The Lap Incident*
Rhysand x mate!(female)reader
Summary: Rhysand is distracted by his newly found mate when she decides to sit in his lap during a meeting with Azriel and Cassian.
Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (female), unprotected sex (wrap it kids), dirty talk.
Authors note: I’m back… again. So sorry, I have been unpacking and back to my summer job but I am editing stories still. Also I don’t think if people read this all but I am starting to think to do different stories of characters from different shows and such, like I am some about Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody (Shawn Hatosy🤭) and such. Just lmk if yall would like to see more! But as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻!
Main Masterlist:
𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐
The study is quiet save for the low murmur of voices and the scratch of a pen against paper.
Rhysand stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the dark wood as he listens to Cassian ramble about Illyrian training camps for what feels like the tenth hour in a row.
Azriel leans against the bookshelf nearby, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders while he flips through reports.
And Rhys... Rhys is trying very hard to focus.
Truly.
He stands behind his desk with all the effortless authority expected of the High Lord of the Night Court—shoulders relaxed, expression composed, violet eyes sharp as Cassian drones on about patrol routes and Illyrian camp disputes.
On the surface, he looks perfectly in control.
But beneath it?
He's unraveling.
Because the mating bond hums constantly at the back of his mind, warm and alive and impossible to ignore. Every emotion you feel brushes against him in soft waves, every distant thought tugging at his attention like invisible fingers beneath his skin.
And after only two days—two miserable, interrupted days—of being allowed to have you entirely to himself before duty dragged him away again, his self-control is hanging by a thread.
The scent of you still lingers on him.
On his clothes.
In his sheets.
On every inch of his skin.
Cassian keeps talking, Azriel occasionally adding something low and practical to the conversation, but Rhys hears barely half of it. His pen taps once against the desk as he forces himself to focus on the reports scattered before him instead of the empty doorway across the room.
Because if he lets himself think too hard about you, about the way you looked beneath him.
The soft sounds you made when he kissed down your throat.
The feeling of your hands in his hair while you whispered his name like a prayer—
He is absolutely not surviving this meeting.
So he focuses.
Or attempts to.
Right up until the doors open.
But the mating bond hums warm and alive in his chest, distracting in the most unbearable way imaginable.
Two days.
Two miserable, pathetic days.
That was all the time the Mother had apparently deemed appropriate for him to spend with his newly discovered mate before the responsibilities of being High Lord came crashing back down onto his shoulders.
Two days before meetings.
Before stacks of reports began appearing across his desk again like a personal punishment from the Cauldron itself.
Before politics and court tensions and trade disputes demanded his attention from sunrise to well past midnight.
Before Cassian resumed stomping through his study at all hours, loudly complaining about Illyrian commanders, training budgets, and "idiotic warriors with the survival instincts of drunk goats."
Two days.
That was all Rhysand had been given with his mate before the world came crashing back in.
And he is handling it very poorly.
A fresh report lands onto the growing pile at the edge of his desk, and Rhys signs it with visible irritation, the elegant scratch of his pen just slightly too sharp against the parchment.
Cassian keeps talking.
Something about the northern camps.
Or maybe the eastern ones.
Rhys honestly has no idea anymore.
Because every few minutes, his mind drifts helplessly back to you.
To waking up tangled in soft sheets and warm skin.
To your sleepy smile against his throat.
To the feeling of your fingers tracing along his wings while the bond between you glowed so brightly it nearly drowned him in it.
It's maddening.
He's one of the most powerful males in Prythian.
A High Lord.
Ancient. Feared. Respected.
And yet the mere thought of his mate is enough to make him stare blankly at a report for three straight minutes without reading a single word.
Cassian notices immediately, unfortunately.
"You haven't heard a damn thing I've said, have you?"
Rhys signs another document with unnecessary force. "I heard enough."
"You heard nothing."
"I heard you whining."
"It's called military strategy."
"It's called complaining with maps."
Azriel snorts softly from where he stands near the bookshelf.
Cassian glares at both of them. "You're impossible."
Rhys leans back slightly in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as exhaustion and frustration pull at the edges of his composure.
Because the truth is simple:
He does not want to be here.
He wants to be upstairs with you curled against his chest while the rest of Prythian figures itself out without him for a few more days.
"You're glaring at the paper like it insulted your bloodline," Cassian notes lazily.
"It did," Rhys replies flatly.
Azriel snorts quietly, shadows flickering once around his shoulders in silent amusement at whatever insult Cassian is currently muttering under his breath.
Rhys barely notices.
He's halfway through signing another report, attention split between the parchment in front of him and the constant ache of the mating bond pulling at his chest, when—
The doors open with a quiet creak, the sound barely cutting through the low hum of the study, soft enough that it shouldn't have drawn anyone's attention at all.
But Rhys looks up instantly anyway, his focus snapping toward the doorway with a speed that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with something deeper—something wired into him now in a way he's still not entirely used to.
The pull of the mating bond, steady and insistent beneath his ribs, drags his attention there before he even consciously decides to move.
And the moment he sees you standing in the doorway, everything in him shifts.
The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders from hours of meetings starts to ease without permission, his expression softening in a way that would scandalize half of Prythian if they ever saw it.
The careful, controlled edges he wears like armor fall away piece by piece, replaced by something unguarded and wholly focused on you.
It isn't just recognition—it's relief, it's warmth, it's the simple, undeniable fact that you're there and suddenly nothing else in the room matters nearly as much as that.
The tension sitting heavily across his shoulders eases first.
Then the crease between his brows disappears.
The cold, carefully controlled mask he wears through meetings and politics and endless responsibilities melts away so quickly it would be almost shocking to anyone who didn't know him.
Cassian notices immediately.
Azriel does too.
Because one second Rhys looks like the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court—
And the next he simply looks like a male hopelessly in love.
There you are.
His mate.
His beautiful, devastating mate.
Framed by the doorway beneath the soft glow of starlight spilling through the study windows, looking entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.
Or perhaps fully aware.
With you, Rhys is never completely certain anymore.
The bond between you brightens instantly the moment your eyes meet his, warm and golden and alive enough that he feels it clear down to his bones.
Gods.
He missed you.
It's ridiculous considering he saw you barely an hour ago, but after only two days together before duty tore him away again, every moment apart feels wrong in a way he still hasn't adjusted to.
His mouth curves before he can stop it. Not the arrogant smirk he gives the rest of the world.
Not the sharp grin that usually accompanies his teasing. No, this smile is softer. It's warmer and entirely yours.
And for a brief moment, Rhys forgets completely that Cassian and Azriel are even in the room.
Down the bond, his voice slips smooth as silk into your mind.
'Go in our bedroom for me, sweet girl.'
Heat flashes through the bond immediately—amusement, affection, something teasing—and Rhys narrows his eyes slightly.
You ignore him.
Completely.
Cassian notices first, because of course he does.
"Oh, that's dangerous," he mutters under his breath.
You walk toward Azriel instead, holding out a folder. "You asked for these earlier."
Azriel reaches for it with a quiet, "Thank you."
His fingers brush yours for half a second as Azriel takes the folder from your hands—an entirely accidental, insignificant touch that means absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Rhysand sees it.
And his reaction is immediate.
The warmth leaves his expression in an instant, violet eyes narrowing with terrifying focus as his stare locks onto Azriel like he's personally committed treason against the Night Court.
Pure territorial instinct flashes across Rhys's face before he can stop it, the possessive edge of the mating bond rearing its head so fast it's almost impressive.
Azriel freezes mid-motion, shadows going still around him as realization dawns.
Cassian watches the entire thing happen from across the room.
Then outright chokes on his own laugh.
Not a normal laugh either—a startled, wheezing sound of disbelief as he stares between them.
"Rhys," Cassian says carefully, already grinning, "you know Az isn't trying to steal your mate because she handed him paperwork, right?"
Azriel slowly lifts one brow, still holding the folder while Rhys continues glaring at him like he's debating how difficult it would be to bury a Spymaster's body.
And the worst part?
Rhys knows he's being unreasonable.
Knows it.
But the mating bond thrums hot and possessive through his chest anyway, especially when you remain entirely oblivious to the silent male drama unfolding around you.
Rhys watches you round the desk toward him, and his heartbeat immediately picks up.
Finally.
Maybe you listened after all. Maybe you're going to kiss him. Maybe you're going to whisper something filthy down the bond just to torture him in front of his brothers—
But no.
Instead, you simply settle yourself into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Rhysand stops functioning the second you settle into his lap. Not metaphorically, not briefly—actually stops.
His entire body goes rigid beneath yours, every thought in his head scattering so fast it's almost embarrassing.
The pen in his hand stills against the parchment mid-signature while his breath catches hard in his chest, violet eyes widening just slightly as he stares up at you in complete disbelief.
One moment he's the composed High Lord of the Night Court discussing military reports and politics, and the next his mind has gone utterly, catastrophically blank because his mate just climbed into his lap in the middle of an Inner Circle meeting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Heat floods up his neck almost instantly, his heartbeat turning uneven as the scent of you surrounds him completely, warm and familiar and impossible to think through.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that you look entirely comfortable there, tucked against him without a hint of hesitation, while Rhys sits frozen beneath you trying and failing to remember how to form a single coherent thought.
You curl comfortably against his chest, completely content, one arm sliding loosely around his shoulders as you glance at the reports scattered across the desk.
"What were you talking about?"
Silence falls over the study so abruptly it's almost deafening.
One second Cassian is mid-sip from the glass in his hand, smirking like usual, and the next he slowly lowers the drink while staring at Rhys with open disbelief.
Across the room, Azriel immediately looks down at the floor, shadows twitching violently around him as if even they are struggling not to react.
Because sitting behind that desk is not the cold, untouchable High Lord the rest of Prythian fears.
Not the ancient, devastatingly powerful male capable of bringing entire courts to their knees.
No—Rhysand is blushing. Brightly.
Color spreads unmistakably across his cheeks and down the elegant line of his neck while his hands remain frozen at your waist, violet eyes locked helplessly on you like he's forgotten how breathing works.
And somehow, the sight of the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court completely short-circuiting because his mate climbed into his lap is so absurd that neither Cassian nor Azriel can process it for a solid five seconds.
The color spreads from the tips of his ears down his neck while he stares at you like you personally descended from the stars to ruin him.
"My love," he says weakly.
You blink innocently. "Yes?"
Cassian loses it.
A sharp bark of laughter explodes out of him as he doubles over in his chair.
"Oh, he's done for," Cassian wheezes. "Completely destroyed."
Rhys glares at him, but it lacks any real threat because one of your hands has started absentmindedly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Mother save him.
His wings twitch violently behind the chair.
Azriel finally looks up, mouth suspiciously tight like he's suppressing a smile.
"You were saying something about the northern camps," Azriel prompts.
Rhys stares at him.
Northern camps?
What in hell is a northern camp?
Your lips twitch against his jaw like you know exactly what you're doing to him.
Down the bond comes your soft, smug amusement.
'You told me to go in the bedroom. You never said I couldn't wait here.'
Rhys nearly inhales his own tongue.
Cassian groans loudly. "Please stop flirting through the bond during meetings."
"We aren't," Rhys snaps automatically.
"You're blushing so hard your ears match the Sidra at sunset," Cassian replies.
Rhys opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you shift slightly in his lap to get comfortable, and every coherent thought leaves his body immediately.
Azriel outright turns away now, shoulders shaking once.
Traitor.
"You know," Cassian says thoughtfully, "for a male who only got two days of mating frenzy, you're surprisingly easy to break."
Rhys finally drags his eyes from you long enough to glare murder at him.
"Leave," he says flatly.
Cassian grins. "No."
You look up at Rhys sweetly. "Am I distracting you?"
The genuine confusion in your voice makes it worse.
So much worse.
Rhys stares at his mate sitting innocently in his lap while his brothers watch him unravel in real time.
Then he sighs deeply, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his chest.
"Meeting adjourned."
Cassian is still laughing when he rises from his chair.
Actually laughing.
The kind that makes him wipe at his eyes as he points at Rhys like he's just witnessed something historic.
"Oh, this is priceless."
"Get out," Rhys growls.
But there's no bite behind it now—not when you're curled against him, not when one of your hands is lazily tracing circles against the back of his neck.
Azriel quietly gathers the reports from the desk, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away entirely.
"You're never going to recover his reputation after this," Cassian says to you.
You blink up innocently from Rhys's lap. "I don't know what you mean."
Cassian snorts.
Rhys just narrows his eyes, though the effect is ruined completely by the pink still dusting his cheeks.
"Leave," Rhys repeats, more tired this time.
Azriel finally takes pity on him.
He moves toward the door, shadows swirling with obvious amusement. Cassian follows beside him, still grinning like a menace.
"You know," Cassian says as he reaches the doorway, "I always wondered what would finally humble the mighty High Lord of the Night Court."
Rhys flips him off without hesitation, violet eyes narrowing with all the exhausted irritation of a male who knows he's being mocked mercilessly and deserves every second of it.
Cassian only grins wider.
The sound of his laughter fills the study—loud, shameless, echoing off the dark stone walls as he backs toward the doorway with Azriel beside him.
Even Azriel looks dangerously close to smiling now, shadows curling restlessly around his shoulders like they, too, are entertained by the sight of the High Lord of the Night Court blushing over his mate sitting in his lap.
"You're finished," Cassian says with the confidence of someone who knows he's just gained years' worth of blackmail material. "Completely finished."
Rhys opens his mouth, undoubtedly to threaten him, but your fingers drift lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck at the exact wrong moment.
His entire train of thought vanishes instantly.
But Cassian notices immediately. The Illyrian lets out another victorious bark of laughter while Azriel lowers his head slightly, shoulders tightening once in what looks suspiciously like suppressed amusement.
Traitors. Both of them.
Then Cassian reaches for the door handle, still shaking his head in disbelief. "The mighty Rhysand," he mutters dramatically. "Brought down by a female in his lap."
"Get out," Rhys growls, though the command has lost nearly all its power beneath the warmth spreading up his throat.
Cassian salutes mockingly.
Azriel finally pulls the door open.
Cool air from the corridor slips briefly into the room as the two males step out, both still grinning like they've just witnessed the downfall of a kingdom instead of their High Lord completely melting beneath his mate's attention.
Then the heavy doors swing shut behind them with a soft click.
And silence settles over the study at last. For approximately two seconds...
Because the moment the latch clicks into place, you turn in Rhys's lap and press your mouth softly against the side of his throat.
Rhys freezes.
A shudder rolls through him instantly.
"Sweetheart," he breathes.
You kiss lower, slow and absentminded, like you aren't fully aware of the effect you're having on him.
Which is a lie.
A complete lie.
He knows it from the way amusement flickers teasingly down the bond.
Rhys's hands tighten instinctively around your waist.
Outside the study, Cassian's loud voice echoes faintly through the corridor.
"Oh, they're absolutely making out already."
Azriel actually laughs quietly.
Rhys closes his eyes in suffering while you hide your smile against his neck.
"They can hear us," he mutters.
"And?"
Gods.
You press another kiss just beneath his jaw, and Rhys's head tips back against the chair before he can stop himself.
The High Lord of the Night Court—feared across Prythian—reduced to helpless silence because his mate decided to sit in his lap and kiss his neck during a meeting.
Cassian is never going to let him live this down.
The moment your lips meet his, Rhys groans into the kiss—low and desperate, like he's been holding himself back for far too long. His tongue slides against yours, tasting you, claiming you, as his hands grip your hips and lift you effortlessly off his lap.
You gasp against his mouth as he sets you on the edge of the desk. Papers scatter. A glass of wine tips and spills, but neither of you care. His palms sweep across the surface, shoving everything aside until there's nothing left but you, laid out for him like an offering.
He doesn't break the kiss. Not when his fingers find the buttons of your shirt. Not when he rips them apart with an impatient growl, sending tiny buttons skittering across the floor. The fabric falls open, and he pulls back just long enough to look at you—breasts bared, nipples already peaked from the cool air, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough.
Then his mouth is on your stomach. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your sternum, over your ribs, tasting every inch of skin. When his lips close around your nipple, you arch into him with a sharp moan, fingers threading into his dark hair and pulling.
He sucks hard, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak, and the vibration of his answering groan sends heat pooling between your thighs. His hips grind against the edge of the desk, and you feel exactly how much he wants you—hard and ready, straining against his trousers.
You reach for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons.
He chuckles against your skin, warm and breathless. The sound vibrates through your core.
"Impatient, aren't you?"
But he doesn't stop you. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulls them down your legs in one smooth motion, along with your underwear. You're bare beneath him now, exposed and wanting, spread out on his desk like a feast.
And then he drops to his knees.
The sight steals the breath from your lungs.
The High Lord of the Night Court. Most powerful High Lord in Prythian. On his knees. For you.
His violet eyes meet yours, dark and blazing with hunger, as he spreads your legs wide and settles between them.
"Watch me," he commands.
And you do.
You watch as he lowers his head. As his tongue drags slowly, deliberately, through your slick folds. The first taste draws a groan from deep in his chest, and his eyes flutter shut like he's savoring something exquisite.
Your head falls back, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your hands fist in his hair as his tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, tormenting. He licks into you like he's starving, like he's been waiting his entire existence for this moment.
"Rhys—" His name is a whine on your lips.
He hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck.
"Say it again," he murmurs against your flesh, not pausing.
"Rhysand—please—"
He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth, and your vision whites out for a moment.
His tongue works you relentlessly, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks, reading your body like he's memorized every reaction. And he has.
He knows exactly when to speed up, when to slow down, when to press his tongue flat and let you grind against his face.
The sounds you're making are shameless. Whines and moans and half-formed pleas that fill the study. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady as he drives you higher and higher.
"Come for me," he says against you, the words barely coherent. "Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you."
That's all it takes.
You shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash through you. He doesn't stop. He laps at you through every pulse, drawing it out, groaning against your cunt like your release is his greatest achievement.
When you finally stop trembling, he rises—slowly, deliberately. His chin glistens. His lips are swollen, wet. His eyes are nearly black with desire.
He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good girl," he breathes against your lips. "Such a good mate for me."
Before you can catch your breath, he's pulling his pants down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and he wraps a hand around himself, pumping slowly as he meets your gaze.
"Ready for me?"
You nod, still breathless.
He lines himself up and pushes inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust.
The moan that tears from both of you fills the room.
He bottoms out and stills, letting you adjust. His forehead presses against yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—gods, you feel incredible."
You clench around him deliberately, and his hips jerk.
"My little minx." Then he starts to move.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you need them. His rhythm is punishing in its gentleness, each thrust grinding against your clit, building that coil in your belly again.
"You're being so good," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so well. My perfect mate."
But when you start to grind against him, meeting his thrusts with increasing desperation, his tone shifts.
"Ah, ah," he chides, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Someone's eager. Grinding against me like an animal in heat."
Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't stop.
"Please," you whimper. "Rhys—please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me harder."
His eyes flash.
He gives you exactly what you want.
His pace turns brutal. The desk creaks beneath you, papers long forgotten, as he pounds into you with relentless intensity. Each thrust drives you higher, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucks you toward another peak.
"That's it," he growls. But when the wave crests and you tighten around him, crying out his name.
He pulls out.
The sudden emptiness makes you sob in frustration. "Rhysand!"
He shakes his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Bad girl. You came without permission."
Before you can protest, he grabs your hips and flips you over. Your chest presses against the cool wood of the desk, ass in the air, completely exposed. His hand comes down on one cheek with a sharp crack.
You yelp.
"That's what happens to bad girls," he says, voice low and dangerous.
He spanks you again, and the sting radiates through your skin, mixing pleasure with pain.
"Count."
"Two," you gasp.
Another slap.
"Three."
Your whine is pathetic, desperate.
He runs his palm over the heated skin, soothing the burn.
"You want my cum, bad girl?"
"Yes—please—I'll be good—"
"I know you will."
He lines himself up again and slams into you from behind. The new angle is deeper, harder, and you moan into the desk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.
His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.
"You don't come until I say so," he pants, fucking into you with deep, punishing strokes. "Understand?"
"Yes—yes, Rhys—"
"Good girl."
He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His breathing is ragged, his composure cracking with each thrust.
"I'm close," he admits, voice strained. "Where do you want it?"
"In me—please—"
"Beg for it."
"Please, Rhysand," you whimper, voice breaking. "Please come inside me. I need to feel you—I need—"
He groans, and you feel him thicken, pulse.
"Come with me," he commands. "Now."
The permission is all you need. Your release crashes into you, and as your walls clench around him, he follows—hot and deep, filling you as he groans your name like a prayer.
You collapse together, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck.
For a long moment, there's only the sound of your mingled breathing.
Then he kisses your shoulder.
"My good girl," he murmurs. "Even when you're bad."
Outside, distant laughter echoes from the corridor. Cassian's voice carries through the stone walls, "told you. Absolutely making out."
And Azriel's quiet reply, “that’s not making out, dipshit.”
"Don't ruin my narrative, shadowsinger."
