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harryspet · 6 months ago

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well kept [3] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, DUBCON, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: Pls reblog and let me know what you think! Thank you so much for all the feedback so far :)

word count: 4.5k

In which it's your first day working from home with Rafe and you have a new lesson to learn.

well kept masterlist

The Cameron residence was fifteen minutes outside of downtown Charlotte and situated in a large neighborhood where hills and huge oak trees hid all the houses. You didn’t really see his house, only what you could tell was large pond, until the driver was at the end of the mile-long driveway. When you did, you felt woefully underdressed. Assuming that being inside all day meant you could opt for something casual, you’d chosen a cream knit dress.

Following Rafe’s instructions, you sent him photos of each outfit you tried on, but he hadn’t told you which ones you could return. It was another blow to your confidence. You began to doubt whether he’d even been serious, but the fear that he might mention it the next day kept you from taking any chances.

Stepping out of the black Escalade, your eyes widened as you took in the architectural masterpiece before you. The house was a striking blend of traditional and modern styles, with a light-colored exterior contrasted by dark shutters framing the windows. A stone chimney rose from the roof, and the three-car garage with wooden doors added a rustic touch.

After your car drove away, a tall and impeccably dressed staff member named Anthony guided you up the stone-paved driveway. From your cheat sheet, you recalled that he was the House Manager. Rafe required a full team: Anthony, two housekeepers, a private chef, a driver, a gardener, and now you—his personal assistant. The inside of the house was as intimidating as the exterior. The expansive foyer featured high ceilings and a grand staircase that curved up to the second floor. To the left, you caught a glimpse of the formal dining room. Each room you passed was more impressive than the last. Anthony informed you that there were six bedrooms and eight bathrooms.

“I don’t usually work on Fridays but Mr. Cameron wanted me to give you a tour of the house and show you the ropes of house management. It’ll be important for you to be able to oversee the staff when I’m absent and understand the scheduling.”

Once again, it was all too much to take in. Today was your fifth day working for Rafe, and you’d barely survived until now.

“I want to clarify that what happened yesterday stays between us. That includes Eleanor. Okay?”

That was all he said about his outburst. There was no apology for groping you, for pinning you down on his office couch, or for taking your virginity. If you were to tell the story, you’d have to mention how your body had betrayed you—not once, but twice. But you had said no. You didn’t want to use the word that described what happened to you. You didn’t want to think about it at all.

And it didn’t happen again—not over the next three days. He continued to be harsh, forcing you to apologize for every small mistake, even those you weren’t aware of.

As you followed Anthony through the expansive kitchen, you couldn't help but marvel at its sheer size and sophistication. The kitchen was a chef's dream, with gleaming marble countertops that seemed to stretch endlessly, state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, and custom cabinetry in a rich, dark wood finish. An oversized island dominated the center of the room.

At the far end of the kitchen, massive glass-paneled doors stood, offering a glimpse of the world beyond. The porch was furnished with elegant wicker seating with plush cushions. The space was perfect for elegant parties, with enough room to accommodate at least a dozen guests.

Beyond the porch was a stunning infinity pool stretched out towards the horizon. As you walked closer, to the right, you took notice of a garden. You spotted the gardener, Tyler, who Anthony had mentioned earlier. In simple clothes, the young man blended easily into the scenery.

“This is where Mr. Cameron will typically entertain his guests,” Anthony said,

The beauty of the outdoor space was undeniable, but so was the control that permeated every aspect of it. You wondered what hand Rafe played in how spotless it looked. You could almost picture him, his jaw clenched and eyes blazing with a harsh intensity, if even the smallest detail were out of place. It was easy to imagine him demanding that every leaf, every petal, every stone be exactly where it belonged.

Did his staff ever make mistakes? Did he make them beg him forgiveness like he did with you?

“Shall I show you the study? It’s approaching seven-thirty.”

You nodded, a small smile on your lips. He was kind but part of you didn’t want him to hear your voice shake or your face contort into an uncomfortable position as you struggled to get your words out.

There would be enough struggling today, you knew that.

Surprisingly, Rafe’s home office was more quaint than you expected. Dark wood panneling decorated the walls as well as floor-to-celing bookshelves. As you made your way around the room, you took note of the picture frames containing images of what you believed to be his family. Here, it seemed he had a heart. The four of them stood on a dock, sun shining down, and his arms were wrapped a young girl with dark brown hair. His smile was genuine and there was darkness lingering in the blues of his eyes.

Other than the bookshelves, the room only contained his desk, a set of leather couches and a coffee table. The smaller room still managed to exude sophistication but it was far less imposing than you expected.

The room almost felt intimate as sunlight trickled in through light colored curtains. You were standing behind his desk, glancing out his office window which faced towards the nearby pond. Beside it, sat a gazebo, although you couldn’t imagine Rafe enjoying it. You wondered if he lived here alone as you saw no traces of the other three people in his family photo.

“Boo,” You yelped as you heard Rafe’s deep voice.

You placed a hand over your beating heart as you looked toward where he stood in the doorway. Having been deep in thought, you hadn’t heard the door opened. He knew that much which explained the amused look in his eye.

Everything flooded back at the sight of him. The air had already left your lungs. You felt his body pressing down on yours, warm breath against your ears, and that pain between your legs.

The door clicked shut, making you flinch.

“Good morning,” he said, his gaze fixed on you.

It hit you then, you hadn’t greeted him like you were supposed to.

You were taken aback by his appearance. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a plain navy t-shirt, a stark contrast to your heels and carefully applied makeup. You weren’t sure why you were expected to dress up, especially when he looked so casual.

“G-Good morning, Sir,” You crossed the room, his eyes locked on yours. You remembered where he liked you, near the door, ready to greet him and present yourself to him. You hated how your voice always betrayed you, how weak it made you sound. Your only saving grace was that you’d already memorized his schedule for the day, having spent the entire commute looking at your laptop. You recited it to him, including the midday Zoom call he had with Kelce and Topper.

Topper, you had learned, was Eleanor’s husband. Rafe hadn’t ever touched her but the way Eleanor always answered your questions with vague responses made you suspect that her relationship with Topper mirrored your own with Rafe. She hadn’t warned you but now you were suspecting that was because Rafe seemed to always get what he wanted, no matter who got hurt in the process.

You froze the moment his hand reached out to touch you. His fingers curled around your side, hovering just above your stomach but dangerously close to your breasts. His grip was surprisingly gentle as his thumb grazed over the fabric of your dress. You stiffened as his other hand mirrored the first, sliding across to the opposite side of your body. “Eleanor picked this,” he murmured, his brows knitting together as his gaze slowly traveled down your figure. A jolt shot through you as his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending a wave of panic coursing through you.

“Y-You don’t like it?” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He clicked his tongue, “Turn around for me.”

You did as he said, “Doesn’t do enough for your figure,” Your heart panged in your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious of your own shape, “Are you wearing the panties I sent you?”

All you could do was nod. Rafe never commanded you to wear the panties everyday to work but you didn’t risk it. Luckily, they were all comfortable despite the lace and cheekiness.

“Pull up your dress,” He said next.

You’d spent the last three days in a fog, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to understand why your body betrayed you. When you were younger, you always asked the universe why you couldn’t speak like the way all your friends at school did. Now you asked the universe why Rafe’s voice made you want to clench your thighs together. Why you had felt empty ever since he’d finished inside of you. Why you wanted to try again, to experience that intimacy again without so much fear. Your life was so simple before but now it felt like it was too late to turn back.

Your thoughts were too jumbled. Rafe cleared his throat and you realized you were just staring back, “I’m not gonna fuck you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Please-”

He rolled his eyes, “Don’t make me ask again.”

You squared your shoulders. “I’m nnn-nn-not comfortable—”

“Just do it.”

You reached down to the edges of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric to your waist. It was nothing he hadn’t already seen and yet you were shaking, “Turn around. Face the other way.” Like a robot, you obeyed. You’d chosen a light pink color today.

“Good,” You felt him against you. He pulled your hair back over your shoulder and leaned down against your ear, “Maybe I should make you walk around naked while you’re here, hmm?”

You bit down on your lip, wanting to contain the protest that was about to leave your mouth. You wanted to lean into his touch, to embrace the comfort that would accompany the torture. He brushed past you just as you tilted your head back, “Go make me a coffee,” He commanded.

He made his way behind his desk and you reached down to move your dress, “Did I say to pull your dress down?”

“N-No, Sir,” You moved your hands quickly to your sides.

“I could make you walk around like that, couldn’t I?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

He tilted his head and you realized you needed to answer. You gave him a painful look. You could say no but what would it cost you, “I . . . I don’t know,” He wasn’t satisfied by your answer, clearly. It was torture to force the words out, “Y-Yes.”

“Right answer,” He said, “Pull down your dress, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help but see the irony in the fact that despite that you upgraded to a salaried job, you were still making coffee for the rich and spoiled. The opulent kitchen had an even fancier coffee machine than his office. Your movements as you prepared his steaming mug of coffee were precise despite the turmoil in your mind.

Searching for solutions, your mind landed on the idea of trying to assert your competence. Sure, you could make a great cup of coffee but the whole point of getting a real job was so that you could have real skills to market yourself. You could be perfect at this job, anticipate his every need, and you could more than an object to look at.

You re-entered his office quietly after realizing he’d begun his first meeting of the day. Carefully, you set his coffee down on the edge of his desk. He was always so intense, so completely absorbed in his work, and that unwavering focus made you even more anxious. Maybe that’s how you should be, more composed, projecting an air of confidence.

Unsure of where you should settle, you made yourself comfortable on one of the leather couches. You checked your email on your laptop, finding several reminders from Eleanor. You found yourself frustrated by how she picked and chose what information to share with you but you balanced those feelings with the fact that she was often your saving grace.

She gave you a list of tasks including arranging for a delivery of documents that needed to be signed by Rafe, confirming his dinner reservations for the night, and proofreading the notes you took from yesterday’s meetings. You told yourself by the end of the next week, you’d be able to handle things by yourself, and you wouldn’t have to lean on her so much. You’d have a day, eventually, where Rafe didn’t point out anything you did wrong.

“I was thinking-” Rafe’s voice cut through the silence. You were so focused that you hand’t realized his meeting had ended. He folded his hands over each other, his eyes on you, “From now on, I want you to wear what I pick for you each day.”

“How …y-you’re not happy with what I’ve been choosing?”

“It’s not about not being happy. Now I have more of an idea of what I like on you,” His voice was smooth and authoritative, “You want to reflect my taste, my standards, yeah?”

You mustered the courage to ask your next question, “Can I-I dress a l-little less … formally when I work at home with you?”

“Less formally?” He tasted the words on his tongue, “You mean, like more casual?”

“Yes, Sss-sir. Like more comfortable.”

“We could experiment with that,” His tone was deceptively light, “On my terms though. Yeah?”

You nodded and were grateful that he hadn’t reacted lightly. He seemed to enjoy that you were asking him for permission.

“You’ll have to wear something different tonight though, for dinner. Eleanor is coming by towards the end of the day to bring you your outfit and take you to get your nails done.”

“Oh,” Your eyes opened wide, “I-I thh-thhought it was more of a personal-”

“I won’t keep you out forever,” He said, “You got plans or something?”

You shook your head quickly, “No, Sir.”

Rafe worked through lunchtime, so you brought him the meal prepared by his chef, Stevie—an elegant older woman with blonde hair. She had made a pesto pasta salad that looked like it belonged in a gourmet magazine, despite your protests and insistence on eating your own packed lunch. Only after delivering the meal did Rafe grant you permission to take your break elsewhere.

You settled on the outdoor patio by the pool, enjoying the peacefulness of the space despite the distant, steady hum of a lawnmower. For a moment, you didn’t feel out of place. Your dress, though apparently unflattering to your figure, was worth a small fortune, and the gourmet lunch you were now enjoying was a far cry from the PB&J you’d packed.

Thirty minutes later, after finishing your lunch and enjoying a lengthy chat with Stevie, you reluctantly headed back upstairs. Hearing Rafe still on the phone, you decided to explore a bit more. His office was situated in the private wing of his house, and as you meandered through opulent corridors, you couldn’t resist sneaking a glance into the master bedroom. It was cozier than you had anticipated, with tall gray walls that gave it a masculine feel and a plush bed draped in navy linen blanket that created a snug, cocoon-like atmosphere.

Rafe ended his call a minute later and the afternoon wore on. You settled into a rhythm, completing the various tasks that you’d added to your own to do lists and ones he’d assigned to you. You spent some time organizing files in his office. His gaze burned into you, even more when you were turned around, and surprisingly, you were starting to get used to that unnerving feeling.

He waited for you to make a mistake but you used a hundred-percent of your effort to make sure that didn’t happen.

The clock inched towards the evening, and the day grew even more quieter, more intimate. “I was looking over your notes from yesterday’s meeting with the board members. I highlighted some sections for you to read back to me,” He waved you over, his voice gruff after a long day of talking. You joined him behind his desk and you moved to lean over and get closer look, but he placed a hand on your hip. The gesture was firm, possessive, leaving no room for hesitation. With effortless strength, like a wolf guiding its prey, he maneuvered you onto his lap, settling you on his thigh. You felt the power in his grip, the unspoken control, and all you could do was comply.

“Rafe–” You started, an desperate attempt at a protest.

“Start with the first section,” He commanded, his grip tightening.

“I’ve been working on proofreading them–”

“Sweetheart,” He warned, not needing to add that you were making him angry. You could feel it, the heat coming off of him.

You took a deep breath and slowly tried to read each sentence. Even if you didn’t have a sentence with a small typo, you still stammered over several of your words. He slid the chair closer to the desk and you yelped.

“See right here,” He pointed to the screen but that only pressed him into you. You breathed slowly, trying not to hyperventilate, “This whole section needs more detail. I don’t want to have to ask more information.”

You were taken aback when Rafe actually began to instruct you on what you were meant to do. He spent at least ten minutes walking you through each sentence, explaining how to word your report, and deleted all the unnecessary details you added. He was surprisingly patient.

“Now, your turn,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair. For a moment, you thought he was letting you up, but the pressure of his hand on your waist told you otherwise. “Fix it.”

You swallowed, hesitating as your fingers hovered over the keys. Ever keystroke was amplified in the quiet room. Doing your best to actually use your brain, you carefully made the changes he suggested. He watched you closely, his hands first placed on your hips but soon one wandered between your thighs.

“Good,” He said. You could do it again, you thought, and not be so scared. His touch was teasing, a reminder of what he could do to you, all the pressure that built inside of you a spilled over. You could impress him, you could be beautiful, and not turn into a crying mess when he was inside of you. You could be more than a fragile thing to be broken.

Each word was a small victory. It was a battle you thought you could win until his fingers slipped inside your panties and his other hand grabbed a handful of one of your breasts. It was unbearable, and as he made small circles, you found your fingers slipping clumsily over the keys.

You pressed your palms into his desk, your body tilting forward. A frustrated sigh left your lips, you couldn’t contain it, and Rafe’s chuckle rumbled from behind you, “Do you ever touch yourself like this? Be honest with me this time.”

“Y-Yes,” You whispered.

“How do you do it?” He pulled you away from the desk, pulling your torso against his, “You use a toy?”

“J-Just my fff-fingers,” You admitted.

“Like this? How do you like it?” Carefully, he switched between different approaches. He rubbed circles over your clit, smaller ones and then slower, bigger ones. Then he stroked you up and down, fingers slipping easily into your warm hole as he wandered lower, “You put those little fingers inside of you?”

“Rafe, please.”

“Tell me,” He kissed the side of your neck, “Or I’ll stop.”

"I-I don't usually put them inside… ," you confessed, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I always use my pillow…”

He hummed against your ear. "See how much better this is when you cooperate? You can be such a good little assistant when you try."

You nodded, unable to speak, and let the feeling consume you. He brought you right to the edge, you were seconds away coming undone, but his movements slowed. Before you could register the feeling as disappointment, Rafe was hoisting you off of his lap.

Moving with sudden determination, your feet were suddenly off the ground and Rafe was carrying you out of the room in his strong arms, “Rafe!” You clutched his shoulders as he carried you down the hall.

You turned your head as he nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, the heavy thud of the door slamming shut reverberating through the room. With a swift motion, he laid you gently on the bed. The softness beneath you was just as you had imagined, but the thought barely registered. You shot him an incredulous look, your face flushed with a mix of pleasure and frustration.

He leaned over you, grabbing a pillow from behind you and placing it in front of you, “Show me.”

You shook your head instantly and moved to crawl away. Somehow, you could let all of his other sleazy behavior slide by but this was an insane boundary for him to try to cross. He’d already been inside you and yet this was a thousand times more intimate.

He grabbed ahold of your thigh, “You’re so close, sweetheart. I know you want it,” He challenged you, “Probably feels like you need it.”

“Please,” You tried, your voice threatening to crack. His hands found your hips again, slowly positionin you over the pillow. The soft fabric brushed against your most sensitive spot, the familiar sensation making you bite down on your bottom lip, “Rafe.”

“You saying my name like that just makes me want it more,” Balancing on his knees, he grabbed ahold of your face and leaned in to kiss you. You felt the intensity of his desire, how much he wanted this, and it left you dizzy.

When he pulled back, he looked over you. Your hips started moving in a familiar motion despite your embarrassment. You trembled from the vulnerability, the pounding in your chest, but you chased that high he gave you. It ignited your fire again, and since you didn’t have the full force of his touch anymore, you focused your eyes on him, “Good girl,” He said again and you whimpered, “Look at me just like that.”

You rolled your hips harder, faster, imagining his kiss, his touch, as the tension coiled tighter inside you. His gaze never left yours, his words a constant stream of encouragement and control.

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

His words all jumbled together.

“Just let it happen.”

“I want to see your face when you cum, sweetheart.”

“You look so desperate.”

“So needy.”

“You’re gonna make yourself cum, huh?”

“Just because I told you too.”

“Such a good girl.”

“Look at you.”

The words pushed you over the edge, finally, and you were able to let go. He watched as you rode out that wave of pleasure and his hands found your body again, his grip grounding you. “Fuck,” You heard him say but you couldn’t respond.

You were too overwhelmed to respond, your mind unable to fully process what had just happened. All you knew was that you felt good, embarrassed, and strangely satisfied that you'd pleased him, all at once.

When you manage to look at him again, the doorbell rang.

Eleanor navigated through the upscale nail salon, a palace of white and silvers, with ease, like she was a regular, and this was just an extension of her universe. You imagined this place as an escape for her, from both Rafe and Topper. She secured side-by-side seats near the back of the salon and you followed her lead as she set down her purse and removed her sandals. Her movements were fluid and assured.

“Have you thought about what color you want?”

“Oh, um, n-no,” You tried to make yourself comfortable in the pedicure chair, “What d-do you think Rafe would like?”

“Maybe something pastel. You can’t go wrong with a soft pink.”

“Is that what you’re getting?” You asked, unassured, as you glanced around the luxurious setting. It wasns’t like other nail salons you’d been to where the technicians and customers talked at whatever volume they liked. It was quiet and each technician wore matching black uniforms.

“I’ll tell them you want ballet slipper on your nails and white on your toes.”

You nodded, grateful for her guidance, “Thank you.”

As your pedicures began, the warm lavender-scented water soaking your feet, two technicians took their places by your sides, working silently as they filed your nails.

“How are you holding up?” Eleanor asked.

“Fff-fine,” You said, “I’m trying to . . . t-to understand him, I guess.”

“You’ll go crazy doing that,” She laughed lightly, flashing a look that said “poor you”.

“How d-did you meet Topper?” Her face tightened at your question, “I mean, y-you didn’t say.”

“I’m from the same town as them, Rafe and Topper. Not really the same town, my parents didn’t have money growing up. But I worked at the country club they all went to. That’s how I met Topper.”

“And you started dating?”

“Something like that,” She made a small shrug, “I owe everything I have to them.”

You nodded, sensing the weight of her words despite the lack of detail. Another piece to the puzzle you were trying to put together. Maybe the two of them had an attraction to girls struggling to get by.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” She asked and it made you pause.

Your instinct was to mirror her shrug, but you hesitated, wondering if you could trust her with your thoughts. If anyone could understand what you were going through, it had to be Eleanor. “I-I just ffff-ffeel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve only heard good things.”

“A-About me?” She nodded and your lips parted in shock.

“Yes. I know you feel uncertain right now, but I think you'll be glad if you can stick it out. Topper… he’s a bastard, but he takes care of me. Rafe likes you too. Maybe he doesn’t know how to show it, but…” She paused, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “He’s filthy rich. That would be enough for me.”

In that moment, her brutal honesty felt almost like reassurance. You weren’t sure if Eleanor truly grasped the extent of Rafe’s inability to show affection, that his pleasure came from humiliating you, from making you cry. Just as you couldn’t fully know what she endured with Topper. Her words weren't necessarily comforting but at least they felt real.

Please reblog WITH your thoughts on the chapter to be added to the taglist for the story :)

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southernexposurewindowcoverings · 2 years ago

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kcmo-zonarosa · 1 year ago

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greenscapestllandscapingand · 6 months ago

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shallyne · 2 years ago

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And the first night that you saw me I knew I wanted your body

Hello! This is my fic for the Feysand Writing Circle and my angst fic that I promised y'all of we reach a certain follower milestone. I hope you enjoy! Please heed the trigger warnings

Words: 7,088

TW: graphic mentions of violence, explicit sexual content, murder, serial killer, arson, blood, torture, mentions of domestic abuse, trauma, mental breakdown, mention of a panic attack, THIS FIC IS DARK

Feyre is a serial killer, Rhys is an arsonist. Feyre thinks Rhys seeks proximity to piss her off but their life's are more intertwined than she expected.

It was a beautiful Thursday morning. The sun was shining, the sky was clear of any clouds and it was comfortably warm. Feyre opened the windows wide, letting a wind breeze ruffle through her hair before she went to the bathroom to get ready. She quickly showered, dried herself off and slipped into a beautiful lilac dress. The one without blood splatters. She left her window open as she got her purse and her keys, and left the house. It was a beautiful house she lived in. Painted blue with white shutters and a wrap-around porch. Hopping down the three steps from her porch, she walked through her front yard past all the beautiful flowers she had planted over the three years she was living here. A quick look into her mailbox told her that it was empty, so she opened the gate of her white picket fence and stepped into the street, waving at her neighbor Stryga who was eating breakfast on her porch, she nodded back in greeting. Feyre didn't use her car, she never did when she went into town. It was only a matter of a few minutes by foot until she reached the cute Café with the pink exterior. Smiling brightly, she ordered her usual. A coffee and a cinnamon roll and took a seat.

As the older lady brought Feyre her breakfast, her eyes went sad. "Did you hear about Polina? That poor girl went missing a couple of days ago. Her family is out of their mind worrying about her. I pray for her safe return." the old woman shook her head sadly.

Feyre put a hand over her heart, "I can't imagine what they must be going through. That's horrible. I am sure she will get back soon."

The woman nodded and sighed as she looked back to the counter where the next customer waited, "I have to go back to work, sweetheart. Enjoy your breakfast." she told Feyre, squeezing her shoulder.

As the lady turned her back towards Feyre, she had to suppress a smile, taking a sip of the delicious coffee. It would be a miracle if Polina came back as she was buried deep in Feyre's backyard.

As the morning went on, customers came and left while Feyre took her time to savor the taste of her coffee and the cinnamon roll. Her eyes found another customer across from her, an old man, who read the newspaper. Her eyes were fixed on the front page with the news of a house fire. No survivors. Feyre rolled her eyes, that was Rhysand’s doing no doubt. While Feyre preferred to use her own hands to kill, seeing the eyes leave her victims eyes, Rhysand preferred to not get his pretty hands dirty.

She hated him. Despised that man with a burning passion. They had met about two years ago, while they both were on their way to dispose of bodies. He looked impeccable, of course, not a hair out place while Feyre was bloody and sweating. She remembered that she wasn't scared, she knew he wouldn't uncover her because he was doing the same thing as her but even the possibility of him exposing her to the cops sent a thrill through her. Feyre had expected that they would go on with their lives, ignoring the other, until he smirked at her and from that day on he stole Feyre's kills, just because he could. He also started to get rid of his own victims near Feyre, showing her that he was always close. This fire was no doubt no different.

Her eyes strayed back to the newspaper, then to the clock that hung above one of the coffee makers and sighed. It was nine in the morning but maybe she should pay Rhysand a visit right now. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. Feyre retrieved her purse and left the money on the table, including a generous tip.

If it wasn't for the newspaper article, she hadn't known for sure that Rhys would reside in his residence at the outskirts of the city but for some reason that Feyre wasn't aware of, Rhys liked to stay here shortly after his murders.

It wasn't hard to find his house, while all of the neighboring houses were painted some color of the rainbow, Rhys's was painted black. Fixing the strap of the purse on her shoulder, she opened the black metal gate and walked the pathway up to his house. Her brows scrunched in confusion when she reached the front door, which was ajar. Careful not to make a sound she opened it and went inside on silent feed. A crashing sound came from her side, Feyre followed that sound, into the kitchen. It was empty to her right, where the dining table sat in front of floor to ceiling windows that let the morning light in. To her right stood a muscular man with golden hair. Hair that was familiar to Feyre and not familiar at all. For a second her spine locked as she thought her ex-boyfriend Tamlin was standing there but the tattoo on his bicep told Feyre that it was his brother. On the opposite wall of him was a big, red spot but Feyre quickly realized that it wasn't blood. It seemed like some kind of…sauce. A deep groan brought Feyre back to the scene, Rhysand's deep groan. Tamlin’s brother looked down, he was grimacing if Feyre made it out right from her point of view. Every thought eddied from Feyre's mind as the guy spoke, "You're a dead man, Rhysand."

Feyre felt her stomach clench and a wave of possessiveness hit her so strong that she grit her teeth so hard she was worried they would crack. You're a dead man, Rhysand. Feyre's hand shook from anger, he would not take her kill. Never. She would never let that happen. His back was to Feyre, he was so deep in his hatred that he didn't hear Feyre sneaking up behind him. He was so deep in his hatred that when he raised his gun, he didn't hear Feyre draw the knife out from the knife block. Tamlin’s brother was towering over her but that had never scared her. In a quick maneuver she grabbed his hair, pulled him down to her and slit his exposed throat before he could even tighten the grip on his gun. Feyre kicked the gun away that he let go of as he fell to the floor, gasping for air and grasping his own throat as he choked on his blood. Feyre would have been delighted to rip his head off but she stepped over him, letting her eyes finally wander to Rhys.

He propped himself up on one elbow, squinting up at Feyre before his eyes went wide. He had a wound on his temple, blood running down his cheek, to his jaw way down to his exposed chest. Rhys wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of black sweatpants. Feyre let her eyes only roam over his abs for a moment before she locked eyes with him again and if she didn't know better, she could have sworn that his breath hitched.

Sighing, she put her purse on the kitchen island and walked over to him, bending down to snake an arm around his waist. Rhys slightly slumped, so Feyre said, "Don't sleep yet, be cooperative."

He groaned as Feyre helped him up, supporting his weight on Feyre as she brought him up to his bedroom. Slowly, she helped him lower himself on his bed, "Stay here." she told him.

Rhys closed his eyes as he slumped into his pillows, the only response a silent, "Mhm." which was good enough for her. She went into his bathroom, sighing through his cabinets until she found a small first aid box and held a cloth under warm water until it was soaked. Wringing it out, she took the stuff and went back to Rhys and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. Fortunately, he was already asleep so he would shut his mouth as Feyre looked at his wound. It wasn't bad. He would probably have a headache for a few days but that would be the worst of it.

Softly, she wiped away the blood from his temple and then applied the salve from the kit, followed by the bandaid she put on the wound with familiar precision. Feyre's finger accidentally brushed Rhys's jaw, leaving blood on her finger tap. She watched Rhys, watching his chest raising and lowering as she slowly raised her finger to her mouth, licking the blood away. Ignoring the way her heart beat faster, she took the cloth again and wiped away the blood on his cheek down to his chest. Rhys didn't stir once.

She put the first aid kit back and left Rhys's bedroom. On her quest to find something like a tarp, questions flooded her mind. What was Tamlin’s brother doing here? It can't be because of some unfinished business with Tamlin, he died a long time ago, which was Feyre's doing of course, and he would have come much sooner if it was business. Although trying to find any logic concerning this family would probably end up nowhere with a big, fat headache. It had to be something personal then. But why did Rhys not fight back? Tamlin’s brother didn't have any bruises and Rhys was better than that, Feyre knew it. Finally finding a plastic sheet which was big enough, she went back to the kitchen. Grunting as she rolled his heavy body on it and wrapped him in, Feyre remembered that Tamlins told her about his brother who suffered from psychosis. It made sense, she supposed, if he thought he counted one and one together and blamed Rhys for Tamlin's missing, but in his case the result was three. Sighing, she opened the pantry door and pulled the body inside, waiting until nightfall to bury him.

She then continued to clean Rhys's kitchen, getting rid of the pool of blood on the floor and the nasty spot on the wall. At least she was right, it was sauce.

Done with cleaning, Feyre washed her hands one, two, three times before she went upstairs again to look after Rhys. He was still fast asleep as she stalked closer, taking a seat at the edge of the bed again as before. Her head tilted to the side as she watched him. His face looked relaxed for once, peaceful even. Everytime she saw Rhys there was always something tense about him, as if he was wearing a mask. Now he looked anything but, he looked vulnerable and Feyre didn't know how she felt about that.

As Feyre's hands moved to Rhys's chest, she shook off all the feelings besides anger and hatred. There wasn't any place to be confused, she had made her choice a long time ago and there was no turning back. She could feel Rhys's heartbeat below her fingertips, counting it for a few silent minutes until she let her finger drift downward, from his chest over his stomach, imagining to cut him open someday. Yes, one day when they were done playing their games she would.

Suddenly, Rhysand's hand moved to rest right above Feyre's. Surprised she looked up at him, to find his eyes deep blue, almost violet, eyes fixed on her. His fingers tightened on her hand, "Why?" he croaked.

Feyre patted his cheek with her free hand. "I figured you don't have the guts, Mr. watching-from-a-distance." She put on a fake grin but Rhys just kept staring, so intensely that Feyre had to look at the wall behind him, out of the window. Still, she felt his gaze on her. Something snapped in Feyre when she looked at him again, their gazes locking. She leaned forward, so close that she could feel his breath on her lips, never breaking his stare, and told him honestly, "You're mine." he made a move to lean back but Feyre cupped his face in her hand, "You're my death to claim, Rhysand and I will get rid of anyone who even tries to lay a hand on you. Someday you will die and it will be by my hands." her voice turned to a growl towards the end. Rhys's eyes softened which made Feyre lean away. "Stop looking at me like that, I just threatened you." he didn't answer, only tightening his grip more. Feyre rolled her eyes, "Why didn't you fight back?"

Rhys dragged a hand through his raven black hair, finally looking away, "He sneaked up on me. I was…distracted."

"Distracted with what?" she asked. This was unusual, Rhys wasn't one to get easily distracted. He was aware of his surroundings like no other.

Rhys was silent for a few moments, "The fire." at Feyre's confused look he told her, "I usually make sure that just specific people are inside but…a servant died."

"What?" Feyre snorted. "Since when do you care about who dies?"

He let go of her hand and abruptly sat up, watching her. His eyes roved over her a few times, as if he's trying to solve a riddle. Then he cocked his head, a lock of his hair falling into his face, "You never figured it out?"

"Figured what out?"

Rhys shook his head, standing up. Feyre echoed that movement. He didn't look back as he walked to the bathroom, "Thank you for…helping me. I can manage alone now."

Feyre blinked, baffled. "Do you need help with the body?"

"I'll take care of it later. Enjoy your day." he said, closing the door.

Confused, Feyre stood there for a few moments listening to the running water in the bathroom. Then she walked out, taking her purse from the kitchen and left. What did he mean? What should she have figured out? Why did he care? Did he now act like he had a conscience? It would be nothing but a lie, they were both monsters. They would both go to hell, he isn't better than her. Why was he so cryptic all of a sudden? What changed? And why did he look at her like that? They never gave each other looks beyond recognition or anger or hatred but something was different today. She didn't know. Maybe it was his head. Yes, that's plausible. He got a hit to the head, he'd be fine soon.

She didn't realize that she went home until she stood at the front door. Shaking her head, she opened it and hung her purse on the coat rack and pulled off her shoes.

Her curiosity won and took the better of her as she retrieved her laptop and started searching. She pulled any of Rhys's cases in different tabs, trying to find similarities. Something they all had in common.

It took Feyre hours, it was late into the afternoon and she still didn't have a clue what Rhysand meant. The only thing that tied the cases together was fire. Rhys committed arson every single time but Feyre couldn't come up with a clue why fire would be relevant to Rhys, or her. As far as she knew he didn't have any history with fire before he started committing arson.

Rubbing her eyes, she stood up and walked to the kitchen, taking her laptop with her and placing it on the counter as she made herself tea. She was thinking but nothing made sense to her.

As she waited for her tea to cool down a little, her eyes flicked to the tab on her laptop again and fixed on a detail that she hadn't seen before. There was a picture in that article from the house that burned down and Feyre could see a playground in the back. Memories long buried down bubbled up again, as a headache started forming behind her eyes.

She couldn't remember how old she was but she could remember visiting that playground and there was a guy, taller, bulkier and definitely older than Feyre who had pushed her around. No one had helped her, not her mother who had looked away, not that boy's parents, who had only laughed at his antics. Feyre pressed her face in her hands, what was his name? Andras. Yes, his name was Andras. Feyre scrolled down until she found it. Oscar Flores, Edith Flores and Andras Flores died in the fire.

She opened the next tab, another fire that was undeniably Rhysands doing. A castle on an island in the west burned down, Brannagh and Dagdan Hybern died in that fire. Feyre grimaced at the memory of the twins, she was fourteen when she caught them making out in a storage closet. They had threatened her if she would tell anyone. She quickly opened the next tab, trying to forget this moment again before she threw up. She had buried that memory, glad to have forgotten about it. The next house she knew the best, having spent months like a prisoner on these grounds. A few months after Tamlin went missing, Rhysand had their whole grounds on fire. She remembered how she huffed when she read a newspaper article about that, shaking it off as one of Rhysands tantrums. Then she opened the newest article, a fire at the Vanserra estate. Beron Vanserra and his sons Silas Vanserra, Fallon Vanserra, Ash Vanserra and Eris Vanserra died in that fire, as well as their maid Alis Suvi. The brothers had followed her one winter evening on the order of their father because she had accidentally crossed their lands, Feyre had killed two brothers about half a year after that incident, Rhysand apparently had taken care of the rest of the family, except the youngest and the mother. Alis must be the servant that he hadn't expected to be there.

Feyre didn't need to look through the other cases, she knew what tied all these cases together. It was her. Rhysand had killed everyone who ever did her wrong. A weird flutter spread in her stomach area, a warmth spreading in her lower belly. No, that can't be. She doesn't feel anything. Feyre took a pack of crackers, ripped it open and stuffed it in her mouth, she was just hungry. That's the weird feeling in her belly. And the stress made her pulse race, her face flush. Hunger. Stress.

Is it? Or do you not hate Rhysand as much as you tell yourself?

"No!" she screamed, throwing the nearest object against the wall and covered her ears with a whimper. She wasn't made for these feelings. She was made to feel hatred, to feel rage. That's her sole reason to keep going. She was made to get revenge, she was made to be sure people around her would feel that same hatred at this goddamn world, at the universe, at god. It was the only reason that kept her going. Something wet dripped on her arm, Feyre looked up in confusion but it didn't come from above her. Slowly, she raised her hand to her face, feeling her wet cheek. Was she…crying? Impossible. She hadn't cried since she was thirteen years old. No, she shouldn't, she couldn't cry. She left that part of her in the past. Slow, so slow, she let herself slide down until she was laying on the floor. Sobs wrecking through her, tears staining her cheeks.

Feyre didn't know how long she lay there, it must have been a while because since late afternoon it had already turned dark outside.

Swallowing, she pushed herself up, her legs suddenly feeling weak. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't develop feelings for Rhysand. Long ago, she had built a thick wall around herself, protecting her from these feelings, because she was a monster. A beast, undeserving of love, as her mother had told her. Feyre had proven her mother right, she became a monster.

Not realizing she walked towards the door, her thoughts overcoming her like a storm. She killed for fun, didn't she? She didn't have a pattern, she thought as her feet led her in the direction of Rhysands house. Or did she have a pattern? Anger. But what ignited her anger? It was definitely different forms of anger that had driven her to kill Tamlin and the anger that had driven her to kill Polina. Tamlin had raised his hand one too many times when Feyre finally had snapped but with Polina…it was jealousy. Polina had a family that loved her, siblings that cared for each other, parents that were proud of her. She had the life Feyre wanted. Feyre could still feel the tears threatening to spill when she came to a sudden stop. There was a bar on the way to Rhysands house and his car was parked in front of it. What was he doing here? Did he already get rid of the body? Feyre wished she had looked at the clock before she left because she didn't have a clue about the time, it was definitely after ten.

Wiping over her face, she walked towards the bar, didn't pay any mind to drunks and entered. The bar was relatively dark, most of the interior was wood and the yellow lights didn't do much to lighten up the space. It wasn't as full as it would have been on a Friday evening but there were definitely enough people that Feyre had to scan the crowd until she found Rhys. He was leaning on a wall near the bar, talking to a blonde. Feyre froze in the middle of the bar, her hands starting to shake with rage and her breath catching when she put a hand on his biceps. Mine.

Feyre followed a big guy that was talking in their direction, a beer in his hand, and when he was close enough to the blonde, she pushed him. She bit down a smile when she heard a female yelp, followed by cursing but she already walked to the bathroom, hiding in a stall until she heard heeled steps closing in. After a few moments of rustling, Feyre left the stall, smiling at the woman. "Oh dear, what happened to your coat?" she asked sweetly, pointing to the big stain.

She smiled tightly, "Some idiot walked into me with his beer." she shook her head, "And then he had the audacity to tell me he was pushed."

Feyre rolled her eyes as she washed her hands, "Men." she huffed, turning around quickly, pushing the woman's purse from the counter. "Oh lord! Keep scrubbing your coat, I'll pick that up for you."

"It just doesn't seem to be my day." she said. Feyre rolled her eyes again, this time it was real annoyance. It will most likely be your last, whore, she thought as she slipped her wallet into the pocket of her dress and gave it back to the woman.

"We all have bad days," Feyre smiled. "Have a nice evening."

"I will," the woman said, her blue eyes shining. "I won't go home alone."

Feyre stiffened but forced a chuckle, restraining herself from choking the woman, "Good for you." she said and left the bathroom, squeezing into an alcove as she pulled out the wallet and looked at the woman's ID. Ianthe Arden. Feyre snorted as she threw her wallet in the trash. Count your time, Ianthe.

Rhysand

Rhys quickly ascended the stairs of Feyre's porch, taking two at a time. Feyre had called him a few minutes ago, telling him to come to her house immediately but she hadn't deemed to elaborate why. Her words seemed like she was in a rush but her tone was calmer than ever. He reached the door, which was already ajar. He started to panic but took a deep breath before he called out, "Feyre?"

He entered the house, closing the door behind him. She wasn't in the living room to the left, so he walked to the kitchen on his right. The tiles were checkered, black and white, the other colors kept in pastels. It was fitting and absolutely not fitting for Feyre at the same time. This was her mask. Rhys looked to the white door beside the kitchen counter, also ajar like the front door. "Feyre?" he echoed.

"Come down!" she chirped happily. Rhys stopped, for only a second, as goosebumps erupted over his skin. Something wasn't right. Maybe he was too sure that she wouldn't kill him? This was probably a trap. Rhys looked to the kitchen door, debating whether to run, then looked at the white door in front of him. Shaking his head, he grabbed the doorknob. They had played this game hundreds of times and if he would die at her hands today, so be it. Descending the stairs, he entered Feyre's basement. Stopping immediately as he sees her standing in the middle of the room, behind a chair where a woman sat.

Rhys blinked, that was the woman who had hit on him at the bar. How did Feyre know about her? Was she there? Rhys looked down at the woman, who stared at him with pleading eyes. Feyre had taped her mouth shut and tied her to a chair with rope. The woman tried to scream but it only came out muffled.

Rhys then locked eyes with Feyre. How had she found her? Did she know that she had cornered him at the bar? Did she know that he had left as soon as she went to the bathroom? According to the hatred that was written in her eyes, he'd bet she didn't know, but it wouldn't change anything either. Once Feyre Archeron made a decision, she didn't back down. "What is this?"

Feyres hands stroked over the woman's blond hair, "You and dear Ianthe seemed to have a lot of fun yesterday." she said, her eyes never leaving Rhys's.

He crossed his arms, "I hate to disappoint you but I wouldn't call it fun."

She cocked her head, her hands continuing to stroke over Ianthes hair. "I see." she said, her hands sliding down and fumbling with the rope. One of Ianthes hands flew to her mouth, ripping off the tape as tears slid down her cheeks, "Help-"

Feyre wordlessly slapped her hand away and put the tape over her mouth again, then gripped her hand. "I was there, you know?" She told Rhys. "When she touched your arm." she tapped Ianthes hand. Rhys swallowed when he realized what was about to do. She held Ianthes pointer finger in a steel grip as she started thrashing and whimpering and faster than Rhys could react, she had cut Ianthe's finger off.

"Feyre-"

Feyre's stare turned icy, rage simmering in those magnificent blue-gray eyes. "You watch, Rhysand, and see what happens when someone touches what's mine." she hissed, not looking down as she severed another finger.

Rhys wasn't frightened but his stomach churned at what he was witnessing. He had killed but never like that. But still he couldn't hate her, he could never hate Feyre. Whatever that said about him, he didn't know, but he liked it when she was possessive. He would lie if he said it wouldn't turn him on. He loved it when Feyre said he was hers.

Their gazes stayed locked as Feyre kept repeating it finger by finger and in her own twisted way, he saw affection glinting in her eyes.

The whole hand followed. Feyre smiled smugly. As Rhys was drowning out the sounds of Ianthe's whimpering, she seemed to enjoy it.

They stayed there for hours as Feyre kept torturing Ianthe and in these hours something between them changed. To some it would sound ridiculous but he felt like there was a bond between them, a golden thread binding them together.

Something changed when Feyre made the killing blow as she stared into Rhys's eyes.

Feyre

It seemed like Feyre was lighter, she was practically floating as Rhys and she walked through the forest at midnight, Rhys carrying the plastic bag as Feyre held the flashlight and her shovel.

"I don't think you have the right to judge me for setting these fires." Rhys broke the silence. Feyre had something like that slip on their drive here, but fortunately she shut her mouth before she could tell him that she knew why he set them. "You are the one with a torture dungeon!"

Feyre growled, the deep sound reverberating through the small tunnel they were walking through to get to the other side of the crossing. "I do not have a torture dungeon!" she snapped, shifting the position of the flashlight in her hand. "I have a basement!" she corrected, adding after a few seconds of silence, "With a few tools."

Snorting, Rhys stepped over a mud puddle, "Twist it however you want, you're still a hypocrite."

She was seething and debating for the twenty-seventh time this night to just take the shovel and ram it into his disgustingly beautiful face. "How about I go back and you can do this bullshit alone?" Rhys stiffened in front of her but kept quiet so Feyre said, "Don't mistake this for some kind of twisted friendship, Rhysand. I wouldn't care if some kind of bear jumps out of these bushes, slices up your stomach," It would be a shame for these abs, though, "and slurps your intestines like a bowl of spaghetti."

Rhys's shoulders shook. Was he laughing at her? Instinctively Feyre raised her shovel but took a deep breath and lowered it again, smiling herself. At some point her threats became banter and she honestly couldn't tell if Rhysand was prone to danger or just stupid. She didn't care, as long as he stayed.

When they found a good space to bury Ianthe, they started digging. Feyre let Rhys do the most, it was his fault that she had to kill Ianthe after all. It was a matter of hours until they were done, having Ianthe buried. Feyre sighed, leaning on a tree as Rhys stopped short before her. "What?"

Rhys raised an eyebrow, which Feyre could barely make out in the dark.

"Spit it out, Rhysand." she ordered. "Just ask."

"Why are you so angry?" he asked softly. Feyre's eyebrows shot up, then her eyes narrowed. Wordlessly, she stepped aside but Rhys trapped her between his arms, leaning in. "What makes you so angry Feyre?"

She was angry because he didn't let her go, he told him as much. He shook his head and it made her even more angry that he wasn't scared. "Do you know when I made my first kill?" She snapped. Rhys waited for her to continue. "I was thirteen. I saw how she slapped my sister across the face and it made me so angry that when I saw her alone in the evening, I killed her. I don't remember How I managed to bury her body, I was so weak back then," tears pricked her eyes, "But I managed and they never found her. After two years where was missing, my family held a funeral and they all acted like she was a saint. My father, my sisters, my aunt, my mother's friends. She wasn't! I-" breathing became difficult, and the tears began falling, "They mourned her! She wasn't a good person, Rhysand. She wasn't! I did them a favor and they were sad that she was gone but I was angry. I was so angry at her. She never treated me right but I could live with that, then I saw her with Nesta and my anger…it was overwhelming." she sobbed, trying to go away but Rhys's arms were still in the way. "And then these people have actually a loving family and I just – why couldn't I have this, Rhys? Why didn't my parents love me? If I, if," she shook her head, swallowing as her anger built up again. "If I can't have a family, they can't have one either. It's unfair!" she yelled. "It's so unfair!" she pressed her face in the crook of Rhys's neck and just sobbed. Slowly, his hands wandered to her back and rubbed soothing circles, the other holding her head. She didn't understand why he was still here but she didn't question him, she let him be there. She let him calm her down.

When the tears finally dried, she looked up at Rhysand. His face was so close that she could stare into his eyes, and still, after everything she told him, he looked at her with nothing but affection. Maybe they were both broken, in such different ways that they completed each other again. Maybe she did need Rhysand and maybe she wasted all her time denying her feelings for him.

Feyre swallowed as she cupped his face and then kissed him. He stiffened for a heartbeat, before he kissed her back, insistent and hungry, his hands gripped her waist and tugged her closer. Her heartbeat became a war drum, the fluttering in her stomach growing stronger as his tongue slid along her lower lip and she immediately opened for him. Rhys's hands cradle Feyres head to keep her close, sliding his tongue with hers. Something between a sigh and a moan escapes Rhys, making Feyre grabbing his shirt to keep him like this. She could feel the bulge in his pants on her stomach, making her grunt in satisfaction. Her hand slid under his shirt, finding their way in his pants until she was stroking his length. When his breath hitched, Feyre softly scraped her teeth over his bottom lip. He broke the kiss, sliding his mouth down to her chin, over her jaw and down to her throat. He met the sensitive spot where her shoulder and neck met, making her breath hitch. He chuckled, the sound reverberating across her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up. "Rhys," she croaked, her voice still hoarse from crying. His teeth scraped over her skin, until his mouth hovered above her shoulder and she bit. Feyre cried out, drawing her hand through his hair to keep his mouth there as her other hand, stroking him, picked up pace.

"Fuck," he muttered against her neck, his voice growing hoars as she gripped Feyre's wrist. "If you don't want me to come right now, you better stop,"

Feyre leaned back to look into his face and grinned, slightly pushing him forward. She didn't care how hard the ground was as they lowered themselves, she needed him then and there. She cursed as she fumbled with his belt, her usually steady hands now trembling, but she did it. Feyre's breath turned ragged as the fabric fell open and exposed his cock. Even though his size had her a little worried her mouth watered. "Feyre," he breathed, "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." she replied instantly, "I'm more than sure, Rhys, I want this more than anything."

Either it were her words or the tone but something undid Rhys and he didn't hesitate as his hands wandered under Feyre's skirt, ripping her underwear. He stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket. Feyre shivers as his hands slide back, over her thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps. His fingers found the apex of her thighs, feeling her slickness. "God," he groaned as he leaned forward, trailing kisses from her shoulder to her chest. "You're so wet."

Feyre whimpered as he put slight pressure on her clit but she leaned away, pushing Rhys on his back, "Later," she whispered, "I need you, Rhys, now," because this is what she had imagined in the late hours of the night, on the days where Rhys was especially aggravating. This was what she imagined when her hands slid into her sleeping shorts, moaning his name alone in the dark. She had never expected that she felt such a strong need with need, More than on these lonely nights. More than with any partner ever. She placed her hand beside his shoulder as she adjusted her position, and felt fresh earth under her fingers. A smirk spread on her face. They hadn't paid any attention to where they were positioned but it seemed like they landed on Ianthe's grave. She swallowed down a chuckle as her attention slid back to Rhys, his hands holding her hips as he adjusted her atop of him. She took him in slowly, Rhys's hands tightening on her hips and his breath turning ragged, until she was fully. She pushed up, gripping him a bit harder as she positioned him at her entrance. Mine.

Feyre must have said it out loud, as he growled, "Say it again."

She smiled, even though Rhys could probably not see it, but kept quiet until she was fully seated. "Mine." she told him, "You're mine."

She put her hands on his chest, digging her fingers as she adjusted to his fullness, the only sounds being their ragged breathing and the distant sounds of prowling animals. A thrill shot through Feyre, Once adjusted, she rolled her hips, both of them moaning at the friction. Steadily, they found their rhythm, together their breathing turned heavier. Feyre swore as Rhys thrusted into her, so deep that it left Feyre incoherent. Pleasure built up Feyre's spine, "Harder," she cried out, and Rhys obeyed. Feyre's eyes teared up as he pounded into her, her walls clenching around him.

Suddenly Rhys sat up, Feyre moaned as the angle changed, digging her nails into his shoulder blades. "Mine," she whispered into his ear. Rhys's hands wandered under her shirt, cupping Feyre's breasts. "Fuck, Feyre, you're the death of me," he muttered.

She felt the release crawling up her spine as she was riding him, "Rhys, I'm–" her words turned into a whimper as they became more frantic.

"I've got you, Feyre darling, let go," he rasped, brushing strands of her out of her face. The tension was unbearable, building up, and up, and up, until–

Feyre cried out as release gripped her, her vision fading to black, shattering into a thousand pieces. Rhys kissed her, drinking her in as she climaxed, shuddering as he found his own release.

They stayed like this, limp and catching their breaths, recovering from the orgasm.

Hesitant, they parted from each other. Standing up and fixing their clothes. Feyre found the flashlight and swung it towards Rhys as he fixed his pants. "Well that was…something."

He chuckled, picking up their shovels. "I can't say I ever had sex on someone's…well, grave."

Feyre smiled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Of course not." she said. "Come on, I don't want to stay here the whole night." she told him, trying to walk away as confidently as she could, still feeling weak in the knees and sore between her legs. Walking around tomorrow would be a blast, but that's a problem for her future self. Rhys followed her silently, their silence being comfortable but there was still a tension between them. That was also a problem for future Feyre, for now she was just exhausted and wanted to sleep.

As they drove back, Feyre had expected to feel regret for sleeping with Rhys but surprisingly, it didn't come. No, she still wanted more. She knew they just scratched the surface and hunger overcame her again so much that she had to turn away from Rhys, to not jump him.

After that, they didn't talk for the next week. Well, they did greet each other when they saw each other in town but they didn't seek each other out. Although she saw Rhys more than once pacing in front of her house, she would have invited him in if it wouldn't entertain her so much to watch him trying to build up the bravery to knock on her door.

Until he burst into her house a week later as she tried to find a place to hang her newest painting. It was solely made from Ianthe's blood and she was immensely proud of it.

"You do know I have a doorbell, right?" she asked him, leaning the painting against the wall.

He was out of breath, as if he ran to her. "They are investigating Ianthe's disappearance." A thrill shot through Feyre. Amazing. "Don't look so happy!"

"Rhys, they investigated for a lot of people I killed, don't worry." she told him.

He shook his head, "They found her wallet and they are examining it for fingerprints. Did you touch her wallet?"

Feyre shrugged. "Yeah I did. It's not a big deal, Rhys." he grunted annoyedly and she rolled her eyes. "What do you suppose I'll do?"

Rhys straightened and smiled at her, his deep blue eyes shining, "I'd like to know if you would go on vacation with me?"

Feyre was about to decline but he looked so hopeful that something warmed inside her. "Fine."

Rhys smiled brighter, "Okay, Pack! My private jet is already waiting."

Rhysand

Rhys frowned at the blood smeared painting that Feyre insisted on bringing. She knew she could be macabre at times and most of the time it didn't bother him but knowing that he watched Ianthe die and Feyre made art out of it, it wasn't one of his favorite thoughts. He couldn't tell her no, though. He couldn't decline her anything when she looked at him with her stunning, blue-gray eyes. Rubbing his chest, he turned around to see Feyre rubbing her thigh before she let herself fall on a lounger with a groan. She was still sore from the night before, which made Rhysand feel incredibly smug. Sighing, he took her Cocktail and walked to her, placing it on the table beside her.

"I can't believe you have your own island!" she said for the third time. "If you had told me that I would have instantly said yes."

Rhys snorted, "No you wouldn't."

Grinning up at him, Feyre giggled. "You're right, I wouldn't." she took his hand, pulling him down to sit on her lounger. "Just don't leave me here alone, I don't want to start talking to a ball."

Rhys smirked, his hand resting on her thigh. "I promise."

"Mhm," she hummed. "You make a lot of promises lately." she wriggled her finger with the sapphire ring in front of his face.

He took her hand and placed it above his heart. "And I'm planning to keep them all." he said and kissed her.

Oh damn shit I forgot the taglist

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @edgyellie @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25

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trompeloeilsl · 1 year ago

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kariachi · 1 year ago

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Who wants some bits about Erinaen construction?

Okay, first off, we have to delineate your average colony on Eri. Where is shit off the ground on average.

Businesses: 50-175 ft

Homes: 100-250 ft

Farms: 200-400 ft

Drying/Steeping: 300-500 ft

As you can see, there's some overlap, and of course where things are depends on where on Eri one is and what sort of trees are being used. But, in general, businesses are below homes, homes are below farms, and heat-positive production areas are out of the way of everything by putting them up high. Plus it allows for easier sun access so, you can sun-dry and steep things.

Now as for building-

In the higher areas- those used for farming, drying, and such- you're going to find smaller, freestanding buildings. These are actually more often woven from leaves, vines, bark, hide, whatever a bitch has. You'll see some made from branches and such nailed or tied together, but weaving is more common. Most of these constructions are flat platforms of various sizes depending on what's needed, alongside a lot of small buildings for housing livestock safely. You do also see hanging woven baskets used for steeping and fermenting juices into vinegar though. These are generally attached in one way or another to the branches of the trees they're in, either woven on, nailed on, even tied on. You'll sometimes see alcoves carved into the trunk itself, but this is less common higher up.

Homes, on the other hand, are always carved into the trunk of the trees they're in. Erinaens carve their homes into the heartwood of the trees they live in, and prefer these trees to have a thinner layer of sapwood, comparatively. They also prefer these trees to be at least 30 ft in diameter at the range for homes at at least 300 ft tall. It's trees that meet these specifications that are referred to as 'colony trees'. A tunnel will be carved through the bark and sapwood, large enough to walk through with kittens, and then the hollow of the home carved out of the heartwood itself. Windows are very small, really only for ventilation, and home will have only the one door. Doors are built sturdy, what with the whole 'prey species' thing, and typically carved in a single piece with a ventilation hole from the same heartwood as the home itself. Homes tend to be 100-250 sqft, measuring only primary floor space- secondary floor space can add half-again the space- and are always placed at the base of the branch.

Businesses are where things get more varied. They come in three styles- 1) hanging from lower branches, 2) free standing against the trunk, or 3) carved into the trunk.

Hanging buildings can be divided into what I'm going to call the Macrame Style and the Weaverbird Style. You may be able to guess the biggest difference right away. The macrame style is the rarer of the two. What's all but a solid mass of 2-inch fiber rope is woven around a low, thick branch, in a broad loop hanging down from it. A flat platform, like those used higher up in the trees but made in a sturdier fashion, is settled at the bottom to provide an even surface. The front and back are shut with individual weavings, which are tied up to provide a large throughway for customers and fresh air. Should a predator be spotted, these will be dropped and tied shut to create a secure space. Weaverbird style, meanwhile is exactly what it sounds like. Long, sturdy fibers are woven together around a low, thick branch and then expanded down to create a large basket form of construction. Again, a flat and sturdy platform is placed inside to provide an even interior surface. Unlike the macrame style this style has all its walls from the start, and a variety of smaller openings all around it which have exterior shutters. Depending on how low down they hang and how sturdy the branch is these buildings may have multiple levels of extra platforms hung from the walls and the branch. Interior ceilings are often treated to ensure waterproofing. Hanging businesses tend to be from 200 to 450 sqft- again only measuring primary floor space, secondary space can add up to 15% again- and are typically accessed either via walkways to their entrances, dropping down from through an opening in the ceiling, or foot- and handholds along their sides.

Free standing buildings, meanwhile, are made of sections of woven wattle reinforced on the interior with sturdy branches that double as storage. These will often be built between a few branches and attached to them for support. Sometimes they'll even be built around them, depending on the tree. There will normally be multiple points of entry, each with a sturdy door made of branches, that will be opened or closed depending on things like the weather and whether there's been predator sightings. Flooring is normally the same platforms as used in hanging buildings, but not built to be as sturdy, since it's normally built on top of a thick branch to carry a good portion of the weight of those inside. Roofs will be normally be some form of thatch, shape varying with area though Erinaens tend towards rounded buildings so, take it into account, though in some cases if a thick enough branch or burl rests over the building that may be utilized as a functional roof. They're more likely to be built higher up than hanging businesses, and match carved businesses for likelihood to be seen at home level. Depending on the branch arrangement these buildings can be as small as 100 sqft and as large as 600 sqft- secondary floor space adding up to 20% again- and are always accessed via a branch.

Hanging and free standing buildings both often have stained interiors.

Carved businesses, meanwhile, are built in the same manner as home with three exceptions. 1) They're never carved into colony trees, you will always find them in the non-colony trees within the colony. 2) They can be much larger, though the larger the carved businesses the fewer you find per tree. Some will even have carved away a whole towering section of the center of the tree, most commonly in trees with very thick sapwood. 3) They'll have no windows, but will be positioned to have at least two openings, with all openings, again, leading onto a branch. These businesses vary widely in size, from 100 sqft to 1000 sqft, with secondary floor space adding anywhere from half-again the floorspace to multiple times the floor space. The largest interior space on Eri is a carved business reaching 72 ft from primary floor to ceiling, buttressed with bridges carved out of the heartwood. Each bridge takes up about half of the space of it's 'floor' of the space, with six floors, at 2,639 sqft of floor space in total.

Carved properties never have stained interiors, out of respect for the tree and to help maintain its health. The sapwood in these properties is also always treated by specialist necromancers before the building is moved into, and retreated each year in spring, to ensure the tree's health.

Carved and free standing buildings are most often used by necromancers in the medical field, as they provide easiest access.

Doors on Eri rarely lock from the outside. Theft of property isn't really as big a deal to Erinaens, few are worried about somebody breaking in while they're out, but predators exist and are Big. More commonly doors'll be barred from the inside, either with the door at the inner end of the access tunnel and barred with a large piece of heartwood in holders carved from the Heartwood, or at the outter end of the tunnel, in which case it will be barred via a deep groove in the sapwood. In the latter case the sapwood will typically be carved more deeply before reaching the door in the space from the waist up, and there'll be a slot in the sapwood to place the barring piece of wood when the door isn't locked. Doors don't hinge, but are pushed outwards or pulled inwards using handholds on the inner side and placed in a groove in either the floor or the the bark of the tree. In some areas you'll see outside opening doors placed in grooves in the branch outside, but this is fairly uncommon. Such things are more often used for water collection.

Most places on Eri don't have interior bathrooms. Bathing spots are carved into trees, typically with a large basin carved into the floor and a carved shut and water capture system to fill the basin with rainwater and another chute sytem to drain the thing when it gets too dirty. These are public use and a job is literally cleaning and maintaining them. These, as with most public system on Eri, are funded by 'donations' and a willingness of the people who do the work to just not do it if they don't have enough. As far as taking a dump is concerned, on Erin it's still generally an outhouse system. There'll be two to four 'edges' of any given tree that are designated for toilet purposes and small, free standing outhouses will be built on branches on these edges. They're carefully positioned not to line up with any paths, businesses aren't built to open onto those edges, and each outhouse is positioned to have a clear path down to the forest floor, a path which is meticulously maintained. These buildings are typically either woven or built of the same panels as free standing businesses, generally positioned at the fork of a branch, with only one entrance as a woven panel door. Inside you'll find a seat going around the hanging edge with multiple sizes of covered holes. You uncover the one your size, sit down, do your business, cover it back up, and go back on your merry way. These holes open directly down. Paths leading to the outhouses are more likely to be covered then those that aren't, in more thatched roofing. While public baths are often 200 sqft, sometimes bigger, outhouses don't generally get more than 30 sqft.

Please keep an eye on small children while in the outhouse, it's a really easy way to lose a baby.

Exterior movement around the colony involves a lot of free climbing, but also Erinaens are masters of living bridges and suspension bridges utilizing rope and branches. Most major byways getting from tree to tree are living bridges from from encouraging branch growth in certain directions and shapes, while more minor byways and movement between branches on a tree utilize suspension bridges. There's no additional effort put into helping the free climbing, as Erinaens are evolved for free climbing trees and Eri trees typically provide plenty enough hand a footholds themselves. Interior movement is mostly done through ladders and free climbing via added foot and hand-holds, though larger interior spaces like the one mentioned above may also have suspension bridges between levels.

Fun Fact: Between the whole possession thing and Eri being so damn vertical, Erinaen mobility aids tend to be focused on allowing maximum safe climbing ability.

Traditionally Erinaen tools were made of wood and crystal, sometimes stone if somebody wanted to show off, but since First Contact metal tools have become more commonplace. Still, if one if going to be cutting through bark and/or sapwood crystal is always used for reasons of Magic.

#erinaens #trees on eri are fucking *big*

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