#rhysta fic

[foxglovethicket]

Wild Things

Summary:

Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane. 

White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new year—her twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up. 

The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwyn’s flame-lick of hair, Emerie’s embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. It’s all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling. 

***

Want is a funny thing. The question—what do you want?—I want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill. 

Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do today—today, she has some extra measure of choice, today she’s allowed to want a little harder. 

Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wants—

No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window. 

***

It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didn’t throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had. 

That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun. 

You’re fucking mine, Nesta. 

I’m fucking gone.

She doesn’t think about it. She ruined everything, and it didn’t matter, and she doesn’t think about it. 

***

Anyways, she’s good at being fine. She’s twenty-four now and she’s going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patron’s Gala, maybe. If you like them. 

Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead. 

She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like it’s precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door. 

The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think it’s too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she can’t keep her face from smiling, and it doesn’t even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. She’s untouched. She’s new. She’s only started learning how to live. 

***

It doesn’t really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone. 

So he’s gone. And good riddance. 

She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. I’ll eat you whole. 

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

***

They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes. 

Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger. 

She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges  when pressed too closely among the others. 

“11:11,” says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. “Make a wish.” 

You already know what she wishes for. 

Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists. 

She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesn’t have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, she’ll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, she’ll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copy—one she hasn’t irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous to even consider it. 

No creases this year, she reminds herself. She’s drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the club’s heat. 

All the lights go gas-flame blue, and that’s when she sees him. 

***

So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too. 

Nesta had been in ballet as a child—no surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didn’t care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism. 

Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didn’t. 

So, of course. He picked up Elain’s ticket. 

During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancers’ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable. 

She caught him admiring her right back—those dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face. 

It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didn’t pull it away, and she didn’t pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if she’d like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie she’d found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet. 

Several weeks later, she would lie with her head in his lap, those nimble fingers combing through her hair, and ask, Play for me?, and he would, and it would become her favorite sound. And after that, she would sometimes sit on the edge of the bench, or kneel beside it, or stand behind him as he played, and close her eyes and imagine herself moving to the sound. Pas de bourré, pirouette. 

But not yet. That would come later. 

***

She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldn’t. She sees him and the world doesn’t end. It should. It doesn’t. 

A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesn’t look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesn’t have to see their faces to know their reproach.

She’s been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do. 

Nesta thinks, You can’t unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him. 

She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s holding a drink—a gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didn’t hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. It’s cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface. 

He’s already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her. 

His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue. 

Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers. 

Don’t, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.

He kisses her. 

She kisses him back. 

It’s inevitable, after that. 

Gwyn and Emerie don’t even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over. 

It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush. 

You can’t unruin this. 

He lives close—close enough that they can’t justify anything other than walking. She doesn’t look over at him and he doesn’t take her hand as they walk, and it’s almost as if they’re colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face. 

And then—the bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew they’d have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But. 

She can feel him looking at her. 

They reach the middle of the bridge, and she can’t keep going anymore. She’s shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems. 

“I missed you, Nesta,” he says. 

Past tense. He doesn’t anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time. 

“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want my coat?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesn’t. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse. 

Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isn’t gentle anymore. 

Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper. 

***

Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the man—Rhysand—for the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thought—the thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldn’t like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and and—

She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left. 

By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she needn’t have worried. He was charming—his hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away. 

The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them. 

The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, she’d made him laugh so hard he’d choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.

He was always very good with prey. 

***

Nesta isn’t prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. He’d do well to remember that, for fuck’s sake. 

She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other. 

“Nesta,” he says. 

They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything. 

“Come home with me, Nesta,” he says. 

She goes home with him. 

***

He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem. 

Rhys wasn’t clingy, desperate—nothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that. 

When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly. 

She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. She’d never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her. 

When it wasn’t sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her. 

One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhys’s temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder. 

Nesta asked, “Why did you ask me out that day at the ballet?”

His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, “I liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.” 

***

They step inside Rhys’s townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. It’s just the smell of a home—a home he’s lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women he’s brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She can’t imagine him fucking them in his bed, or she’ll throw up right here on his doormat. 

The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apart—but not yet. 

Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable. 

His soft fingers, piano-player’s fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other. 

“Nesta,” he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt. 

She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer. 

Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into him—his beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it. 

She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much? 

Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs. 

“Look at me, Nesta,” he orders. He pulls her underwear away—embarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face then—it’s a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close. 

She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her. 

“Eat, then,” she says, unkindly. 

He does. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Like he’s afraid she’ll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesn’t. She’s too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitable—what’s the use?

Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. It’s horrible, it’s so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. It’s so horrible. So obvious, how he’s ruined her. 

A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until he’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and she’s sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down. 

There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission. 

Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. “I hate you,” she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, “I hate you, Rhys.” 

She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She won’t cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin. 

Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like he’s made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldn’t eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger. 

Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head. 

“You love me, Nesta, you love me so,” he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. “You love me so.” 

***

Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower. 

“Nesta,” he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. “Stay.” 

She tilts her head up, but doesn’t open her eyes. “You keep saying my name,” she says.

She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, “I’m afraid I’ll forget how it sounds.”

In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred things—a hundred accusations and castigations—but only a single word comes out, choked in steam. “Please.” 

His face changes into a shape she doesn’t know well. “Nesta,” he breathes, pulling her body into his. 

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her head—her favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favorite—and tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and it’s miserable, knowing he’s letting her go after this, even though that’s what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You can’t uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book. 

God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and she’s already fucked everything up. She’s already let him ruin her. 

They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. She’s still drunk. She’s still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one. 

She’s not entirely sure if she’s dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is. 

I won’t go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole. 

***

Snow falls overnight. 

In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhys’s window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, it’s so bright. 

He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left. 

“Nesta,” he says, one last time. 

She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow. 

Nesta makes a decision. 

“Rhys,” she answers, speaking against his heartbeat. 

When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.

[bittermuire]

Updated Masterlist

My Ao3 | Link to previous masterlist

•

Nessian:

The day after the next day - Nesta struggles to let Cassian into her life. Domestic fluff, modern au.

Nightmare - Shaken by nightmares, Nesta goes to Cassian. Angst, post-acowar.

The wrong confessions on a rainy beach - Nesta and Cassian talk after she decides to marry Eris. Angst, modern au but could be read in canon as well.

For you, there’s only love - Nesta reflects on her relationship with Cassian. Tiny little one-shot.

Be the first who ever did - Nesta gets sick and Cassian takes care of her, despite the tension of their loveless marriage. Angst, hurt/comfort.

Nezriel:

A nightlight and a bottle of wine - After she cuts ties with the Inner Circle, Nesta and Azriel strike up an odd friendship. Modern au, at this point the second part is urban legend but could still happen.

Moonlight - Nesta and Azriel talk about her recovery. Canon one-shot.

A rainy night in Velaris - Azriel walks Nesta home after a dinner with the Inner Circle. Fluffy and cute.

Rhysta:

A bitter heart - Nesta’s disastrous breakup with her boyfriend brings her and Rhys much closer, despite their less-than-favorable opinions of each other. Modern au.

Lukewarm coffee, a twinkle in his eye - Supermodel Nesta meets old money Rhys through a mutual friend. Lots of fluff and angst, modern au.

The red flower in my heart - After she cuts herself off from the Inner Circle, Nesta grows curiously close to Rhys. Canon one-shot.

Nesta-centric:

Turning the page, building a home - Nesta rebuilds her life with Gwyn and Emerie. Modern au, cute, domestic, from forever ago but I would like to come back to it eventually.

Evidence pt. 1 | Evidence pt. 2 - Nesta is married, and doesn’t bother to tell the Inner Circle the details. Set in canon and very self-indulgent.

A woman in the walls - Lucien goes to Velaris for the holidays, and is unsettled by Nesta’s absence. Gothic horror, Nescien if you squint.

Other:

Beautiful reflection | Mosaics - In the first part, Nesta leaves Cassian at the altar. Second part is Feyre-centric as she attempts to cope without her older sister, and comes to terms with her fate in Prythian.

Translation into Spanish by @nightsofvangogh !!! BR | Mosaics

Happy nesta | Nesta and mor | Gwynriel broadway au | Lucky

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Spare Me Your Happier Ending (I Want To Feel Everything)

A/N: happy happy @rhystaappreciationweekend everyone! You know they're my favorite rare-pair/crack-ship, and I can't wait to see what everyone creates. I'm kicking off the weekend with the Rivals prompt, particularly historical rivals. What is the historical period? Vague. What is the plot? Also vague. But onwards to what really matters: smutfest 😉

Read on AO3

Nesta walks down the long, stretching hallway, the sound of her heels clipping against the marble floor echoing in her ears. If she focuses, she can just make out the sounds of the string quartet playing a waltz in the ballroom, the soft sounds of swishing silk, of chatter and clinking glasses.

The sounds of joy.

Everyone is so happy to smile and raises their glasses in a toast. So happy to talk and dance with the other side. So happy to pretend that the last five years haven't happened. So happy to hang the purple and black flags right alongside the blue and silver banners. So happy to forget the bloodshed and the pain, all in the name of peace.

Peace.

It takes everything within Nesta to rein in her snort and eye roll at the notion. To swallow down her annoyance at this whole ball. To hold in her rage toward her father for agreeing to this whole treaty in the first place. Was it all for nothing? All those years of war?

"Nesta Archeron."

Nesta's steps freeze at the sound of that voice. She takes a moment to breathe deeply, sighing through her nose, before she turns around to face the Prince of Velaris himself. Rhysand. He stands at the other end of the hallway, dressed in an all black suit, silver threads sewn into the three mountain pattern of his kingdom along the lapels. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his stance easy and relax, but even with the distance between them, Nesta can see the slight upturn of his lips, the flare sparking in his violet eyes when they meet her own.

"Did you need something?" Nesta drawls, crossing her arms.

"Hiding from the party?" Rhysand fires back, walking toward her in slow, measured steps.

She refuses to be intimidated by the display, by the closing distance between them. She doesn't care who he is, doesn't care that he'll one day be a king. She'll be a queen, and she will not be cowed by all his cool bravado and swagger, by a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth who's never heard the word no before.

"Perhaps, I'm simply hiding from a pretentious ass of a prince," Nesta offers, raising her chin and looking down her nose despite the slight height he has on her.

"Is that so? And here I was hoping we might share a dance."

"Gladly. A perfect opportunity to put you in your place."

Rhysand chuckles at the remark, the sound low and taunting. He takes another step forward, but with their closeness, it forces Nesta to take a step back. Again and again he forces her to retreat until her back hits the cool stone of the wall, Rhysand crowding into the space in front of her. His smirk is wide and cocksure, his head tilting as his gaze sweeps over her.

As he sizes her up.

"Well, this is certainly quite the act," Rhysand begins, his hand reaching up for her face.

"Act?" Nesta scoffs, trying to jerk her head away, but his fingers merely curl tightly around her chin, holding her face firmly in his grasp, keeping her attention firmly on him.

"All that coldness, all that bitchiness, it's just a facade, isn't it? We both know what you really want." He leans in closer still, until Nesta can feel his warm breath fan across her cheeks, her lips. "You want to be used. Want to be stuffed full. Want come so deep in your cunt that you'll feel it and be dripping for days."

"Fuck you," Nesta snarls, raising her knee and aiming right for his balls.

But Rhysand is faster, his hand snapping down and catching her knee before it can make contact. She expects him to shove her leg away, perhaps expects him to fire a cruel retort right back at her. But his smirk only seems to grow, something dark flickering in his violet eyes.

A predator recognizing a worthy opponent. Recognizing the same claws and teeth, the same darkness that clearly twines like thorns around both their hearts after all these years of fighting.

"You can't lie to me," Rhysand tells her, his fingers moving in a way that they gather up the skirts of her dress, the fabric rising up over her ankle, her calf. "I bet if I reach under your dress, I'd find you already wet for me."

Nesta makes a big show of rolling her eyes, but she knows he's not wrong. Already, she can feel her body responding, can feel her chest beginning to heave, her heart beginning to pound. Already, she can feel heat licking through her veins and pooling low in her gut.

And she wants to hate it.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that she should put a stop to this. She knows that she should push Rhysand away and simply return to her family and the ball still happening. But she can't stop thinking about his earlier words. His promise. She can't help but wonder what it might be like if they both truly dropped their masks, truly unleashed their claws and sunk them into one another.

"Find out," Nesta breathes, the challenge clear in her tone.

There's no describing the emotion that flickers through Rhysand's eyes other than pure hunger. The low candlelight glints off his too sharp teeth as a feral grin stretches across his face. His hand teases higher still, fingertips sliding against the inside of her thigh. Nesta's breath hitches in anticipation the closer he gets to where she wants him, goosebumps cascading down her leg and up her spine.

His hand finally finds her underclothes, two fingers dragging along her cunt through the fabric, and Nesta has to swallow down a whimper at that first touch. He must be able to feel what a mess she's already made because he groans softly, his fingers pressing with more purpose on the second drag.

"What do you know," Rhysand drawls, tracing a teasing circle over her clit. "Such a needy little princess after all."

He pushes her underclothes to the side, and Nesta gets her first taste of skin on skin contact. His fingers gather the wetness that pooled between her thighs, coating his digits with each teasing pass, but Nesta bites her lip hard. She refuses to beg, especially with this man.

Instead, she merely raises her chin higher, willing her voice to stay steady and cold despite the moan trapped in her throat. "Is this it, then? As disappointing as the Velaris armies."

Rhysand snarls from between his teeth, shifting his hand and pressing two fingers into Nesta's cunt. She gasps as the sudden intrusion, the stretch from just his fingers. They're thicker than her own ever were, reach deeper than hers ever could, and when he pulls his fingers back just to shove them deep again, Nesta's toes curl in her shoes.

"What was that?" Rhysand taunts.

Nesta opens her mouth to respond, but Rhysand chooses that exact moment to curl his fingers, any words dying in the back of Nesta's throat and replaced with a soft moan. From that damned smirk of his making a reappearance, it was clearly purposeful. He begins to move his fingers in earnest, thrusting his in and out of her cunt in a rough and brutal pace and stoking the fire brewing in Nesta's veins into a full blown blaze.

She can feel every drag of his fingers against the walls of her cunt, can feel herself getting even wetter beneath his skillful ministrations. She can hear the sound his fingers make each time they press into that wetness, mixing with the gasps and moans that tumble past her lips.

"Careful," Rhysand warns, leaning in and dragging his teeth over her throat. "You don't want people to hear you, do you?"

Nesta bites her lip hard, tries desperately to swallow down the whimper trapped in her throat, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the pleasure he's drawing out of her. It has her tossing her head back against the wall. Has her hips rocking down against his hand. Has her cunt clenching hard as though desperate to keep his fingers deep, to keep them right where they belong.

"Imagine what they'd think if they walked by and found you riding my hand."

Rhysand squeezes in a third finger, and Nesta gasps at the stretch. Her own hand snaps down to curl around his wrist, nails biting against his skin, but she doesn't stop him. She merely holds on.

"What they'd think if they knew how absolutely drenched you were, what a mess you're making of my hand."

"Fuck," Nesta whines high in the back of her throat.

"If they knew the way your sweet cunt keeps squeezing my fingers. So desperate and greedy."

Rhysand shifts his hand enough that he can press his thumb against her clit, working it in time with the fingers still driving into her again and again. Nesta can feel that familiar tightening low in her gut, can feel the pleasure carrying her higher and higher. She can feel herself right on that precipice, but before she can go tumbling head first over the edge, Rhysand pulls his hand away completely, everything coming to a screeching halt.

"What the fuck?" Nesta seethes, her breaths still heaving with those simmering flames.

She shoves hard at Rhysand's chest, but he catches her wrists, pulling her roughly into his body and leaning down to speak directly in her ear. "Did you really think I'd let you come on anything other than my cock, princess?"

Rhysand steps back, but he doesn't let go of her wrists. Instead, he uses the hold to drag Nesta away from the wall, to drag her down the stretching hallways. Everything passes by Nesta in a blur until she's being guided through a set of large, oak doors and into what she presumes must be Rhysand's guest chambers. But she barely gets a look at that either before Rhysand all but shoves her onto the large, sprawling bed in the center of the space.

His hands fist into her skirts, the sound of tearing fabric especially loud in the quiet of the room. Her underclothes are next, and then Rhysand's fingers are curling tightly around her thighs, prying them apart. He spreads her wide open, exposing her cunt fully to him, and Nesta's hips jump in anticipation, her cunt fluttering around nothing, around the emptiness.

"Where's that cold, bitchy facade now?" Rhysand asks.

He reaches for the laces of his pants, deft fingers working quickly to free his cock. He shoves his pants down his hips, and Nesta has to swallow hard at the sight presented before her. His cock is long and curved slightly where it hangs hard and already leaking against his thigh. He fists his cock lazily, Nesta tracking every drag up and down of his hand, every slide of his palm along the veins there.

"Beg for it," Rhysand requests, stepping closer into the cradle of Nesta's thighs.

"Fuck you."

Rhysand drags the head of his cock over her cunt, teasing at her clit. "Put that smart mouth of yours to good use and beg for it."

Nesta presses her lips together against the moan bubbling up her throat, swallows down the shiver threatening to ricochet up her spine, at every slide, every tantalizing circle he traces. But she refuses to be ordered around in her own home, refuses to let go of her pride, no matter what her body so desperately craves.

Instead, she hooks her heels on the bed, spreading her thighs wider still. She reaches a hand down between them, knocking Rhysand's own away and gripping his cock. She slides her hand down and back up, dragging her thumb across the head, across the combination of precum and the mess of her own arousal there.

"Perhaps, I should find someone else at the party? Someone who can actually give me pleasure?"

With a growl, Rhysand's hand snaps to around Nesta's throat, squeezing once in warning. He kneels up properly onto the bed, violet eyes ablaze as he leans down until he's right in Nesta's face.

"Be a good girl and do as you're told. Scream my name."

The words are Nesta's only warning before Rhysand lines up his cock, pressing his hips forward and sinking into her cunt. The stretch is indescribable, even more so than his fingers, and while she doesn't follow the order to scream, there's no stopping the moan that's pulled straight from her throat. She can feel every vein of his cock pressing against the walls of her cunt, can feel him buried so deep and filling her so completely.

"Fuck, look at how you take me," Rhysand praises, rocking his hips forward still until he bottoms out. "Just desperate for cock, aren't you? Desperate for a good fucking."

"So show me a good fucking," Nesta grits out around a moan.

Rhysand smirks again, hooking Nesta's thighs around his waist. "Careful what you wish for."

He pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again, his groan once he's buried again matching Nesta's own moan. He quickly sets a brutal pace, fucking into her hard and fast. Nesta reaches a hand up and over her head, fisting her fingers into the fabric of the blankets beneath her, trying to merely hold on.

The sound of skin on skin is overly loud in her ears, roaring right alongside her thundering heartbeat, her gasping moans and pleas, Rhysand's own grunts and groans. She can feel what a mess they're making between her thighs, can feel herself growing wetter still with each snap of Rhysand's hips, each time his cock slams home into her cunt. But it's hard to care when all she can focus on is the heat flooding through her veins, on the stretch of his cock and the way it strokes the walls of her cunt.

On the pleasure of being so full.

"What a shame our nations reached a peace treaty," Rhysand tells her, his hips never pausing even as his hand reaches roughly for her jaw, thumb dragging across her bottom lip. "I would have much rather taken you as my war prize."

Nesta huffs, trying to bite at his fingers in retaliation, but Rhysand merely chuckles mockingly. He moves his hand out of the way, settling it instead at her hip. It feels like a brand, that touch, the way his fingers dig into her flesh.

"I could have kept you right here, in this bed, stuffed full of me."

Nesta can't help but moan at his words, her cunt clenching down hard around his cock. Her heels scramble for purchase against his back, hips tilting up to meet his thrusts and draw his cock deeper still.

"Like that, do you? Like being stuffed full of my cock. Of my seed. Could breed the next heir of Velaris right here."

Nesta tightens her thighs around Rhysand's waist, using the grip and momentum to flip them over, Rhysand's back against the blankets and her astride his lap. "The next heir of Gwyll, you mean."

She settles her hands on Rhysand's abdomen, where his shirt has ridden up and bunches around his waist. She digs her nails into his skin, using it as leverage as she begins to move her hips, fucking herself on his cock. Rhysand hisses from between his teeth, but whether it's from the bite of her nails or the squeeze of her cunt, Nesta isn't sure. Nor does she care.

His own hands reach for the bosom of her dress, tugging it down until her breasts spill free over the top. His palms grope and knead at her breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples, and Nesta keens loudly, her back arching. It all feels too good, the way his hands work her breasts, the way his cock fills her cunt, the way her clit catches and drags against his pelvis with every circle of her hips.

Rhysand sits up enough that he can close his mouth over one of her breasts. His teeth drag and tease across the sensitive skin there, his tongue laving over her nipple. His teeth sink in completely, just the right side of pleasure and pain, and Nesta explodes. Her release tears through her, practically shouting Rhysand's name as she clamps down around his cock.

She continues to move her hips shallowly, to chase the final tendrils of that high, but then Rhysand is flipping them back over. He hoists one of Nesta's legs up over his shoulder, redoubling his efforts from before. Nesta cries out as his hips slam against hers, as his cock spears into her cunt still fluttering with aftershocks over and over again.

"Mother save me, who knew having you come all over my cock could feel so good," Rhysand gets out between his groans. "Maybe I really will keep this sweet cunt just for me. Just for me to use. Just for me to fill and keep dripping."

It's almost too much, that over-stimulation, but already, Nesta can feel herself barreling toward that precipice again. Can feel that heat brewing too quickly. Dangerously.

"Please," Nesta whines, little more than a moaning, writhing mess. "Please…"

"Look at that. You can beg."

A few more thrusts, and Rhysand buries his cock with a groan. Nesta can feel the way his cock twitches deep within her, can feel the way he floods her cunt with the warmth of his own release. He continues to thrust his hips shallowly, one of his hands reaching down between their bodies until his fingers find her clit. It only takes a few presses before Nesta's whole body is convulsing, another orgasm leaving spots dancing behind her eyelids.

"That's it, really milk my cock."

Nesta slumps back against the blankets, tossing an arm over her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. She whimpers when Rhysand pulls his softening cock free, but it quickly turns into a gasp when he presses two fingers right back into her cunt.

"Make sure you don't lose a drop," Rhysand leans down to say right against Nesta's ear.

Nesta has to bite her lip, has to swallow down the whine trapped in her throat, but there's no stopping the way her cunt still flutters at the request, and from Rhysand's deep chuckle, the reaction has clearly given her away. He pulls away completely, and Nesta lowers her arm enough that she can watch him tuck his cock back into his pants, watch him retie the laces and fix his shirt.

He tugs at the sleeves, picking at something on the fabric and heading toward the doors, but he pauses with his hand outstretched toward the handle. He turns his attention over his shoulder, his gaze slowly sweeping over Nesta's frame where she's still sprawled across the blankets, still a mess of torn fabric, of sweat and his seed dripping from her cunt. The smirk he gives her is nothing short of male arrogance and pride.

"I still expect that dance by the way."

[uukipi]

this ship is so funny to me get it rhysta stans

[ennawrite]

just wait until those Rhysta antis hear about Tamsand. Rhysta is a fun idea that we know could never, ever happen in canon text.

But Tamsand? That’s a ship I really do think could have been plausible in a pre book one world. Like the possibilities are endless when it comes to Tamlin & Rhysand (prior to the murdering each other’s family fiasco, ofc). Even now, they have the energy of past scorned lovers.

You’ll have to pry these ships from my cold, dead hands.

[the-lonelybarricade]

I am begging, begging, the acotar fandom to become familiar with the concept of ship and let ship. If a ship isn't your cup of tea, no one is making you drink it. No one is making you consume content for it. Leave people alone for enjoying the things that scratch their brain. Life is too short and the world is too mean to ridicule people for trying to squeeze a little joy out of silly "what-if" scenarios. These characters aren't real, they're just little dolls whose faces we're smushing together and some of y'all take it way too seriously

[praetorqueenreyna]

For Rhysand Week Day 7: Free Day, I give you: romcom Rhysta AU. I have to give credit to @beansidhebumbling, who shared a snippet of a "10 Things I Hate About You" Rhysta fic that changed me at a molecular level. In that vein, I give you: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days Rhysta!

@officialrhysandweek

Nesta is a journalist for a woman's magazine that's always wanted to write things that matter. Her boss has promised her that she'll be able to write whatever she wants after one more article: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She has to find a guy, start dating him, then convince him to break up with her within 10 days. The problem? Her target is Rhysand, a playboy advertising executive who needs to make a woman fall in love with him within 10 days to be his company's liason for a lucrative diamond marketing campaign.

*****************************************

Rhys leaned against the railing on his balcony, eyes glued to the gorgeous woman sashaying towards a taxi with a tantalizing sway of her hips. His lips still stung from their kiss; the little minx had bitten him. He had to admit, he had almost gotten carried away, on the verge of careening off the edge from first base all the way home. But he had to stay focused. His entire career was on the line. He had ten days to win this bet and get Nesta Archeron to fall for him, head over heels. 

There were worse people to seduce, he mused as Nesta opened the door to her cab. She was hot, smart, and just a little mean in a sexy way. The kind of woman who prided herself on being able to sniff out bullshit a mile away. Still, she had succumbed to his charm already. He wouldn’t need the full ten days.

Nesta turned just before getting into the cab, giving him a flirtatious wiggle of her fingers. Rhys blew her a kiss, causing her to roll her eyes and laugh. “Oh, you are already falling in love with me,” he murmured to himself. 

Her mark was cute, she had to give him that. And a good kisser. Unsurprising, considering Nesta could practically smell the playboy sleeze coming off him in waves. It was a shame she couldn’t actually sleep with him, but that wasn’t part of the plan. 

She could feel his eyes on her ass as she walked away. Rhysand was easy, and Nesta felt like she already knew everything about him. It had been laughably simple to get an invite over to his place. Men like that loved tittering docile women, but they craved someone with a little bit of a bite. Just a few minutes of flirty sarcasm and he was putty in her hands. The stage was perfectly set. She had ten days to drive him insane. Rhysand would lose it and break up with her. She’d write her article, and then her obnoxious boss would lighten up and let Nesta write whatever she wanted. 

In the open doorway of the taxi she glanced back, displaying the gleaming arch of her neck. She waggled her fingers in farewell, and Rhys blew her a kiss from the balcony. It was so cheesy it prompted a real laugh, and she rolled her eyes. She looked up at him again once the cab door was closed and her face was shielded behind the window. Her coy grin shifted into a wicked smirk.

“I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.” 

[seleneprince]

A Court of Shadows and Blood Chapter 2

If there's really a Mother up there, she definitely has a twisted sense of humour.

He still doesn't know whether to laugh or punch a wall at his discovery. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Rage because he should've known much sooner.

No humans cross the Wall and live to tell. The natural Fae essence devours them eventually, their fragile mortal bodies unable to resist it. Unless they're not normal humans, unless they have some special ability that gives them an advantage.

Now he knows why his little pet managed to pass the Wall despite her obvious weakness.

She has the Sight. Or the True Eye, according to ancient references.

It's a rare gift. Humans born with an innate immunity against Fae magic, allowing them to see through glamours and spells as they're not affected by them.

It also makes them immune against daemati.

He lays against a wall, his head down as he chuckles silently, humourlessly.

Curse his luck. And curse his own foolishness. He should've known from their first meeting. He should've realized her mind was eerily silent. Normally, he can hear people's minds from a mile away, even more if they're humans. But he didn't hear anything back then, and it didn't catch up to him until he finally tried to enter her mind back at his chambers.

Instead of images and feelings, he encountered a solid wall. And silence. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't even cause a small crack in her shield, to catch a glimpse of her mind. Just darkness and silence.

What was she said back there?

'You'll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything'

She was right.

He inhales deeply through his nose, the realization leaving a bitter taste. It’s laughable how he’d thought she was just a feisty human with no sense of self-preservation. But turns out she's so much more—a rare gem hidden behind the stain of mortality. The answer had been in front of his eyes and he missed it, distracted by her sharp tongue and burning eyes.

The Sight, a gift so uncommon it's nearly a myth, granting her immunity from all Fae influence. He can’t unravel her with his usual methods. No amount of pushing and twisting would break her shield.

His gaze flickers toward the room where she's bound, chained in his bed, a slight grin of resignation crossing his face. This little twist supposes a change in his original plans, but certainly not an obstacle. She’s an enigma, and he can't wait to peel her layers back, find what else she's hiding from him.

There’s still tension, a frustration he can’t fully shake. After all, this turns the game on its head. He is no longer in complete control here. He can't keep her in check the way he's used to. Can't just make her play along easily.

No. This is going to be harder than he imagined. He'll have to take a different approach this time around.

The idea excites him more than it should.

We're going to have fun, little thing.

Ever since he brought the human to his chambers, he's been waiting for the shoe to drop. To be questioned about his intentions, and maybe bring his new pet to her, to judge whether she's worthy of staying in her court.

But nothing.

Amarantha hasn't asked him anything, just expecting the same usual 'service' from him. The Attor, that annoying pest of hers, tries to get under his skin here and there, but overall he hasn't let on any hint that he knows something. If anyone is aware of the human in his chambers, they've keeping the information to themselves.

He's being actively concealing her scent with the wards he set on his quarters, but it's not permanent. His magic is not what it used to be. If she so much takes a step outside the room, anyone within a ten-milius radius would smell her. And then it'll be only a matter of minutes until she knows.

Maybe it's for the best, he thinks. It was a pain to bring the fiesty creature here, in the utmost secrecy. The bitch's security is sharp, and while his loyal shadows helped him, he knows he wouldn't do it a second time.

Then why does he still bother? What's stopping him from letting the truth out?

'Because it's my first chance in fifty years to have something that's entirely mine. My own, untainted secret.'

Everything he's loved has been taken from him or ruined while he's been here. All that surrounds him is her property, her domain. Even the privileges he enjoys above the others are only thanks to her authority. It's the rule.

But this human, this mortal creature with fire in her eyes, will belong to him. As long as no one else sees her, she's his.

The thought both thrills and haunts him. He's taking a huge risk by keeping her hidden like this, perhaps the greatest he's ever taken in fifty years. It’s foolish, bordering on suicidal. Yet the satisfaction he feels at knowing she's beyond her grasp is something he hadn’t felt in a long while—a small, defiant act of control.

The shadows swirl around him, shifting and almost restless. It's like they know him, understand the stakes even without words. The shadows don’t question, don’t judge. They’re the only things he can trust in this wretched place. But keeping this secret requires something even they can’t provide—carefulness, patience. Traits that he's always possessed in abundance, yet have been stretched to their limit since she appeared.

He casts a glance toward the hall that leads to his quarters. According to Cerridwen and Nuala, she has fallen asleep already, her exhaustion finally taking over her fragile body.

Her life hangs by a thread every moment she’s here. If anyone found out… it would be over in an instant. It'll be harsh punishment for him, and gruesome death for her.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret his choice.

He sends a message to their minds, a new order regarding his little pet. As much as it amuses him seeing her thrash in that wild, messy state of hers, he can't allow his toys to remain so dreadfully...unkempt.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he imagines her reaction. His new gift is intended to placate her a bit, but it's mostly for his own personal enjoyment. She's clearly someone who holds her pride above all else, so she’ll undoubtedly reject his present with all her might, despite the honor it represents

But there’s nothing she can do against the wraith sisters. Cerridwen and Nuala have been given permission to use force if his human proves too stubborn—not that she’ll get the chance. His maids’ shadowy hands are impossible to repel or escape from, even for other Fae.

How he wishes he could be there to witness it.

His thoughts are interrupted when the familiar, off-kilter music reached his ears as he stands in front of a well-known door. His body tenses in anticipated disgust, fully aware of what's expecting him on the other side.

With a sigh, he fixes his clothes again and hides his hatred with the usual mask. The doors open before him without his hands touching them, and he strides in with a confident smirk as they close behind him again with a loud bang.

The music comes to a halt as soon as his presence is noticed. The assembled crowd take up most of the space, and most have stopped whatever they've been doing to stare at him. He can't help but find some delight in their attention, the fear that shines in their eyes at the sight of him. It gives him life.

He walks with purpose, barely sparing them a glance. Some bow to him, others just stare in silence. They all make sure to step out of his way, creating a wide path just for him. It only takes him a few minutes to reach his destination.

There, lounging on her black throne, is his punishment. His nightmare. The reason he endures all of this in the first place.

Amarantha. The High Queen of Prythian. Self-proclaimed, which only makes it more ridiculous in his mind—but only a suicidal fool would dare say so aloud.

She taps a long, red nail against the stone.

“There you are. I was worried you got lost along the way.”

Her voice is soft, almost tender, but he’s memorized every angle of her to read between the lines. He detects the underlying disdain beneath her words; she’s not pleased with his lateness.

He bows to his waist in a show of devotion. It makes his skin crawl, but he's already used to it.

"Apologies, my queen," he knows how much she likes the title. Appealing to her ego is his tried-and-true method to keep her at bay. "I got held up by some last-minute affairs."

She hums but doesn't inquire.

"Be more careful next time, Rhys. It's not polite to make a female wait."

A sense of déjà vu hits him at her words. They don’t sound nearly as charming from her lips as they did from the human’s, but the irony of it makes him want to laugh.

He clicks his tongue, masking his reaction.

"Believe me, I know it," lowering his head just enough to hide the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.

He's not sure how to feel about his pet sharing some similiarities with the person he hates most in the world, but there's no denying the terrible humor in it.

Amarantha waves her hand lazily, and the music resumes. The crowd gradually returns to the party, trying their best to ignore them both. She beckons him to come closer, aand he has to steel himself to keep from snarling at her.

Of all the hells he’s endured over fifty years, this is the one he still can’t stomach. Being reduced to a mere servant, a slave, for this wretched female. He, the strongest High Lord in all of Prythian, turned into a harlot for a delusional tyrant's entertainment.

Just thinking about it makes him blood boil in pure, murderous rage.

The only thing keeping him from lashing out completely is the comforting fantasy of tearing this usurper apart with his own hands and warming himself by the fire of her burning remains.

But now he has something better than fantasies. Waiting prettily in his room, locked away from Amarantha’s corrupting hands, surely cursing him with all her might in her sleep.

The thought of seeing her again gives him the motivation to endure whatever Amarantha wants from him now.

"What can I do for you, my queen?" he asks, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind him. She looks up at him from her throne, not bothering to adjust her posture.

Everything about this is wrong. He should be the one sitting on a throne, and she should be on a leash, draped over his fist, begging for her worthless life. But now is not the time.

She regards him with a smile that would make a weaker male’s skin crawl. In truth, it’s not so different from expressions he himself uses regularly. Curious how this particular detail about her has never really bothered him.

"I have a job for you, Rhys."

"I’m always at your service, my queen."

She chuckles.

"Of course, you are. Such a good boy." She twirls the cup in her hand, red liquid spilling as richly as the color of her lips. "Tell me, how do you feel about paying a visit to an old friend?"

He knows exactly who she means before she even says it. The smirk that spreads across his face is entirely genuine this time.

"Oh? May I know the details?"

Amarantha’s expression shifts into one so similar to his own that it could almost be a reflection.

"Go to Spring and bring me the human filth that Tamlin is hiding from us."

Seems like the fun is about to start.

After another long, excruciating party to satisfy Amarantha's ego, she doesn't waste time in bringing him to her chambers as soon as everyone leaves.

He knows his part. Fifty years playing this role has given him the steel to hide his shame and resentment so deep into him that she can't notice it. His mind turns off, letting his body follow what's expected of him.

She's as brutal in bed as she's in the battlefield. And today she's in a rather enthusiastic mood. Probably at the idea of torturing the pitiful human Tamlin has found at last.

By the time he leaves, his body carries the scratches and bruises of Amarantha's favouritism under his clothes.

At least he's not tormented by the humiliation and self-hatred as he was the first times. Now, he can only feel a mild sense of relief and exasperation that it's over.

He straightens his clothes, leaving the top button undone. Now it’s only him striding down the hallways, aside from the occasional servant. Moving through the shadows, he’s intent on reaching his quarters as quickly as possible.

He’s eager to see his little pet, to tease her until she bares her cute claws and tries to bite him. Right now, she’s the only thing he has even a remote measure of control over—and he plans to savor it. Besides, he’s curious to see how she liked his latest gift.

As his door comes into view, he steps out of the shadows. He briefly considers slipping in silently, like last time, just to feel her fear spike again—but he decides it won’t be as amusing a second time.

Once more, the door opens for him without so much as a gesture, and he steps inside.

"I’m back, my dear. I hope you didn’t miss me too much this time?"

She’s right where he left her: on his bed, unmoving, glaring up at him through her lashes. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, chin resting stiffly on her crossed arms.

Like a curled up cat ready to pounce. Adorable.

But it's hard to appreciate his gift in that posture.

"Now, don't you have anything to say? I took the time to choose this design just for you. Do you like it?"

She doesn't respond. Not even a huff. If only he could get a peek of her mind, just a little bit. It annoys him not know what it's going through her head.

He clicks his tongue.

"Show me. I want to see how it looks on you."

"You're already seeing it."

"Ah, there she is. I was worrying you lost your voice."

Her glare intensifies, which only makes his smile widen. He grabs a cozy armchair from its spot near the fireplace and moves it closer to the bed, taking a seat directly in front of her.

Crossing one ankle over his knee, he rests his chin on his fist and stares at her intently. A quiet laugh exhales from his nose when she frowns, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

Her discomfort is a delight he savors, though he keeps his expression masked behind a lazy smirk. Every small twitch, every subtle hardening of her glare, only deepens his amusement. She’s resisting him, but her unease is a victory all its own.

"Your silence does little to hide your thoughts, you know," he says, voice low. "There’s only so much I can ignore when it’s written all over your face."

"You can read how much I want to kill you written on my face?, she says, her voice sounding low and dripping with venom.

Cauldron bless him, she's such a joy.

"Charming," he coos. "I actually meant your thoughts about my present. I've been eager to see your reaction all day."

"Is that why you're sitting there like an idiot?" she mutters, raising her chin. "To rejoice in my misery? Or is it just that you don’t have anything better to do with your time?"

He laughs, soft and slow, as if savoring a rare vintage. He wouldn't tolerare this kind of talk from anyone else. He’s torn heads from bodies for words more respectful than hers. But with her, he only wants more of it. It’s like watching a puppy bark and bare its teeth at him—a futile effort, but amusing all the same.

"It’s not every day I get a creature with such spirit gracing my quarters. It was getting lonely here, you know? I simply want to make the most of this opportunity."

She rolls her eyes and turns her head away. "Right. As if you couldn't summon other people to keep you company."

That catches his attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Those...beings from before. They're yours, right? Why don't you ask them to help you with your loneliness instead of pestering me?"

He's genuinely perplexed for a moment. She means Nuala and Cerridwen? They serve him, sure, but it has never crossed his mind to rely on them for...those kind of needs. They're beautiful, skilled, and wouldn't dare to deny their High Lord anything, but they're still mere servants at the end of the day. Below him and his bed.

"They're not nearly as charming as you," he replies, leaning forward. "You'll warm up to me soon enough, dear. And then you'll finally realize how incredibly lucky you are."

He lets the silence stretch between them, thick with an unspoken challenge. For a moment, her face is still, but then, her brows lower, her lips pressing into a defiant line. She meets his eyes again, her glare sharper than before.

"You’ve taken my freedom, maybe my dignity as well," she says evenly, "but that's all you'll get from me. No loyalty, no obedience, and certainly not my respect."

He holds her gaze, feeling the familiar thrill rising as her words sink in. A part of him expected this—relished it, even. He could break her down, push until she yielded, but another part of him wonders: How long will this fire last? How much can she endure before she crumbles?

"Well," he says, grinning, "we’ll see just how long you hold onto that resolve, won’t we?"

He stands up, walking to the side of the bed. He reachs out and plucks a stray curl that had fallen over her face, tucking it behind her ear. She stiffens, her eyes narrowing as he studied the sisters' creation.

She looks much cleaner than when he first brought her. Gone is the dirt and sweat from her face, now replaced by a graceful touch of makeup. Her eyes are accented with shadow, her lips painted a sparkling pink, and a soft blush colors her cheeks, accentuating her cheekbones. Though her position makes it difficult to fully appreciate the dress, he notices how it cascades over her shoulders and waist in black folds.

His gaze follows the chain peeking out from beneath her long, dark blue skirt, where the fabric drapes down to cover her feet.

"Sit up straight. Don't hide yourself."

She huffs, turning her gaze to the fireplace in a show of stubborn defiance, completely ignoring him. Her stupid pride is really starting to piss him off. If only he had access to her mind, he’d make her move with a mere thought. Curse the Cauldron yet again for giving humans the Sight.

He’s tempted to drag her to her feet himself, but just then, she stretches out on the bed, leaning back on her hands and showing off the dress in a much better light.

He chose the dress with her specifically in mind, but it looks even better than he’d imagined. The fabric clings to her torso before flowing down in soft waves to her feet, creating a shape that cups her figure elegantly. The cloth is a blend of black and deep blue, with sparkling gems resembling stars embroidered throughout, like a recreation of the night sky. The neckline grazes the valley of her chest, leaving her collarbones and part of her shoulders exposed.

Her hair has been brushed off her face, pulled back with a silver comb and the rest drapping down her back. She almost looks like a different person, if it wasn't for the permanent scowl on her face.

Cerridwen and Nuala have done a brilliant job, as usual.

"Well, what do you think?" her voice takes his attention off her shoulders, dripping with disdain. "Does it meet yout expectations, sir?"

Fuck, there's something about her calling him sir while dressed like that, laying in his bed. It only amused him the first time, and pleased his ego a bit. Why is it different now?

Maybe because she's laying there so prettily, drapped in his court's colors in an obvious claim of his ownership, and when she moves a little the slit in the skirt reveals part of her thigh, making his fingers twitch to trace over the pristine skin.

A low growl escapes his throat before he can stop it.

She widens her eyes at him, fear flashing in them for a second. He coughs and composes himself, chastising himself for losing his self-control.

He sits at the hem of the bed, schooling his features into a mask of casual indifference, though his pulse still beats thickly in his throat. His fingers brush against the fabric of the dress as he settles. She makes a show of moving away from him with furious eyes, as if his mere touch offended her.

Her defiance, cloaked in elegant silk and starlit jewels, unsettles him far more than he’ll ever admit. It irks him, how her insolence remains unyielding even when he’s draped her in the finest dress this wretched court could provide, marking her as his.

"Oh, it exceeds my expectations," he says, his voice a touch darker, unable to resist letting her see a hint of the effect the dress has on him. "You look… magnificient." He smirks, gesturing to her as though she were a painting, a work of art on display just for him.

Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she lifts her chin, the hatred simmering behind her eyes unmistakable. "Good to know. I’d hate for all this"—she gestures to herself, her hand lingering over the exposed skin of her thigh—"to be wasted on you."

The comment lands, hitting a part of him that both resents and respects her tenacity. He finds himself leaning forward without thinking, the intensity in his gaze causing her to shrink back just the slightest bit.

"Oh, make no mistake. Nothing about you will go to waste here, darling. I’ll make certain of that."

She glares at him, but something shifts in her expression, a flicker of trepidation quickly masked by steely determination. It sends a thrill through him, a potent mix of irritation and attraction. How satisfying it will be, one day, to see that unbreakable resolve bend, to see her finally yield beneath him.

"Now," he murmurs, straightening. "Behave yourself, and I might surprise you with more gifts in the future."

"And if I don’t?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but he catches the challenge there, hanging in the air between them.

He chuckles, low and menacing, running his thumb along her round earlobe thoughtfully. "Oh, I wouldn’t test that, if I were you." His voice drops, a hint of a threat lacing his words. "I’d hate to ruin that pretty dress."

She blinks at him, her expression suddenly going blank. Her heart is beating too rapidly for him to believe she’s truly indifferent to the situation, but the way she so quickly masks her feelings and thoughts is worthy of some admiration.

Then, she does something that catches him entirely off guard.

Her hands grip his shoulders and pull him down, right on top of her. He feels the outline of her breasts press against his chest, and his nose grazes her collarbones for a brief moment. His mind goes blank. But before he can say anything, she maneuvers herself out and shoves his face down against the bed, throwing her weight onto his back.

"What in the world are you doing now, little thing?" he grunts, but then he hears a familiar metallic clicking as she moves frantically.

The realization hits him when he feels something cold binding his wrists together in a very tight knot.

His mind snaps back into focus with a jolt. For the briefest moment, he’s caught off guard, tangled in the suddenness of how everything has happened. She’s quick, too quick for a mortal in her state. His body stiffens beneath her, the sharp tug of the cold metal biting into his wrists—binding him to the bed.

The chain. She's using the chain against him. The same chain supposedly keeping her locked in place.

When, and how the fuck did she got out of it? Without anyone noticing?

The wood of the headboard creaks when he pulls. It’s a ridiculous move, the kind of desperate attempt he’s seen from lesser beings, yet somehow... it feels different. Her strength, the way she pushed him down with such determination, it unnerves him. No human should be able to think this quickly, to turn the tables on him in such a bold way.

He growls in frustration, trying to pull his wrists free, but the chain hold fast. This situation feels too disgustingly familiar, making his skin crawl. His first instinct is to use his magic and break the damn metal, but there’s a brief, agonizing moment of uncertainty. He hasn’t lost his power entirely, but it still feels drained, distant. The realization sends a deep sense of frustration through his chest.

When he lifts his head, she’s already standing by the edge of the bed, breathing hard but calm, her eyes alight with that familiar, fiery glint. She watches him, studying him like an experiment, her lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

"You... chained me?" He can barely mask the disbelief and fury in his voice. It's absurd. She shouldn’t have the knowledge, the courage, to even consider something so reckless.

She doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Her hands, still trembling slightly from the rush of adrenaline, clutch the fabric of the skirt. "I’d say it’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you?" Her voice is like cold fire, biting yet controlled, a mirror of his own in certain moments.

He glares at her, the intensity of his gaze locking with hers. His body tenses as he tests the chains again. "Oh, you have some fucking nerve, you filthy, worthless thing. You seriously think you can contain me?" His growl is low, dangerous, the tone he reserves for those he's about to torture endlessly.

She just shrugs, stepping away from the bed and almost relaxed. "You got me chained here like an animal since I arrived," she says softly, almost teasingly. "I thought you might like a taste of it."

The words sting more than they should. He shifts his weight, anger mounting, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

He’s going to kill her for this. No. He’ll hand her over to Amarantha first, in front of the entire court, and let her be turned into a plaything for the sadistic bitch. And when the ungrateful thing is too broken to move, he’ll drag her back to this room, tie her down from head to toe, and watch as she writhes in agony from the mind-blowing pain he inflicts. He won’t lift a finger to heal her. Let her suffer and learn her lesson.

He's clearly understimated her all this time.

She doesn’t spare him another glance as she runs to grab the pocket from the fireplace and then straight for the door. He lets out a low, dark chuckle at the sight.

"Oh, yes, Run, little thing. Run as fast as you can. Because once I get out of here, I'll find you."

"And I won't be gentle anymore."

She freezes for a moment, hand already on the door handle. The hand holding the iron rod grip it hard enough for her knuckles to grow white.

The door opens and she slams it close behind her.

[wingsdippedingold]

I’ve heard whispers of an upcoming Rhysta weekend?

@shadowqueenjude can we get another entry into the hat saga?

[arson-09]

I love your Rhysta AU thing that you posted oh MY GOD. RAAAAHHH.

Will you be writing a fanfic about it? Honestly, I would pay money for even a one-shot.

omg thank you :D I probably wont write a whole fanfic for it BUT i do plan to do some one-shots with some ideas i had this month (hopefully) between working on some other writing projects i have :3 Ill ofc post those here when i do! Thank you again for the support 🫶🏻

[bittermuire]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Rhysand, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra Characters: Nesta Archeron, Rhysand (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Elain Archeron, Feyre Archeron, Lucien Vanserra, Clare Beddor, and a greek chorus of background ocs Additional Tags: Light Angst, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Secret Relationship, disclaimer elucien is very much in the background i'm just obsessed with them in this fic, clare is an underrated but reputable genius, going to seven thirty am mass together as a love language, the archeron sisters were raised catholic i will die on this hill, rhys is generally annoying but i still like him so what can we do really? Summary:

Nesta and Rhys went to high school together and graduated together and went their separate ways. Ten years later, for whatever reason, they cross paths again.

[stargirlfeyre]

“Just let people ship who they want” let people react to those ships the way they want. I along with many others are always going to make fun of you people I’m really not sorry about this idc.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

I Breathe It, Believe It (I'm Getting What I Need)

A/N: I heard that 2025 is the year of unhinged, and this is certainly the most unhinged thing I've ever written! But hey, at least it's not a cursed foursome... yet. Anyways! Happy final day of @rhystaappreciationweekend! Enjoy some more smut including beast!Rhys 😏

Read on AO3

Cassian shook his hair out from the flight before stepping through the doors and into the warmth of Rita's. Music from a band in the far corner filled the whole space, a light and jovially tune, but even through that Cassian could still hear the sharp, familiar sound of words meant to slice, meant to bite. With a low chuckle, he moved toward the bar, finding his High Lady already perched on a seat, her lips tugged down in a frown and a glass of amber liquid cradled between her palms.

"What is it this time?" Cassian asked, daring to glance toward the other end of the bar.

Toward the pair standing toe to toe. The pair with twin glares, twin scars if you asked Cassian, but both would probably kill him if he dared to say that particular observation aloud. Though he couldn't hear exactly what was said, there was no mistaking Rhys's lips pulling back in a snarl, no mistaking the unimpressed roll of Nesta's eyes.

"I don't even know," Feyre sighed, taking a long swig of her drink. "But it's the third fight this week, and we don't even see each other that often."

"It's just a bit of arguing," Cassian offered with an easy shrug. "Me and Rhys used to fight all the time when we were younglings, often with fists instead of just words. Same with Rhys and Az. And don't even get me started on Amren and Mor when they first met."

"And yet, look at you all now. You'd never know. So how did you fix it?"

"Sex."

"I'm being serious, Cassian."

"So am I," Cassian chuckled easily, lifting a hand and flicking Feyre in the forehead teasingly. "You need to let go of those stupid human morals, Fey. This is Prythian. Long lives make fae more… open with one another."

"So what are you suggesting? Rhys and Nesta fuck their problems away?" Feyre drawled, her tone clearly sarcastic.

But despite her tone, Cassian couldn't find it within himself to disagree. In fact, now that the suggestion was out there, it was genius really. Already, a grin began to split his face, Feyre eyes widening at his expression.

"Cassian," Feyre exclaimed, slapping his arm.

"What better way for them to get out their frustrations?"

Feyre nibbled on her lip, glancing over her shoulder and toward Nesta and Rhys before turning back to Cassian, leaning in closer and dropping her voice. "Do you really think it would work? How would we even get them to agree to that?"

"Oh, leave that part to me."

~ * * * ~

Nesta pads her way down the long, stretching hall, her soft steps echoing off the red stone walls around her. The bright sound of feminine laughter reaches her on a soft breeze, and when Nesta turns the corner into the large, main living room of the House, she's surprised to find her mate sitting with her youngest sister and her own mate.

"Nes!" Cassian greets brightly and gestures toward the space beside him on the sofa. "Join us."

"I didn't realize we were expecting company," Nesta comments, noting the spread of drinks on the low coffee table when she steps further into the room. "What's all this?"

"We're celebrating," Feyre tells her, something about her expression giving Nesta pause as she settles into the seat next to Cassian.

"Celebrating what?" Nesta asks slowly, glancing between her sister and mate.

"It's a secret apparently," Rhysand grumbles from where he's lounging in an armchair, looking as unimpressed with this day's turn of events as Nesta feels.

"Here," Cassian cuts in to say. He reaches toward the array of drinks, picking up two small glasses filled with some sort of deep blue swirling liquid and handing one each to Nesta and Rhysand. "Drink up."

Nesta raises a questioning eyebrow, but at Cassian's wide grin and encouraging nod, she takes the drink, quickly throwing it back. The liquid seems to almost bubble as it slides down her throat, and her nose scrunches at the strange metallic taste that blooms across the back of her tongue. Her vision seems to blur for a moment before refocusing again, and Nesta blinks away the strange sensation, shaking her head slightly.

"Gods, what was that?" she asks, coughing into her elbow.

"What we're celebrating."

Nesta's breath hitches of its own accord at the sound of Cassian's voice, the deep timbre of it like warm whiskey flowing through her veins. And she feels oh so warm. Embers practically crackle beneath her skin, relaxing her muscles and leaving her fingers and toes tingling. Her heart skips over itself in her chest, and it takes all her willpower to swallow down the shudder threatening to shake her to the core.

Before Nesta can begin to wrap her mind around the reaction such simple words could draw from her, the cushions of the sofa shift beside her. The scent of pine and fresh snow fill her senses and then Cassian's lips are pressing against her cheek, that touch only seeming to warm her skin even more.

"Have fun, sweetheart."

"What have you done?" Rhysand asks, his voice strained, and when Nesta looks over toward him, his hands are gripping the arms of his chair hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

"We're helping the two of you to finally get along," Feyre explains easily, her smile bright as she strides across the room and toward Cassian and the balcony doors.

Cassian's grin is nothing short of shit-eating as he takes Feyre's hand. "The Night Court way."

In the blink of an eye, the two of them vanish, winnowing to gods know where, and it takes Nesta a moment too long to clear the fog in her mind enough to realize they must have changed the wards when they planned this whole thing.

Whatever this thing is.

Shaking her head again, Nesta tries to will her mind to focus, to wrap around whatever Cassian and Feyre could have possibly planned, but it feels impossible. Her entire body feels hot all over, heart beginning to pound between her ribs, a beat that's echoed lower still. Echoed between her thighs. The scent of citrus and the sea wraps around her limbs, and though unfamiliar, it still feels like a caress across her skin, still rocks her enough that she whimpers quietly, fingers fisting into the skirts of her dress.

"Rhÿwiol," Rhysand says, his own chest starting to heave. "They must have laced the drinks with Rhÿwiol. It causes heightened… arousal."

Now that he's said the words, there's no denying that arousal is exactly what Nesta feels. Desire swirls low in her gut, tightening and twisting in time with every thunderous beat of her heart. It scrapes across her skin and purrs in the back of her mind. Already, she can feel a pressure building between her thighs, an ache threatening to take hold. Already, that voice whispers to take, whispers for more, whispers to be filled.

She feels completely dizzy with it, and Nesta closes her eyes, tries to breathe deeply and calm herself, but every breath in simply fills her lungs with more of that citrus and sea salt scent. Fills her lungs with more of Rhysand's own arousal.

"There's no point trying to fight it. Fighting it only makes it worse… and makes the effects last longer. All you can do is wait for it to pass or fuck it out of your system."

The explanation does little to soothe Nesta's already frayed nerve endings. This was certainly not what she was expecting when she woke up this morning. Sweat begins to prickle across her skin with every second that passes, a too familiar wetness pooling between and coating the inside of her thighs, and it's clear there's only one way out of this.

Only one solution to sate the need desperately clawing through her, to fill that empty ache that thrums inside her.

With a quiet huff to herself, Nesta shifts against the cushions of the sofa to get more comfortable. She leans back against the pillows and spreads her legs wider, enough that she can reach a hand up under the skirts of her dress. She doesn't waste her time with the teasing touches she'd normally use to work herself up, to ease herself into the mood. None of the fingertip light touches along her inner thigh, none of the teasing circles across her lower abdomen.

She feels much too desperate for any of that.

Instead, she reaches directly for her cunt. She supposes she shouldn't be surprised to find her panties already drenched. Shouldn't be surprised at the way her body immediately responds to the simplest of touches, even through a layer of fabric. A gasp tumbles free from her throat before she can swallow it down, her hips jumping at that first, single swipe of her own fingertips.

"What are you doing?"

Nesta rolls her eyes at Rhysand's question, not pausing her fingers as she traces a line up to her clit. "What does it look like? You said yourself that you have to fuck it out of your system."

"So what? You just intend to get yourself off?"

"Well, I certainly don't expect you to be able to help."

Rhysand growls at that, and when Nesta dares to glance toward him, she finds he's pushed forward in his seat. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Nesta makes a big show of dragging her gaze up and down Rhysand's frame, keeping her expression decidedly unimpressed. Rhysand is on his feet and in Nesta's face in an instant. His hands settle on the sofa cushions either side of Nesta's head, and this close together, the scent of him, the scent of his arousal is all consuming. She can see just how blown his pupils are, the violets of his eyes almost completely swallowed. She can see the way his lip curls with a snarl.

"I am over five hundred years old. I have had more females and males warm my bed than you could even imagine, and I can guarantee you that not a single one ever left unsatisfied."

Nesta merely raises a single eyebrow. "Sounds like a lot of empty words to me."

Nesta has barely finished speaking before Rhysand's own hand snaps beneath her skirts. His fingers curl around her wrist, squeezing once in warning before he yanks her hand away completely. Nesta whines at the loss of pressure, trying to fight against Rhysand's grip, but the effort is futile.

He drops to his knees between her spread thighs, slowly pushing the fabric of her skirts all the way up until they're bunched around her waist. It's almost strange, seeing the High Lord of the Night Court on his knees before her, but even as Nesta's breath hitches in her lungs, that need and heat climb ever higher where they burn in her veins, flames licking across her skin and clawing up her throat. It begs and begs and begs.

"Is this part of the satisfying females?"

Rhysand's eyes flare at the drawling question, and before Nesta can even blink, he's torn her panties in two. His fingers dig into the flesh of her thighs, grip tight enough to bruise, as he spreads her wider still. And then he buries his face there.

Nesta lets out a gasping moan at the first press of his mouth against her. He licks a thick stripe right over her, and she tosses her head back, daring to reach a hand down and bury her fingers in the short dark strands of Rhysand's hair. The drag of his tongue is hot against her cunt, against her skin, and that heat only seems to radiate up the rest of her body and down to her toes. It twines with those desperate flames already licking through her veins, roaring into a blaze threatening to swallow her whole.

She tries to rock her hips against his face, but matching his pace is easier said than done when he keeps mixing it up. He alternates between pressing teasingly against her entrance and tracing circles over her clit, switching up the speed and intensity until Nesta's head feels dizzy with it all. She can do nothing but hold on, nothing but whimper and moan, while Rhysand continues to devour her.

One of Rhysand's hands reaches for the neckline of her dress, tugging at the fabric until Nesta's breasts spill free. That same hand palms one of her breasts, kneading it and plucking at her nipple in time with the way his mouth continues to work over her cunt. The sensations are all too much, and too quickly Nesta's entire body seizes with pleasure. She comes with a shout, Rhysand groaning against her in response and only elongating her orgasm.

She slumps back against the cushions of the sofa, chest heaving as she catches her breath. She wants to blame the Rhÿwiol for the speed she climbed and tumbled over that precipice, but she knows that would only be the half the truth. The way her cunt still flutters with the aftershocks proof enough.

Rhysand sits back on his haunches, making a big show of wiping his bottom lip with his thumb, the evidence of Nesta's release still glistening against his skin there. He smirks up at her, the expression that of pure male arrogance and bravado.

"Like I said, not a single one unsatisfied."

"Fuck you," Nesta snaps, but the breathless tone to her voice betrays her.

"You better be returning the favor with that smart mouth."

Rhysand pushes up and to his feet, deft fingers making quick work of the laces of his pants. He pushes the fabric down his thighs until his cock bobs free, already hard and heavy where it lays against his thigh. It's long and slightly curved, the head a darker shade and already leaking with his own arousal, and Nesta can't quite look away as Rhysand fists it lazily.

It's like her orgasm barely helped at all, barely banked those flames. They still simmer and writhe just beneath her skin. They still leave an ache, an emptiness pressing between her thighs. They still leave her mouth watering as she watches Rhysand's hand move up and down along his own cock.

Before she can even really think about it, she slides off the sofa and onto her knees, licking her lips in anticipation. But when she looks back up toward Rhysand's face that smirk of his has only grown, so she merely raises his chin in defiance instead.

"Cassian is bigger."

"Then you should have no problem swallowing me down." Rhysand threads the fingers of his free hand into the brassy strands of Nesta's hair, moving her head how he wants her and dragging the head of his cock across her lips. "Now be a good girl and open."

Nesta makes a big show of rolling her eyes, but she obeys the request, parting her lips and sticking out her tongue slightly. Rhysand wastes no time thrusting his hips forward and forcing his cock into her mouth. She moans at the weight of it on her tongue, relaxing her throat as he presses deeper and deeper.

"Well, isn't this quite the sight."

Rhysand pulls his hips back slightly just to thrust right back in, using his grip on her hair to properly fuck her mouth. She slides her tongue along the underside of his cock, her eyes fluttering each time he hits the back of her throat, as she tries to match his movements. She dares to groan around him so he can feel the vibrations, dares to tease the barest hint of her teeth against his skin, and is rewarded with Rhysand's hips stuttering, with a curse echoing from above her.

Perhaps, she can make him come just as fast as she did to get even.

Nesta gasps when she feels a sudden pressure against her thigh, almost choking for a moment and needing to pull back. She continues to stroke Rhysand's cock with her hand, taking the time to catch her breath again and glance down. She's surprised to find a shadow slinking up and circling her thigh, star-flecked and cool against her skin.

That night-kissed shadow stretches higher and higher, and Nesta widens her stance, spreading her thighs just in time for it to drag across her clit. She moans softly at the sensation, the coolness and the pressure, and she grinds her hips down even as she turns her attention back to Rhysand's cock. She licks and suckles at the head before swallowing him back down, moving her head with renewed fervor.

Tears begin to prickle at the corner of her eyes, spit spilling past her lips and down her chest, but still, Nesta doesn't let it deter her. She can feel that desire whispering in her ear again, urging her to please, urging her to take. She's sure that Rhysand must be able to feel those effects too from the way he continues to groan, the way the shadow between her thighs moves to sink fully into her cunt, fucking into her in perfect tandem with the way she moves her head.

She can feel what a mess she's making, what a mess she's become. Her cunt practically drips onto the floor beneath her, her skin all but coated in sweat, in spit and precum. But it all feels too good, and she doesn't want it to stop. She only wants more. Craves it all.

She hollows her cheeks and sucks hard, relaxing her throat as much as she can. It only takes a few more bobs of her head before Rhysand spills down her throat, Nesta moaning softly as she swallows every last drop. She releases his cock with a soft pop, taking a moment to breathe, to lick at her swollen lips, and humming contently at the taste that still clings to the back of her throat.

"Who knew your mouth could be put to such good use after all?" Rhysand tells her, his hand grasping her jaw roughly and his thumb dragging across the swollen mess of her bottom lip.

Nesta wants to roll her eyes, wants to snap at him, but before she can utter a word, the shadow still buried in her cunt seems to grow. She whimpers, her toes curling at the stretch of it, the coolness of it pressing against the walls of her cunt. She works her hips harder against it, grinding down and circling her hips, chasing the building heat and pleasure.

"That's it. Get yourself nice and open for my cock."

Nesta moans at the words. She reaches a hand down between her thighs, fingertips slipping against her swollen clit. A few tight circles against her clit, and she can feel herself edging ever closer to that precipice, can feel another orgasm glimmering just within reach, but before she can go tumbling over, the shadow vanishes. Nesta gasps at the sudden loss, her cunt still fluttering and desperate to be filled.

"What the fuck, you prick?"

Rhysand's answering chuckle is dark and low. With a snap of his fingers both of their clothes are magicked away completely. He slides his hand up and down his cock slowly, his length already hard again. Whether that's from the Rhÿwiol or simply his fae blood, Nesta isn't sure. But she's happy either way, her gaze tracking every movement of his hand with a predatory intent.

"Wouldn't you prefer the real thing?" Rhysand drawls.

He settles on the floor in front of her, pushing at her shoulders until she lies back against the rug. It's like watching a predator stalk it's prey. His eyes trail down her body, goosebumps cascading everywhere that gaze rakes across, until he settles on her cunt, wet and exposed for him. A groan of appreciation rumbles from deep in his chest, and just that sound of praise has Nesta's breath hitching, has her spreading her thighs wider still in invitation.

"What are you waiting for?" Nesta challenges. "Fuck me already."

"Perhaps, I want to hear you beg for it," Rhysand tells her, dragging his cock along her cunt, through the wetness pooled there. "Beg for your High Lord's cock, for me to fill you up."

"High Lord? Still so arrogant even when I know you're just as desperate as me," Nesta fires back, but her words trail off into a gasping moan when the head of his cock catches against her clit.

"Beg for it."

He continues his teasing touches, Nesta's hips jumping and chasing the pleasure every drag of his cock pulls forth. "Please. Rhys—"

She doesn't even need to finish speaking his name. Rhysand presses his hips forward, his cock finally sinking into her cunt. With how wet she is, it doesn't take much for him to bottom out completely, for him to fill her completely, and Nesta moans at that feeling, that stretch.

"Mother save me," Rhysand groans, grinding his hips against her own, somehow pressing his cock deeper still.

"Fuck," Nesta echoes, canting her own hips up. "Move."

Rhysand groans again, but he follows her request. He pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again. Over and over again he thrusts into her, building up a brutal and punishing rhythm. Nesta hooks her legs around his waist, digging the heels of her feet into his ass to keep him buried deep, keep him just where she needs.

"Taking my cock so well. Can feel the way your sweet cunt keeps squeezing me."

The praise goes straight to Nesta's head, only adding to the pleasure fogging over her every thought. Every drag of his cock against the walls of her cunt sends her higher still, every smack of his hips against her own making her even wetter. The sound of skin on skin is almost as loud as her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Almost as loud as the moans and whimpers that tumble from her lips each time Rhysand's cock drives home.

"But how tight will you squeeze me when you come all over my cock?"

Rhysand's hand reaches between their bodies. His fingers find her swollen clit, moving in tandem with every thrust of his hips.

"Come on. Be a good girl, and I'll fill you up nice and deep, make sure you're absolutely dripping. Don't you want that?"

The words, the way he presses even harder against her clit, it's all too much for Nesta. She doesn't even have time to warn him. She arches up off the rug, another orgasm rocking through her. Her toes curl, and her cunt clenches down hard with the pleasure of it all. She slumps back down against the rug, but she's quickly moaning again when she realizes Rhysand is still moving inside her.

"Please," Nesta pleads. "Rhysand, please…"

A few more thrusts of his hips, and Rhysand buries his cock completing, finding his own release with a groan. Nesta can feel him everywhere. Feel where his cock continues to stretch her and press deep. Feel where his cock twitches as he spills inside her. Feel the warmth of him filling her so completely.

It has her body heating all over again, and she whines when Rhysand pulls back, his cock slipping free. She hates how empty she feels. Hates the wetness she can feels dripping and pooling beneath her. With desperate fingers, she reaches between her thighs, gathering up the mess there and shoving her fingers right back into her cunt.

"Fuck, that's it. Don't waste a drop."

Nesta lets out a contented moan, biting her lip and lifting her hips up slightly, even as she continues to keep her fingers pressed as deep as they can go. She tilts her chin down enough that she can look at Rhysand, the way her cunt clenches down around her fingers almost involuntary when she finds his gaze pinned to where her fingers are buried.

Rhysand's own fingers curl around his cock, stroking himself until he's hard again. His hand glides with ease, a mess from being in her mouth, from being buried in her cunt. Nesta watches a bead of arousal drip from the head and slide down his cock, and that desperate need roars back to life through her veins.

That's hers. Hers to take. Hers to be filled with.

She quickly scrambles to her hands and knees, crawling over to Rhysand. He tracks her movement the whole way, the purple of his eyes long swallowed by his blown pupils.

"Absolutely desperate for cock, aren't you?"

"I need… I need…"

Nesta isn't able to finish the thought, her mind too muddled to form proper words. The pleasure and need so dizzying that all she can focus on is clambering into Rhysand's lap. She knocks his hand away from his cock and replaces it with her own, daring to squeeze when her fingers reach the base. Rhysand's answering groans goes straight to her head, straight to her cunt.

"Let me give you what you need, what we both need," Rhysand assures her, his own hands settling at her hips, grip tight enough to bruise. "Keep you stuffed full of my cock and dripping with my seed."

He pulls her down fully onto his cock, and Nesta cries out at being stretched around him again. It feels too good, and Nesta wastes no time chasing that pleasure, that high. She settles her hands on Rhysand's shoulders, using him for balance as she presses up on her knees and sinks right back down.

She starts to fuck herself on his cock more earnestly, grinding her hips down and dragging her clit across his pelvis each time she sinks down. When he starts to snap his own hips up to meet her movements, Nesta tosses her head back with the pleasure of it all. She arches fully against him, the slide of her peaked nipples against the hard planes of his chest adding to the sensations and leaving her feeling hot all over.

She moans, driving and working her hips harder still, but that sound morphs into a gasp when pain prickles at her hips, the distinct scent of blood flooding her senses. She slows her movements, looking down only to find dark as night talons curled around her hips, breaking the skin there. Before Nesta can fully wrap her mind around what she's seeing, what it means, Rhysand shoves her fully off his lap.

"No," Nesta whines in alarm, her cunt still fluttering and desperately empty.

She tries to reach for Rhysand again, but he merely scrambles further away from her. His chest heaves, and he moves one of his hands to cover his face, but Nesta quickly realizes that hand isn't exactly an accurate description. Long talons extend from where each of his fingers should be, dark scales or maybe feathers cascading up his wrist and forearm.

"I'm sorry… I can't… control…"

Rhysand's whole body seems to shimmer and shudder with whatever he's trying to hold back. Large wings rise over his shoulders and behind his back, and Nesta has to swallow down another gasp. They're nothing like Cassian's or Azriel's wings. Instead, they're like shadows and darkness brought to life where they stretch wide. It's like something straight out a nightmare, something that should terrify her, but all Nesta can feel is another wave of arousal wash over her.

"I can take it," Nesta tells him, lounging back against the rug and spreading her thighs wide again until her cunt is on full display.

An offering for the beast.

"You don't know what you're asking for," Rhysand argues, his voice sounding rough and gravelly.

"I want it."

With a low, deep growl, Rhysand is on her. His talons curl against her thighs, tight enough that Nesta doesn't dare to move a muscle to avoid them piercing the skin. She holds her breath, watching as ever so slowly he lowers his head. The first slide of his tongue against her cunt has her choking out a gasping moan, her hips jumping against his grasp.

She wasn't expecting it to be… forked.

Whether he notices her reaction or not, he merely tugs her closer still, fully burying his face back between her thighs. Nesta can feel the scrape of those black scales against her inner thighs, only adding to the delicious scrape of his tongue against the walls of her cunt. She thought his mouth had been amazing before, but with that forked tongue he can reach deeper than she thought possible, leaving her a mess of moans and whimpers.

She's sure that forked tongue must secrete something because she's never felt wetter in her life, never felt pleasure burn so hot through her veins. But just as soon as it builds her up, it vanishes.

Rhysand pulls back, settling on his haunches. Nesta wants to protest at the loss of his mouth, but then her eyes fall on his cock, long and hard between his thighs. The beast's cock. It's even larger than his normal cock, those same midnight scales echoed across the top like ridges. And at the base, there's a slight swell. It's like nothing she's ever seen, and it has Nesta's toes curling in anticipation.

She gasps when Rhysand leans back into her space, the head of his cock dragging against her cunt, spreading the wetness there along his length. A sound somewhere between a groan and a growl rumbles from deep within his chest when he repeats the movement, and then the head of his cock is catching against her entrance, his hips shifting forward as he starts to sink into her.

Nesta's eyes practically roll back in her head, a hoarse cry pulled from her throat at the stretch. He has to continue to rock his hips, to feed her more of his cock a little at a time. Each time Nesta thinks he's bottomed out, he sinks deeper still. And each time Nesta thinks her body won't be able to handle his cock, it only seems to want more, to crave more.

The press of those ridges against the wall of her cunt is indescribable, the way they drag with each movement of his hips, how deep his cock reaches. By the time he finally bottoms out, it's too much. Her orgasm tears through her suddenly and with enough force that white spots pop behind her eyelids. She clenches down hard around his cock, her whole body seizing with the pleasure of it all.

And yet Rhysand doesn't stop.

As soon as he's bottomed out, he starts to build a brutal pace of hard and fast thrusts, the beast truly unleashed as he fucks into her. The over-stimulation is almost too much, and Nesta's fingers scramble against the rug, desperate to merely hold on.

"I… I can't…"

Rhysand growls in warning, silencing her protests. He never stops, his hips continuing to snap against her own. There's a ringing in Nesta's ears, mixing with the sounds of her own whimpers, of Rhysand's growls, of the wet sound of his cock filling every inch of her over and over and over.

Each forward snap of his hips has that bulbous part of his cock pressing and teasing against her clit. His knot, she realizes. It has her back arching, her toes curling, in anticipation. Too fast she can feel fires climbing higher and higher, and when Rhysand drives his hips forward one last time, his knot burying in her cunt, she screams.

She's never felt more full in her life, his cock buried so deep and his knot pressing against the walls of her cunt. She can feel the warmth as he floods her cunt with his release, feel the way some still escapes around his knot and drips beneath them. It has her cunt clenching and fluttering with the aftershocks of her own orgasm, really milking his knot.

She closes her eyes and all but melts into the rug with a quiet whimper while they wait for his knot to go down. Her entire body feels sore and wrung out in the best way, in a way that she knows she'll feel for days to come.

~ * * * ~

"So," Feyre asks, setting the tray of freshly baked treats down on the low table before taking her seat in the large armchair. "Do you think it worked?"

Cassian hums, picking up one of the pastries and taking a bite. "Oh, I'm sure that it's worked."

He thinks back to those nights spent together when he and Rhys and Az were still youths, thinks back to nights more recently spent with Nesta, and he can't quite bite back the smirk tugging up his lips. Can't help imagining what must be transpiring.

"But we should probably give it a few more hours before we risk going up to the House."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Fic/Author recs

A smallish list of fics/series/writers I’ve enjoyed spending my free time on that I hope you will too! 🧡💛

Anything with a * just means please check the warnings carefully!

Masterlist - @azrielhours Kink/angst-tober 2023 - @throneofsapphics

@azrielhours Waiting On A Ghost - Azriel x reader Lessons on Relief - Azriel x reader Captured - Azriel x reader

@c-e-d-dreamer My Heart Of Stone - Nessian

@velarisbynight Wrapped In Spider Silk - Azris Stone Statues and Viperous Hair - Ianthe x Elain

@witch-and-her-witcher lunch. - Morlain

@sarawritestories Come Here, Sweetheart - Cassian x reader

@azrielhours Company Of Phantoms | Our Marriage Bed - Azriel x reader

@whisperingmidnights Heart Of Velaris - Rhysand x reader Sunday Morning - Feysand x reader Sunlight & Shadow - Helion x reader x Azriel

@c-e-d-dreamer Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain) - Rhysta When We Howl, The Moon Will Cower - Nessian

@throneofsapphics Have Your Little Girlfriend - dark rowaelin x reader

@secret-third-thing And The Hounds Bayed* - Eris x hounds

@nocasdatsgay A Nest of Her Own - Neris

@daycourtofficial Azriel's Cat Cafe - Azriel x reader

Books A Little Life - Hanya Yanagihara* In Praise Of Shadows - Junishirō Tanizaki Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy Half Bad - Sally Green All The Light We Cannot See - Anthony Doerr Caraval - Stephanie Garber

Moth Masterlist dividers by @cafekitsune Autumn Court dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

[praetorqueenreyna]

Are we going to get the results of that survey soon?? No rush at all I'm just so curious!

omg HI and honestly thank you for checking in, it reminds me that people are actually stoked on the survey and want to see the results!

UNFORTUNATELY my life is very busy right now! I work a physically active (but VERY FUN) job for long hours. The last week of September I'm literally going to be at sea for 50 hours over 4 days 🤪 It doesn't leave me a lot of brainpower or time to sit on the computer. Also right now I'm devoting my computer time to finishing up content for Eris week and Rhysand week, so I haven't had time to work on the survey data.

ANYWAY! all that to say, my new estimated date for survey stuff is the end of October/ November. Feel free to keep checking in and asking questions!!

[wishcamper]

‧₊˚AO3 Masterlist‧₊˚

Nessian

𓆰♕𓆪 A Court of Vice and Victors - Acosf rewrite ft mental healthcare, emotionally intelligent Nessian, Illyrian rebellion, and IC reckoning. Current main longfic, ongoing. 29/40

𓆰♕𓆪 ACOVAV Bonus Chapters - Missing moments from my main fic, ongoing. 5/?

𓆰♕𓆪 smoke signals - modern thanksgiving AU, nesta and cassian bond over being problem children. Ongoing. 5/?

𓆰♕𓆪 My Sweetest Downfall - Samson and Delilah AU, angst with a happy(ish?) ending. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 Hands Down - Beach AU meet-cute with hot lifeguard Cassian. One-shot for now.

𓆰♕𓆪 Win Lose or Draw - Nesta and Cassian vacation in Day, Cassian is a simp for his wife. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 Is This It? - Toxic!Nessian acofas canon divergence, big ouch, big angst. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 Five More Minutes - Fluffy Nesta POV slice-of-life. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 High Stakes - Nesta runs an underground poker game and Cassian is still a simp for his wife. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 Out of the Fog, Into the Mist - Witcher!Cassian and sorceress!Nesta Witcher AU. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 i can picture it (after all these days) - Soft modern AU ft mental health struggles and questions about kids. One-shot.

𓆰♕𓆪 the choiceless hope in grief - ACOWAR missing moments when Cassian goes to visit Nesta at the HoW, and confronts more than he bargained for. Multi-chapter, 2/3.

𓆰♕𓆪 would it be enough? - modern AU songfic based on peace by TS. When Cassian gets down on one knee, Nesta has a question of her own. One-shot.

Gwynriel

𓆩♡𓆪 Dark Matter - Grad student AU ft neuropsych student Gwyn and insomniac Azriel. On hiatus. 1/?

Misc.

ʚ🔮ɞ Thicker Than Water - Nesta gets more than she bargained for when she asks Cassian about his past sexcapades. One-shot.

ʚ🔮ɞ Killing Amren - Killing Eve-inspired Nesta x Amren relationship post-acosf. One-shot.

ʚ🔮ɞ Ash From Your Fire - Angsty Rhysta AU where Rhysand finds a different Archeron on Fire Night. One-shot.