, I’m sure.”
Rhysand nods, hiding a grin behind his finger as he considers you. “You’d like to host a dinner party tonight?”
“Only if it’s not a bother, Rhys, really. I mean, I know you’ve been super busy and a bit stressed and if it’s not a good time we- I totally get it, and-”
“It’s fine, Y/N,” he comments gently, a slow blink paired with a slower grin. “You can host a dinner party tonight.”
You pause to steady your breathing. “Are you sure? You’ve probably got a massive headache and you still have things to complete and-”
“And it’ll all get done. There’s plenty of time,” he assures you.
Both of you let the silence linger for a moment. “Will you join us?”
His grin blossoms into a smile, eyes shining and cheeks dimpling as he beams up at you. “Is this my invitation?”
“Well, it is your house,” you counter.
“It’s always nice to be invited, though.”
You breathe out a gentle laugh. “Then of course you’re invited. You’re invited, I’d like for you to join us.”
“Oh, well, how could I say no to that?”
You feel like the two of you are sharing a secret as you grin at each other from opposite sides of the desk.
“I’ll let you get back to it, then?” You ask eventually, silently hoping he might decline but knowing that he shouldn’t. He seems to share the same regret, pursing his lips distastefully as his eyes return to his paperwork.
“If I’d like to accompany you to the dinner party, I probably should.”
You nod as you stand, “okay.”
“Okay,” he whispers in turn, neither of you moving to break the other’s gaze.
You clear your throat, smiling once more before forcing yourself to turn into the direction of the door.
He stops you with a gentle call of your name.
“Can you do me one favour, darling?”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you respond. “Of course.”
“I am always happy for an excuse to see you, and I do wish you’d make it more of a habit to interrupt my dismally boring days with your company.” You feel like you’re about to get in trouble. “But tell Mor and Cassian that they have to ask for their own favours going forward.”
You bite your lip, averting your gaze from his knowing eyes as you nod. So, it wasn’t you getting into trouble; it was his cousin and brother.
The small dinner party turned out to be a rager; a fact Cassian and Morrigan conveniently forgot to inform you of when they sent you to ask Rhysand if they could host.
The Inner Circle held a meeting the next morning – bright and early, much to the disgruntlement of a very hungover Cassian and Morrigan – that you were notably excused from attending to implement a new rule forbidding anyone from using you to ask Rhysand for favours.
EEEEEEEEEE I love when the house meddles with the characters relationships, imagine pre established relationship with rhys, and there is a ball of some sort happening, reader is putting on jewellery and just needs a ring so the house gives her a gorgeous ring that fits with her dress, turns out it's his mother's ring and she told the house long ago to give it to her sons perfect pair.
Everyone knows and is stunned and she's like "look guys isn't this pretty? 🥺"
such a cute idea! thanks for the prompt <3
Rhysand x fem!reader who is—apparently—his perfect match [1.1k words]
There’s a running score in the house of who takes the title of Most Mischievous.
Rhysand moves through life like the world is a giant game of chess and he’s always three steps ahead.
Amren refuses to participate.
Cassian likes to live life on the edge, responsible for countless pranks against the members of his family, many of which have earned him a well-aimed fist to the nose.
Most wouldn’t refer to Azriel—the infamous Spymaster—as particularly mischievous, but the Shadowsinger does have the best chances in the house of actually getting away with tomfoolery should he choose to partake.
And Morrigan, as she’s quick to tell everyone, is quite sure she’s going to take first place.
Or, at least she thought she was going to take first place.
Until today.
There’s a ball being held in Day Court and the entire Inner Circle is going all out on their looks for the night, knowing that any event hosted by Helion is well worth the effort.
Cassian is busy fussing in the mirror as he ensures his hair is the perfect amount of dishevelled; it’s a lot of effort to look so effortless, apparently.
Morrigan is quite sure Azriel is uncomfortable as shit based on the tension in his wings and the way his shadows slink along the lines of his suit as though they might be able to soothe him. His face betrays none of this—unsurprisingly—and Morrigan believes that anyone who isn’t as familiar with the shadowsinger would simply assume the Spymaster is allergic to smiling.
Amren appears from down the hall as she fastens the last of her jewels, sneering at Cassian in the mirror who tries to hip check the tiny ancient being.
Rhysand is dressed impeccably, as always. And while the High Lord appears casual for all intents and purposes as he leans against the doorframe with a hand in his pocket, nobody misses the way his eyes frequently flit towards the end of the hallway you’ll be appearing from any moment now.
You see, Morrigan may have been up to a little bit of mischief earlier. This dance you and Rhys have been doing around each other is getting so old and something has to give.
The two of you are perfect for each other, obviously, and both madly infatuated with one another. Not a single one of them is going to be surprised if—when—the mating bond snaps any day now.
If Rhysand suspects the existence of a bond between the two of you, he doesn’t say it. But he sure as hell shows it.
The High Lord of the Night Court, the ruler of the most infamous court and the most powerful High Lord in Prythian history, is an absolute pushover when it comes to the likes of you.
Thank the Cauldron that you either don’t notice it or simply don’t call attention to it, because you’ve never once taken advantage of the sway you have on the High Lord. You simply smile at him like he’s hung the moon and he smiles back like you’re the reason he hung it.
So, Morrigan decided enough was enough and threw everything she had into perfecting your look tonight, even enlisting the reluctant help of Amren to perfectly bedazzle you.
Now, it’s not like you need either of their help getting Rhysand to stare at you in awe; you’ve clearly got that covered. But Morrigan’s plan for tonight was to make sure that you look so good that Rhysand can’t bring himself to look away until he’s got a ring on your finger or has you naked beneath him.
Honestly, either will do for her at this point.
The sound of your heels alert everyone to your arrival, and Mor shares a knowing look with Azriel when Rhysand straightens at the sight of you.
Cassian lets out a low whistle. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing? Why don’t you give us a spin, gorgeous.”
You might not hear the low growl in Rhysand’s chest over your tinkering laugh as you do as told—dutifully giving Cassian a spin—but Morrigan sure does.
Down boy, she teases Rhysand silently.
“You found jewels that work for you?” Amren asks in that way of hers that makes it sound like she couldn’t care less about your answer.
“Yes, thank you,” you reply serenely. “None of the rings really spoke to me, but the House helped me out.”
“The House?” Rhysand asks, voice far softer than he uses to speak to anyone else. Even Azriel manages a twitch of his lips at his brother’s expense.
You grin gleefully at him.
“Yes. I was just putting away the pieces Amren let me choose from and the House gave me one instead.”
Rhysand’s gaze and smile have somehow grown even softer during your response.
“Let’s see it, then.”
You place your hand in Rhysand’s extended one and everyone—even the House—stills at the sight.
The ring on your finger once belonged to none other than Rhysand’s very own mother. She never wore it herself, though.
You see, the ring you’re currently wearing was a gift from Rhysand’s mother to his perfect partner. She instructed the House to—should she be unable to do it herself—give the ring to Rhysand’s future mate.
“The House gave you this?” Morrigan asks quietly, stealing your gaze for a brief second before you return it to your ring clad finger, though not before your eyes briefly check in with Rhysand.
“Yeah, isn’t it pretty?”
“It sure is,” Rhysand hums softly, never tearing his gaze from your hand in his. “A beautiful ring for a beautiful fae.”
You beam at him.
“Thank you, Rhys,” you sing. “I’ll give it back once-”
“No, no,” Rhysand interrupts quickly, pulling your hand up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “You keep it, darling; it’s yours now.”
You seem stunned, whether at the blatant show of affection or the generous offer, Morrigan’s not sure.
“I- …are you sure?”
“Positive,” Rhysand agrees, nodding towards the others in a silent order to head out. “It suits you perfectly; it’s like it was made for you.”
He guides you towards the door with a hand at the small of your back and the calm confidence of a male who has finally found his other half.
“I can’t believe we lost to sentient architecture,” Cassian mutters to Morrigan as the group moves to follow.
Elle I have a Rhys x fem!reader request for you pretty please! Where reader is from hewn city and heavily resents the way the inner circle treats those who were born there, because everyone is born innocent but ofc their environment is gonna shape them. Fast forward to a mating bond snapping in place between reader and Rhys and he takes her back to Velaris with him. He’s like a kicked puppy trying to earn her affection, meanwhile she’s so done with him and his bullshit. I would love to see him actually win her over tho!!
ooooh a rhys request! okayyyy, lets see if I can do it justice ;)
Rhysand x Hewn City!reader on the eve that their mating bond snaps [1.4k words]
part 1 -> part 2 | series masterlist
CW: fem!reader, reader kinda hates Rhys [fair, valid], tension [sexual? maybe. emotional? definitely], kind of angsty but not in, like, a sad way
Your haste is met with swears and sneers as you force your way through the crowd, but you merely respond in kind as you continue towards the doors.
Your pulse pounds in your ears as you barrel through them, clumsily removing your heels and slowing only enough to grab each shoe before you carry on down the endless grey halls in a gods’ honest sprint.
You’ll be in for it later; you know Keir will have something to say about your sudden and theatric departure, know your parents will see this infraction fit for one of their special punishments. But neither of those facts deter you from your escape.
This simply cannot be happening, it cannot be happening.
Why you? Why now? Why him!?
“Now, where are you off to in such a rush, darling?” A voice purrs from behind you, forcing you to come to a sudden halt.
Your shoulders rise and fall dramatically as you try to regain control of your breathing. But – despite your racing heart, your tight throat, and your burning lungs – you force your chin up and straighten your back, placing your shoes in one hand and gathering the skirts of your simple dress in the other before you turn to face your High Lord.
“I must know, do you leave every ball like your ass is on fire?” He quips, an infuriating smirk plastered onto his face as his eyes shine with mirth. You want to claw them out of his fucking skull.
“Not all of them.” You reply evenly, pretending as though you haven’t slipped your head through an invisible noose connecting your soul to the male who stands before you.
Why you? Why now? Why him?
“Just the ones that you might have to interact with me?” He carries on, hands in his pockets as he takes unhurried strides towards you. You must look a wreck; close to hyperventilating, hair falling out of its place from your run, shoes in your hand as your bare feet poke out of the skirts of your dress.
You certainly feel like a wreck.
Nothing about his face clues you in on whether or not he agrees. In fact, he looks to be thoroughly enjoying whatever little game he thinks he’s playing.
It only makes you resent him more; this isn’t a game to you, this is your life.
“Do you really think there’s anywhere in my court that I would not find you, darling?”
Your face contorts with fury. “You do not spend a lot of time down in this city, my lord, so you’ll have to excuse my assumption that I might know a thing or two about Hewn that you do not.”
Your tone is scathing; imbued with so much hostility and spite that a lesser male would’ve flinched from the force of it.
The damned smirk on his face doesn’t falter in the slightest, but something shifts in his eyes.
And then he says your name.
He puts his hands up in surrender when this causes your eyes to narrow accusingly. “It’s my duty to familiarize myself with the citizens of Hewn City.”
Your lips curl into something that might be considered a smile if only it wasn’t so bitter. “I have a very hard time believing you know the name of every fae who resides in Hewn.”
His head tilts at you as his eyes explore your form. “Well, maybe only the ones who peak my interest.”
“Well then you must have me confused with someone else, my lord. There’s nothing interesting about me.”
“You’re wrong.” He counters quickly, taking a few more steps until he’s standing right before you, forcing you to crane your neck to hold his gaze. “Someone mated to the High Lord of Night is very interesting indeed.”
You try to clear the panic from your throat. “There must be a mistake.”
“Yeah?” He asks quickly, pressing in even closer; close enough that you refrain from taking too deep a breath lest your chest rise enough to meet his. “Do you think I’m mistaken, darling?”
With this, he plucks at the mating bond in his chest, the golden thread vibrating down the line until it rattles the bones in your chest.
Your silence is met with a chuckle. “Didn’t think so.”
“Is that all, my lord?” You whisper, removing your eyes from his as you turn your gaze in the direction you’d been fleeing in. You’re not sure what your plan had been, really, only that you needed to be far, far away.
Funny how that worked out for you.
“Not quite,” he replies in kind, pausing for a moment before he takes a step backwards and flicks invisible lint from his suit jacket, “come with me.”
You can’t help but notice that it’s not phrased as a question. Your ire blossoms.
“I have no interest in going anywhere with you.” You hiss.
“But you do want to go.” He carries on, seemingly unoffended at your overt rejection. “To get out of Hewn.”
“Residents down here do not have the luxury of such outlandish dreams, my lord.” You all but growl, hands clenching into fists at your side. “Some of us are damned to a life under the mountain.”
You swear his face flashes with actual hurt.
“Then come with me.”
“I do not want to go anywhere with you.” You spit again, taking a threatening step towards him.
A muscle feathers in his jaw. “Then I will not accompany you,” he manages, frustration becoming evident in his tone, “I will simply escort you. But no mate of mine will be trapped to a life they do not wish to live; not one with me, and not one under a Cauldron forsaken mountain.”
Voices echo from down the hall and you watch the High Lord straighten, face hardening before he turns abruptly and creates a barrier between you and the newcomers with his body.
“Where is she?” A familiar voice barks. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“Keir, need I remind you that no one here answers to you?” The High Lord drawls apathetically.
“A member of my city caused a scene and shall be dealt with according to Hewn standards.” Keir sneers in turn.
“Careful,” the High Lord sing-songs as though watching Keir get riled up is fun and not a death wish, “you have me wondering if I’ve given you too long a leash.”
A commotion sounds from further down the hall before Keir has a chance to respond.
“I do not answer to you.” A voice further away explains painfully monotone.
“Well, I- eugh, where is my daughter!?”
Your jaw clenches hard enough you worry you cracked a tooth, causing the High Lord to peer at you over his shoulder.
I can take you away from this, he communicates directly into your mind, just say the word and we’re gone.
What’s that saying, again? The beast that you know is better than the beast that you don’t?
Still, the sound of your father’s furious footsteps echoing down the hall finds your heartrate skyrocketing, the damn organ inching its way up your trachea as though it, too, itches to flee.
Can the High Lord really be any worse than your parents? Any worse than Keir and his pack of evil cronies? And if the High Lord is worse than them, you’d likely find your end at his hands sooner or later anyways. Wouldn’t you rather find your end free from your parents clutches? Free from this desolate prison you’ve called home for centuries?
Your new mate must sense your wavering. I expect nothing of you. You don’t have to like me, you only have to trust me.
A borderline hysterical laugh threatens to bubble out of you. Okay well I don’t trust you, so…
You have my word, he insists, I’ll even agree to a bargain if you can wait until we lose our present company.
“Where is that insolent, good for nothing-”
“Okay.” You whisper, loud enough only for the High Lord to hear you.
A wicked smile takes over the male’s face as he turns to face the Steward of the Court of Nightmares and your dreadful parents.
“My greatest apologies, but you’ll have to excuse us” he announces derisively, pulling you out from behind him and into his side; your parents gawk at you, flanked by the General of the Illyrian armies and the Shadowsinger, “my mate and I have much to discuss.”
You hardly have a moment to notice the way the colour drains from your parents’ faces before you’re whisked away into infinite darkness.
You hope you haven’t made some terrible, terrible mistake.
oooommmmgggg the rhys fic!! that punch was so deserved holy cow. i cannot wait for reader to start taking advantage of what it means to be mated to the highlord of night tho. like yes what's mine is mine and what's yours is also mine lololol
Rhysand x Hewn City!reader who finds herself some treasures [1.7k words]
part 2 <- part 3 -> part 4 | series masterlist
CW: fem!reader, stealing, azriel being the MVP, cassian trying his fuckin hardest over here, mostly crack/comedy
Much to your chagrin, Rhysand had been right; you got lost. Getting lost being your intention notwithstanding, you still would’ve liked him to be wrong.
You’re not supposed to be in here, that much you’re sure of. But that really doesn’t deter you in the way it probably would most.
The room reeks of the High Lord; his scent coats every inch of the room as though he left a vital part of himself – some of his magic, perhaps – behind when he got ready this morning.
Dark woods make up the furniture that line the walls, wardrobes and armoires stand proud along a wall with matching dressers, a door to what you assume to be an attached bathing chamber along another, and beside the wall of glassless windows is a four poster bed large enough to fit two Illyrian’s comfortably at least.
The entire room is dark and elegant and it makes you sick; rooms like this just…what? Sit empty? Waiting for the High Lord and his lavish guests to visit Hewn while the rest of his people in the city beg for scraps?
You pull a dresser drawer open, surprised that you aren’t cursed or maimed the second your fingers touch the mahogany.
Socks, rolls and rolls of them.
How painfully boring.
You close that drawer and open another. Briefs, and-
“What do you have tucked in here, High Lord?” You murmur to yourself as you pull out a square box, lifting its lid to expose an intricately designed wrist watch. There’s a language you don’t recognize engraved into the links of the silver band and constellations of diamonds surrounding the clockface. The ticking hands seem to be crafted from moondust themselves; iridescent and lovely and you don’t think you’ve ever seen something so beautiful – so expensive – in your entire life, let alone held it in the palm of your hands.
“You’re close,” a voice sounds from behind you; a strangled yelp gets caught in your throat as you close the box with a snap and shove it behind your back, nudging the drawer closed with your hip before turning to face the Shadowsinger who considers you with a painfully neutral face.
“You didn’t- I- I mean, I’m not-”
He interrupts you by holding his hands up in surrender. “It’s none of my business,” is all he says before his hands fall back to his side, hazel eyes continuing to catalog you.
You…were literally caught red handed stealing from his High Lord; from his brother, for all intents and purposes. You were sneaking around his home and pocketing things. You think it might just be his business. In fact, you’re quite sure this type of thing is exactly what his business entails.
“Your room’s just across the hall,” the Shadowsinger continues unperturbed, gesturing to the door parallel to Rhysand’s with his head before his eyes flicker to where your hands hide behind your back.
“Thank you,” you manage, no more than a whisper.
The Shadowsinger nods once, looking over his shoulder into the hall before turning back to you. “He keeps the nicer stuff in the bedside table on the right side of his bed.”
And with that, the Illyrian walks away.
You remain frozen in the spot long after the Shadowsinger leaves, the watch behind your back ticking an ominous song and your heart beating in time with it in your throat as you consider the Illyrian’s words.
He keeps his nicer stuff in the bedside table…
So… So the Spymaster knew you were taking things, and not only did he decide to turn a blind eye but he actively encouraged you to continue, going so far as to tell you where to find the good stuff.
An incredulous scoff escapes you.
Yeah, right. Impossible.
It has to be a trick.
Right?
But your eyes flicker over to the bedside table on the right of the High Lord’s bed.
Was the Shadowsinger sitting just outside the door waiting for you to take the bait? Was a shadow laying in wait for the moment your fingers trace the knob of the drawer to go and tattle on you? Would the Shadowsinger take the kill himself or merely deliver you to his High Lord?
Did Rhysand actually keep his nicer stuff in the bedside table?
Curiosity – morbid as it may be – wins, and you take a few tentative steps towards the bedside table at first, waiting for sounds of an ambush, before sprinting across the room and ripping the drawer open.
Stacks of boxes in various sizes shift under the force. Chains, cufflinks, and bracelets sit in velvet cases waiting to be worn.
One box, though, seems to be made of wood; carved from an ancient tree. You open it to expose a signet ring; a little flashy for Rhysand if you did say so yourself, but sentimental nonetheless. You get the feeling this isn’t necessarily your mate’s, but a family jewel of sorts.
You pocket that, too.
With the bust of your dress, your arms, and hidden pockets full, you tiptoe towards the open doorway and peer down each direction of the hallway; no Shadowsinger’s in sight.
You take in a steadying breath before dashing across the hall into the opposite room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you try to calm your racing heart.
Once you’re convinced the Spymaster hasn’t ratted you out and the High Lord hasn’t pointed his armies in your direction, you move across the room to your own four-postered, Illyian-sized bed and dump your treasures onto it.
You just…stole from the High Lord of the Night Court.
Whether or not you live to tell the tale is yet to be determined.
Two, half-wraith females collect you the next morning. Nuala and Cerridwen, if you remember the names Rhysand mentioned correctly.
If they think it strange that you piled a nest of pillows and blankets near the pillars at the edge of the room – protected from the ledge by nothing but an invisible force – so that you could fall asleep under the stars, they don’t mention it.
And that’s how you find yourself sitting at an uncomfortable breakfast table with none other than the High Lord of the Night Court, his infamous Spymaster, and the General of the Illyrian armies.
“The ten days you agreed to for your end of the bargain will begin today, that way I can make sure you’re comfortably set up in Velaris and introduce you to the Night Court at large,” Rhysand announces as you bring a piece of toast up to your mouth.
“Ooh, Velaris. Is that where you keep all of your favourite pets, my lord?” You drawl, smirking up at him petulantly as you take a bite.
Cassian snorts, “something like that.”
You get the impression that the Shadowsinger kicks him under the table.
“You’ll have full access to the city and its amenities,” Rhysand continues, undeterred by your needling.
You roll your eyes. “How magnanimous of you.”
Rhysand finally lifts his eyes to you, though where you expect to find frustration or even hostility, you find…caution. “The citizens will smell the mating bond on you, I need to know what you would like to be referred to as.”
Your brows rise incredulously. “I beg your pardon?”
“A mate of the High Lord will be considered the High Lady in Velaris-”
“Absolutely not,” you decline immediately.
“Telling them you’re merely the High Lord’s mate will only garner more attention and questions,” he argues.
You use your toast to point at the Illyrians. “Can’t you just tell them I’m one of theirs, then?”
His response was instantaneous and vehement. “Absolutely not.”
“Awe, come now brother,” Cassian encourages as he leans further into his chair with a smarmy grin, “I promise to take good care of her.”
The Shadowsinger shakes his head down at his plate and mutters something about lacking any sense of self-preservation.
Rhysand doesn’t bother gracing him with a response. “Keir has demanded a meeting-” you tense, bile rising in your throat “-so I will be visiting with him this afternoon and then we will leave the Court of Nightmares.”
You try to calm the stampede in your chest at how certain Rhysand sounds; the silent promise that you will not be returned to Hewn City.
“Sounds good to me,” Cassian agrees easily, returning to his breakfast.
“Let me know when you’re ready to go and I’ll join you,” the Spymaster adds.
Rhysand’s eyes fall to a grandfather clock across the room. “It’s getting late; once we’re finished eating will be fine.”
His Spymaster hardly nods before Rhysand’s brows furrow. “Azriel I meant to ask, have you seen my watch?”
You nearly drop the eggs on your fork as you look up at the Shadowsinger who has turned to face his brother. “Which one?”
“The silver one with celestial engravings. I usually keep it in the dresser but it wasn’t there this morning when I went to put it on.”
Azriel’s brows pinch and his lips turn down as he considers the question. “Weird. I haven’t seen it.”
Rhysand hums thoughtfully.
“Might wanna check with Nuala and Cerridwen,” Azrie suggests with a casual shrug of his shoulder, “if they knew we were packing up to leave today they may have moved it.”
Rhysand nods in agreement and simply continues with his breakfast, seemingly unperturbed that a priceless piece of jewelry has gone missing from his personal collection.
You sneak a glance over to the Shadowsinger who has returned his attention to his own breakfast, though you do catch Cassian’s gaze who shoots you a playful wink before serving himself a second helping of fried potatoes.
Part of you still feels like you’ve stepped into a carefully warded trap, but another part of you feels like you just got away with committing the greatest heist of all time.
If you're taking suggestions for her power I'd like to toss a few of my ideas in the ring:
Reader being an "off" switch to magic, basically a cooler more powerful walking faebane
The complete opposite of that, she could have a copycat power
Or she could be an amplifier, making her and rhysand unstoppable
Or lastly, she could "adapt" to situations, like Darwin in marvel comics
YES, THANKS. [also idk who Darwin is so, couldn't work that in]
Rhysand x Hewn City!reader who shows Rhysand what she can do [2.4k words]
part 4 <- part 5 | series masterlist
CW: boundaries being crossed/violated, one step forward and two steps back, anxiety, angst
You’re pretty sure you’re a dead fae walking as you stride towards the High Lord’s study, surely about to get the dressing down of a lifetime for your conduct since your certified temper tantrum on the side of the mountain.
Still, that fact doesn’t deter you from boldly flinging both doors to the room open with a flick of your wrist and walking into his study without awaiting a verbal invitation.
“You rang?” you drawl, coming to a halt at the centre of the room and crossing your arms defiantly.
Whatever conversation was taking place between Azriel and Rhysand ceases immediately, the spymaster’s eyebrows rising slightly at your brazenness. If you’re not mistaken, you think you might notice a hint of…pride in his expression.
The two males share a loaded look before Azriel turns and exits the room, closing the doors behind him and effectively locking you in with the High Lord.
Rhysand remains sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his elbow resting on the armrest and his chin on his fist, violet eyes shining as he scrutinizes you.
Eventually, he gestures to the chair before his desk with his free hand. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand,” you counter, making no moves to sit.
But the two of you are—apparently—equals in every way including stubbornness, which means you both just blink at each other until you ultimately fold—deciding that your legs still hurt from your pilgrimage up to the House of Wind about a week ago—and take the seat. Let it be known that it was entirely your own idea, though.
“How are you feeling?” Rhysand tries.
“Annoyed,” you deadpan.
The bastard doesn’t even flinch.
“What do you want, Rhysand?” you sigh tiredly, wishing for this conversation to be over so that you’re not stuck in the High Lord’s presence any longer than necessary.
His thoughtful hum feels like a trap as his violet eyes flash with excitement. “Glad to hear we’re finally on a first name basis, darling.”
You scowl at him, angry at your faux pas and angrier at him for acknowledging it.
“Are you done?” You threaten to stand, and he sobers.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Then get on with it already.”
“Why is Keir having such a hard time giving you up?”
Your lungs seize. Kier’s still going on about your departure from Hewn? Still bothering Rhysand about your absence? Is Rhysand in discussions with him about your return? Is your behaviour since the mating bond snapping (a mere nine whole days ago) going to have your ass sent back under the mountain?
“What do you mean?” you tiptoe carefully.
“Keir seems to think you’re too great an asset to let slip away without a fight.”
A fight.
“I’d like to know why.”
You swallow thickly. “I’m sure losing me would be a blow to any male’s ego.”
You can’t see the way his lips turn up in a smirk due to his hand in front of his mouth, but you can see it in the sparkle of his eyes. “While I don’t doubt that, I believe he has ulterior motives. And what’s more, I believe you know what they are, and I need you to tell me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You do, and you need to tell me.”
“I don’t need to do shit.”
“Y/N,” he presses, levity gone and leaving a rather desperate looking male in its wake. “I have made a bargain with you that I intend to keep but I cannot protect you if-”
“Protect me?” The question comes out shrill. “Protect me from what? From Keir? You promised I wouldn’t be sent back.”
“You’re not going to be sent back, but-”
“If there’s no risk of me being sent back then what does it matter?”
“It matters because you’re the mate of one of the most powerful High Lords in all of Prythian and if Keir doesn’t get his way, someone else might.”
“If you’re one of the most powerful High Lords in all of Prythian, why are you so afraid of Keir?”
“Enough,” he says, insistent yet soft at the edges as though wary of the fragility of your panic and not wishing to puncture it. “There is a method to my madness regarding the way I deal with Keir and if you’re really, truly interested I will happily sit and explain it to you in horrifying detail, but that is not why we are here right now.”
Rhysand stands, and your heart rate skyrockets which forces you to stand too. He halts, watching you as though you’re a wild animal ready to strike at any moment. You’re not sure he’s too far off.
“Keir is the worst thing in Hewn City,” Rhysand sympathizes calmly. “Maybe even in all of Night Court. But he’s not the worst thing in Prythian. I have greater enemies in this realm than the slightly rabid dog that I keep on a short leash under my nose.
“If Keir knows something about you, something important,” he continues, taking measured steps towards you until you’re trapped between the chair and his frame, forced to look up at him. “Something that would put you in danger should that information end up in the hands of one of the Night Court’s adversaries…”
Rhysand’s eyes dip to your mouth, to your throat, to the place in your sternum where your soul is bound to his. He gives the bond a gentle tug.
“I need to be ahead of this, Y/N. I need to know what I’m up against, what exactly it is that I’m protecting-”
“I don’t need protection,” you interject quickly, hating this; hating the conversation, hating the bond, hating being mated to him, hating being scared.
“That’s kind of too bad, darling. I protect what’s mine,” he murmurs.
“Fuck off.”
“Tell me what it is that Keir wants,” he asks again.
“I don’t know what Keir wants,” you shout.
“You’re lying. Tell me what he wants from you. Tell me why he’s putting up such a fight.”
“No.”
“Were you involved with him?”
“Fuck you, Rhysand.”
“Did your parents promise you to him?”
“No!”
“Was it casual? Just a one off? Did you frequently warm his bed?”
“I had nothing to do with him! I’d never let that prick touch me!”
“Why is he still asking after you, Y/N?”
“Because I’m a siphon!” you wail, completely hyperventilating now as you rub your clammy hands down the front of your dress. “I’m a si- I’m a siphon, I’m a siphon.”
He blinks at you. “A siphon?”
A sob bubbles out of you as you sink back into your chair with your face in your hands, missing the way Rhysand’s hands itch to catch you as you fall.
“I… I can drain people’s magic. Manipulate it,” you whisper into your palms.
The room remains silent for a few minutes as you regain control of your breathing and Rhysand considers your answer.
“What else?”
You want to be mad; want to rage and fight and scream. But you can’t seem to find it in you when he manages to ask so gently that the words feel like a lover’s caress.
“There’s something else; something more. Something you’re not telling me.”
You nearly choke on the admission. “He…he thought he could train me to-”
The fabric of Rhysand’s pants rustle as he crouches in front of you.
“He thought he could train you to what?”
You rub harshly at your eyes. “He thought he could train me to…harness other people’s powers. Thought that since I can…steal other people’s magic, that I could use it too. Like a mimic.”
“Like a mimic,” he repeats, eyes travelling over your form as though seeing you clearly for the first time.
“I can’t,” you insist emphatically, looking directly at Rhysand despite the fact that you’re sure you look a mess; eyes reddened and puffy, face damp, hair askew. “I swear, Rhysand, I’m not- I can’t-”
“Okay, alright,” he agrees, gently tapping your knee with his wrist. “Why don’t you think you can?”
“Other fae’s magic isn’t meant for me,” you insist, familiar arguments you used to make to Keir (and get beaten for) tumbling out of you with little-to-no thought behind the action. “I’m not built to wield magic that wasn’t gifted to me by the Cauldron. It doesn’t work like that. I can dampen the effects, or thwart its efforts, but I cannot wield it. It…it hurts.”
“It hurts?”
You nod in confirmation.
“I take it Keir didn’t care about that all too much,” he surmises. You give him a wry look in response.
Rhysand stands with a sigh. “What is it that he hoped to have you do?”
“He was smart enough not to tell me exactly what his plans were,” you grumble. “But I suspect he was eager to try them out on you.”
“He wanted you to siphon my magic?”
“And wield it against you.”
Rhysand considers this. “Do it.”
You look at him like he’s grown a second head. “What?”
“Siphon my magic,” he explains, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. “And use it against me.”
“Are you insane?” You ask him—a rhetorical question; he clearly is.
“Keir’s an asshole but he isn’t stupid; if he thinks you’re able to siphon my magic and use it, you probably can.”
“What don’t you understand about what I just said?” you spit. “I told you that I can’t.”
“And I don’t believe that.”
“You think I’m lying?”
His expression softens. “No, I don’t think you’re lying. But I do think you can do it.”
“I can’t, Rhysand. I can’t — it’s excruciating. And if I can’t handle wielding Thanatos’ magic, what hope do I have against yours?”
“I believe you-”
“You’re the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, the weight of your power is stifling in even the most well ventilated rooms, I cannot wield that.”
“I can help you.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Won’t,” he parrots with a smirk, straightening and looking down at you. “Not can’t.”
You let out a sigh, but it’s more tired than you wanted it to be. “Not everything is a riddle, you prick.”
He doesn’t have time to retort before Azriel is returning to the room, standing beside the ornate oak desk with his hands and wings tucked behind his back and feet shoulder width apart like the perfect soldier.
“Siphon my magic,” Rhysand states, mirroring Azriel’s stance save the way he tucks his hands into his pockets.
You sneer at him. “You want me to lie down and roll over too? Got a treat in your pocket you’ll toss to me afterwards?”
He rolls his eyes, deciding he values his life and refraining from the quips that beg to fall from his tongue. “I’m going to use my powers on Azriel; try to siphon my magic.”
You don’t bother correcting him that you don’t have to try siphoning his magic, you just can. You do roll your eyes, though, and hope that translates much the same.
It’s Azriel who eventually lets out a breath of disbelief. “No way.”
“What’s going on?” Cassian sounds from the door.
“Y/N’s showing us her party tricks,” Rhysand explains; words flippant but tone considering.
“What can she do?”
You’re pretty sure you’ve heard the saying before that curiosity killed the Cassian, but you didn’t think it’d be quite so literal.
One minute the Illyrian war general is standing proud, the next he’s on his knees, shaking under an invisible weight that threatens to crush him into the carpet completely.
“What are you doing!?” you hiss, whirling on Rhysand.
“Siphon my magic,” he says, hardly blinking as Azriel grunts and sinks to his knees too.
“Stop it!”
“Siphon my magic, darling.”
A weight begins to press down on your shoulders, forcing you to make a real effort to stay on your own two feet as you squeeze your eyes shut in fear.
“Stop!”
Suddenly, gravity ceases to exist; the weight is immediately lifted from your shoulders, and Azriel and Cassian both let out sighs of relief.
You open your eyes to find Rhysand on his knees, wincing in pain though he’s clearly making an effort to save face.
You fall back as you let go of his magic, scuffling away from the irreversible mess you almost made.
“I almost killed you,” you murmur, looking up as Rhysand finally stands and shakes it off. “I could’ve killed you.”
Cassias misses your quickly mounting panic. “Mother’s tits! Imagine what she could do at one of the war camps!”
“I could have killed you!”
Your shriek finally startles the room into silence, seeing Rhysand share a look with his brothers who both quickly exit the office.
“Darling, it’s-”
“I said no!” you wail. “I said no! I said… What is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry, I just thought-”
Rhysand stops talking when you begin to sob in earnest, the temperature in the room seeming to drop as he begins to piece together what he’s done, what major line he just crossed.
“I said no!”
“I…I’m sorry,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper as he swallows his quickly mounting shame. “I knew my brothers would be able to stop you before you did any major damage but…”
“I said no.”
“I know.” Rhysand sounds nearly as gutted as you feel. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tricked you.”
By the time you collect yourself, Rhysand is kneeling beside you. “Are you hurt?”
“Get away from me,” you mutter, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, bringing a silky soft handkerchief to your cheeks.
“You’re fucking something,” you grumble, swiping the fabric from his hand and standing, angrier than you’ve ever been finding yourself under an alternative version of Keir. You pause at the door, turning to face him with a look of pure contempt.
“Your ten days are up tomorrow,” you tell him. “I’ll be spending my next two and a half weeks in Summer; make the necessary arrangements and have one of your guinea pigs escort me.”
Then you slam the door shut and head to your room to pack a bag for the Summer Court.
oml! the rhys fic!!! pls tell me ur thinking of continuing it? [no pressure tho, ofc] i am a sucker 4 a good enemies to lovers! god only knows things r never simple with rhys 🙄 it was so good! thx <33
so true, babes <3
Rhysand x Hewn City!reader who make their bargain [1.5k words]
part 1 <- part 2 -> part 3 | series masterlist
CW: fem!reader, discussions of imprisonment, reader clocks rhys right in the fucking mouth [queen shit though, he deserved it], reader's a little volatile in this one
The endless night of the High Lord’s shadows gives way to twilight; the sky – the sky – is tinted a deep, lavender hue as the sun sets further behind the mountains in the distance.
You have materialized into an office; windows and doors don’t seem to exist here. Instead, the edge of the floor simply meets air. Pillars hold the roof up and curtains billow in a gentle breeze which is all that marks the boundary between palace and flying; stability and freefalling.
You know the High Lord is watching you, you know that the two Illyirans have let themselves into the office and are doing much the same. You know you’re supposed to be making demands for yourself, forcing the High Lord to honour his promise of a bargain.
But you can’t force your gaze away from the sky.
The sky.
“Wait until you see the stars.” The Lord of Bloodshed comments with a saccharine grin, plundering your attention from the deserving sights beyond the horizon.
“And who are you?” You spit back; the General’s brows rising as the Shadowsinger shifts on his feet next to him and the High Lord huffs a laugh from your side.
“Uh, well, I’m…Cassian?”
You know you’re being mean, but Cassian seems to be the kind of male who cares about what people think of him and you’ve had a bad night, so you can’t resist. “Is that a question or an answer?”
The male blinks at you. “An answer?”
“And is that supposed to mean anything to me, Cassian?” You ask as you take measured steps towards him, feigning a confidence you don’t feel nor do you deserve considering how disheveled and shoeless you currently are.
His shoulders rise and fall in a self-conscious shrug as his eyes flit between you and the High Lord.
“Don’t torment the male, darling,” the High Lord chuckles, causing his Spymaster to pull his lips between his teeth and look down at the floor to hide his smile. “He’s excited about having a sister.”
You spin on the spot. “I thought you promised that you didn’t expect anything from me.”
“I don’t,” he agrees quickly, never balking as you storm across the room towards him.
“Well I’m not feeling particularly sisterly, my lord. So tell your dogs not to expect any familial affection from me.”
His brows rise as a strange smile dances across his lips, eyes flicking over to the two Illyrians on the wall of his office before returning to you. “Duly noted.”
“Was that all just for show, then?” You ask pointedly. “Did you only promise a bargain in order to get me out of there? Have I simply found myself in another prison?”
“Of course not.” You think you sense actual offence in the High Lord’s face and tone; you find some pleasure in knowing that you can offend him.
You hold out your hand to him. “Then make good on your promise, High Lord.”
His eyes flit down to your open hand and back up to meet your gaze before he accepts his hand in yours; the bond thrumming in contentment at the proximity. You shove it down.
“It’s Rhysand.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Rhysand,” he replies, smirk deepening. “You can call me Rhysand. Or Rhys, if-”
“Absolutely not.”
“As you wish,” he murmurs. “A bargain, then.”
“You cannot send me back to Hewn,” you blurt immediately, noticing a flash of…something flit across the High Lo-...Rhysand’s face. “You cannot hand me over to Keir or my parents.”
He offers you a nod. “Agreed.”
“I don’t want to be held anywhere,” you continue, voice falling more vulnerable than you intended. “I won’t be a prisoner.”
“You won’t be a prisoner,” he agrees easily. “Is that all?”
Is that…all? Truly, you didn’t think you’d make it this far. You were quite convinced you’d show up to the High Lord’s residence and be put under strict watch. Quite frankly, you’re surprised you got away with speaking to Cassian the way that you did; surprised you managed to demand anything from Rhysand at all.
“I…suppose.”
“Wonderful,” his smile is serpentine. “I have some conditions of my own.”
“Conditions?” You balk, trying to pull your hand away but Rhysand holds strong.
“You will spend two weeks of every month in my company-”
“I will do no such thing!”
“-for one year. You will not be held captive anywhere nor forced to behave any such way. I simply require you to be within my presence for two weeks a month for one year.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I did not lie,” he retorts, voice falling stern as his hand tightens ever so slightly on your hand. “But a bargain is made between two people involving an offer – like freedom – for a price – like your company for two weeks of each month for one year.”
“A price,” you scoff.
“I do not think that asking for your presence is so unreasonable in return for freedom from Hewn, my unwavering loyalty and protection, plus the immeasurable resources that will be at your disposal.”
“What happened to escorting me and not accompanying me?”
“I meant it,” he insists, “you want to go to Day? I’ll arrange your travels. You want to check out summer? I’ll recommend my favourite restaurants. You want to travel the continent? I’ll fund your entire trip. But two weeks of each month for one year you will spend with me.”
“Why?”
His brows raise as he tilts his head. “Why?”
“Why.” You repeat, narrowing your eyes.
Rhysand considers you for a moment before offering a somewhat flippant shrug of one shoulder. “That is the nature of a bargain, darling. Both parties need to make concessions. Consider this yours.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek. “One week a month.”
His mouth twitches in amusement; the hint of a smile. “Twelve days.”
“Ten days.”
The smile blossoms. “Deal.”
With that, magic burns in your finger trips and consumes your hand; you hiss in pain as the magic pulses and travels up your forearm before suddenly disappearing, leaving a thin band wrapped around your thumb which travels down the side of your hand, twines around your wrist twice before continuing up towards the inner part of your elbow.
“Should’ve gone for two years, brother.” Cassian comments from the edge of the room, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“I won’t need two years.” Rhysand replies as he smiles down at you.
Stupidly, you ask: “need two years for what?”
“To have you falling for me.”
A breath of disbelief was punched from your lungs. “You think I’m going to fall for you in a year?”
His grin turns lopsided and wicked. “Darling, I’ll have you happy and pliant in my bed in six months.”
Not a single thought is associated with the action; your fist comes flying from your side independent from any consciousness and connects with the High Lord’s jaw with a deafening crack, forcing his head to the side.
You’re so busy shaking out your fist and calming the bond thrumming with upset at your treatment of your mate that you miss Cassian’s “HAH, nice” and the Shadowsinger’s shoulders bouncing in silent laughter.
“Now, darling girl,” Rhysand huffs with laughter as he turns his face back to you; mouth open and grinning even as he rubs his sore jaw, “how’d you know I’m into that.”
“You are an ass.” You spit at him.
“And you” he purrs, “are my equal in every way.”
A slightly hysterical shriek leaves you. “I cannot believe the Mother thought I’d make sense with the likes of you.”
“And I cannot believe you agreed to a year,” he replies, still smiling at you as he tilts his head. “I would have agreed to six months.”
You match his smile with a sadistic one of your own. “And I would have agreed to two weeks.”
With this, you turn and begin marching your way out of the office.
“I’ll have Nuala and Cerridwen show you to your-”
“No, you will not,” you fume, hair falling out of its style further yet as you whip back towards him. “Am I a prisoner here, my lord?”
“Of course not,” he replies evenly.
“Then I do not need your sentinels ushering me around.”
“I only offer because the Moonstone Palace is a maze; you’re likely to get lost.”
“Then so be it,” you huff, spinning back towards the exit of the room.
“As you wish, darling.”
You part with the three of them by carelessly tossing your shoes over your shoulder, missing the raucous laughter and Cassian’s comment that follows.
“Your girl’s got quite the swing on her, Rhys. Maybe I’ll go find out what other surprises she’s hiding from us.”
Hi! Found your Rhysand x Hewn city! Reader series and love it! Do you think we’ll see her fall for him? How long does it actually take?
the plan is definitely to see her fall for him [eventually]! tbh i didn't know the answer to this question until i wrote this part but i think it's gonna take a while; reader is kinda bitter!
Rhysand x Hewn City!reader who has a point to make [2.1k words]
part 3 <- part 4 -> part 5 | series masterlist
CW: reader's klepto proclivities, sense of betrayal, reader kinda lays into Morrigan in this one so if that's a deal breaker for you proceed no further, angst, some fluff
You’re not sure why you feel as betrayed as you do, not sure why you expected anything—let alone loyalty—from the likes of the High Lord’s right-and-left hand men. Still, the betrayal stings.
But it doesn’t burn nearly as bad as your legs do.
You’ve lost count of how many stairs you’ve climbed since your temper tantrum started, but it has to be near a thousand by now.
Great, you think dryly to yourself, only 9000 more to go.
“Y/N, please,” Cassian all but begs from behind you. “Please. Rhys is gonna kill me if I-”
“Fuck off, General,” you spit in response, one hand against the rough stone of the mountain as you take another excruciating step.
“I’ll fly you up and then you can continue being mad at me from upstairs, okay?”
You don’t grace him with a response.
“I’m sorry, alright?”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” you hiss, taking another step. “I want you to fuck off.”
“Y/N-”
“Get away from me.”
Something in your tone must alert him to how serious you are because the Lord of Bloodshed relents, letting out a sigh before he finally takes off with one, powerful flap of his wings. You let out a sigh of your own, wishing you had a pair of wings to take off with, wishing you didn’t feel too betrayed—weren’t too stubborn—to accept a ride from him.
In all fairness to Cassian, it’s not as though you are in the right in this situation.
You demanded to be brought to the village on your second day in Velaris, and refused to be escorted by Rhysand. Cassian jumped at the opportunity to take you.
Your objective for the day was simple: you’re desperate not to give Rhysand the satisfaction of asking him for anything, so you decided to bring some of your newly acquired jewels to a pawn shop to collect some coin of your own.
And, listen, you might be somewhat nefarious, but you aren’t cruel; you left the decorated watch and the family ring tucked safely in your room atop the mountain, only planning on pawning some of the more frivolous of your finds.
You were able to shake Cassian off—or so you thought—before entering the pawn shop, placing your finds on the counter and telling the clerk that you’d like to sell before looking up to find him eying you distrustfully.
You raise a brow at him defiantly. “How much for all of this?”
He looks between you and the items again before crossing his arms. “I cannot buy these from you.”
You scowl at him. “And why not?”
“Because you’ve stolen these,” he scoffs.
“I beg your pardon?” You counter derisively, taken aback by the very offensive (and appropriate) accusation.
“I don’t know where you’ve gotten this, ma’am,” he mutters as he shoves the items back towards you, “but the High Lord will be hearing about this.”
Your heart rate picks up in tempo. “How dare-”
“Cael!” An older gentleman cheers as he enters from a back door, shooting you an apologetic smile. “Has he helped you out, dear?”
You look back over at Cael who begins to explain your thievery to his superior.
“Sir, she-”
“Is a valued customer,” the owner interrupts, stepping up to the counter and replacing Cael in front of the register. “How can we help you?”
You look down at your items on the counter and then back over at Cael.
“I really must insist, Aelfric, these items-”
“You’re looking to sell, are you? Let’s see how much we can offer you today,” Aelfric hums—much to Cael’s displeasure—as he pulls out a note book and begins to tally up the jewels you’ve laid out in front of him.
“Aelfric-”
“Cael, can you tend to the delivery out back, please?” The owner asks pointedly, raising his brows at his employee when he deigns to hesitate.
The younger male relents, scowling at you before heading towards the same door Aelfric just entered. You hear a muffled my lord? as the door falls shut behind him, immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of Cassian’s murmured tones on the other side of the door.
Your heart plummets to your stomach.
He knew; they knew. You’ve done something wrong—something criminal—and you weren’t getting away with it; they were simply playing along.
Playing you for a fool.
“Right! So, I can offer you 700 gold marks and 90 coppers for all of this,” Aelfric explains happily, smiling up at you as Cael returns to the shop scowl free and with far less colour in his face.
You swallow past the quickly forming lump in your throat, looking down at the jewels in front of you. You’ve never held 700 gold marks before; have never had anything so valuable in your possession before. You’ve been walking around with the equivalent for the better part of the morning, apparently, but then you wonder if that’s actually what any of this is worth or if they’re only offering you this much because they’ve had the fear of Cauldron placed into them by your escort.
It could have paid for almost a year of your life back in Hewn, as frugally as you lived. Could have gotten you out of your parent’s clutches, maybe.
“Miss?” Aelfric prompts gently, smiling when you look back up at him. Even Cael tries to smile at you when you glance his way.
“Uhm,” you start, clearing your throat when it comes out scratchy. “N-no, nevermind.”
“Miss?” Aelfric asks again, concern painting his features.
“I’m sorry for bothering you,” you murmur, collecting your pilfered belongings and placing them back in your bag.
Aelfric stutters, quickly trying to round the counter. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you,” you reply, lifting the hood of your cloak back up and leaving the shop, not bothering to explore the rest of Velaris as you told Cassian you would before heading back towards the foot of the mountain that the House of Wind stood upon.
Cassian found you at your hundredth step.
You think you might be on your 1071st by the time you finally sit down for a break. You wonder if you’ll be able to stand back up when the time calls for it, but ultimately decide that’ll be a problem for later-you.
“Would you like a lift?” a gentle voice sounds out of fucking no where, startling you so violently that your flinch nearly flings you right off the side of the mountain. You turn to sneer at the spymaster over your shoulder.
“Not even a little bit.”
“These stairs are lethal,” he tries to sympathize. “I really wouldn’t mind-”
“Yeah, well, I would.”
Azriel’s quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. “It wasn’t…personal, you know.”
You clench your jaw.
“We just wanted you to feel-”
“I feel like an idiot. Like a traitor. Like a prisoner,” you sneer, standing—hey, look at that; you can still stand—and turning on the Illyrian who has the good sense to keep at least three steps between the two of you. “So I don’t really care how you wanted me to feel, Shadowsinger, because this feels like crap.”
His face doesn’t change but he nods in understanding. “Can I at least just bring you to-”
“No.”
Azriel doesn’t sigh, doesn’t argue, doesn’t shake his head in frustration. He merely offers you a curt nod of his head and disappears into a swath of shadows. A water bottle is left in his wake.
You walk around it.
The sun is starting to set by your…two thousand and seven hundredth (?) step, and you can only climb the stairs one step at a time at this point.
Morrigan materializes beside you.
“No,” you say before she even manages to ask.
“Dinner’s ready, I-”
“Enjoy.”
“-just wanted to offer-”
“No.”
“-a quick trip up.”
“You’re a hypocrite, you know?” you blurt then, pausing in your trek and turning towards her. “You know how it works down there, you’ve seen how they operate. You know what it’s like to be born and raised by monsters that keep their ironclad grip around your neck so that even breathing ends up being privilege you have to thank them for.”
She blinks at you.
“You think you’re the only one who deserves to breathe fresh air, Morrigan? Think you're the only one who dreamed of one day being free from all of that?”
She bites her bottom lip, suddenly unable to make eye contact with you.
“So, no. I’m very, very uninterested in your offer to help. And the offer has come approximately 400 years too late.”
When she finally leaves, a plate of food and glass of water is left in her wake. You leave them both where they were placed as you continue your ascent.
The sun is officially below the horizon when you make it to your 4000th-or-so step. You sit down and peel your shoes off, wincing at the blisters that have formed, popped, and bled throughout the day. The air has begun to cool the further the sun has fallen in the sky and the higher up in altitude you’ve climbed.
Cassian tries again, finding you in your barefooted state.
“I’m sorry, Y/N. Please, please, please just let me bring you the rest of the way, okay? Please?”
You don’t respond; don’t even look at him.
“Y/N,” he begs.
You blink down at your lap.
“Please?”
You’re almost at 5000ish steps when Cassian makes his third attempt.
“This isn’t funny, okay? This- you’ve made your point.”
“Get lost, Cassian.”
“I’m not leaving you here on the side of the mountain, this is insanity.”
“It’s not insanity,” you defend your insane actions. “There’s a fucking staircase here for a reason, prick. I’m using it for its intended purpose.”
“No, you’re mad, and you’re stubborn, and you think you’re taking it out on me but the only person suffering here is you. So drop the martyr act and come with me.”
You blink at him.
“Now,” he barks with the authority of an Illyrian war general.
Except you’re not an Illyrian warrior and you don’t answer to him. So you blink at him again and take no shortage of pleasure in the aggravated sound that escapes him.
All three make one final attempt to convince you to accept their help up the rest of the stairs. Naturally you refuse them all and accept the reality that you will be sleeping on the 5247th step for the night.
That’s fine, you’re still new to this whole sky thing; maybe it’ll be nice to sleep under it.
Your bag is tucked under your cheek like a makeshift pillow and your cloak is draped over your frame. You convince yourself that it’s just your imagination—or maybe the sentient nature of the house reaching this far down the mountain—every time you magically warm from the inside out.
You’re mostly asleep, eyes shut and tucked into a little awkward ball across five steps when there’s a shift in the air and your senses are overwhelmed with the scent of citrus and sea salt. You can’t find the strength required to lift the weight of your eyelids and peer at the newcomer.
“Stubborn girl,” the new presence hums ruefully. You tuck yourself further into your cloak. “What am I to do with you, hm?”
You hum something along the lines of go away, though the only sound that meets your ears is a rather petulant whine.
“Yeah, I don’t know either,” Rhysand sighs, gently brushing a single, reverent finger along your hairline. You shiver at the touch.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” he says eventually, though he makes no effort to stand.
Your brows furrow and you shrink further into the stone of the mountainside. “No.”
“Yes, darling,” he counters calmly.
“Don’t wanna,” you protest, though you can’t even open your eyes to do it.
“I know. You have a point to make,” he sympathizes, gently pulling your bag out from under your cheek and replacing it with his hand; you subconsciously lean into the warmth of his palm. “I’ll bring you back to this exact step tomorrow if you’d really like, alright? But no mate of mine is sleeping on cold stone steps.”
And with a strength that only a half-Illyrian High Lord can possess, he easily lifts you into his arms and winnows you the rest of the way up to the House of Wind.
You never do manage to open your eyes, not even when you’re gently deposited into your own bed and tucked carefully into the sheets.
Nor when a gentle kiss is pressed to the space between your brows.
