#dark!rhys

[potatoplace]

Mastermind - Part 2

Dark!Feysand x Reader

Part 1 | Poly!ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist

Story Summary: Your friend of a few months, Feyre, invited you out for a celebratory drink over your new job, and of course her husband Rhys joins you. The night doesn't go quite as planned, and you end up back at their place with very few wits about you.

Warnings: non-con, abduction, being kept prisoner, smut, drug use (pot)

Words: ~5k

Author's Note: it's here! Feyre... you live in my head rent free so often... also this is just like a purely self indulgent fic at this point, I think it'll be a mini-series. Please read the warnings!

18+ only pls

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

You woke up with a headache and a confusing ache between your legs.

Your bed was comfier than usual, and so, so warm. Almost like you had a heated blanket going. You mouth cracked open into a yawn, and you stretched your limbs as far as you could-

Which wasn't far.

Both your legs and arms bumped into something solid and warm, surrounding you on both sides.

Your eyes flew open, very, very confused when you saw your friend Feyre laying to your right, and her husband Rhys on your left and-

You're naked.

Completely bare between the two of them, with absolutely no memory of how you got there. Your face flushed with heat.

God, what have I done?

Your tried to wiggle your way out from between the two of them, but one of Rhys's arms merely locked tighter around you, pulling you further against him.

He's naked. You could feel him hardening against you already as he stirred slightly, burying his face in your hair.

You struggled slightly, trying to move away from him, he's your friend's husband for crying out loud.

"What's wrong, sweetness?" Feyre's sleep heavy voice asked from your right. Her hand moved up your thigh and over your stomach, coming to rest between your breasts.

You pushed her hand off of you. "I'm so confused right now, Fey, why are Rhys and I naked? I should go," you said, moving to sit up, but Feyre's hand shot out to keep you down, and between her and Rhys you were powerless to move.

"You're never going to leave us again, darling," Feyre said, wiggling closer to you and pressing her body against yours- she was naked as well.

What the fuck did I do last night?

"Feyre, let me up," you demanded, doing your best to get her hand off of you, but in your struggle you must have woken Rhys up.

"Is there a problem, ladies?" His sultry voice sent shivers down your spine. Your always found it attractive, but now? Trapped between him and your best friend? You wanted nothing more than to bolt out of their apartment and back to yours and never come back out.

"Rhysie, she's trying to leave," Feyre said poutily, hand rubbing circles onto your stomach.

"And why would our sweet little kitten want to leave, hmm?" He asked, lips finding your neck and pressing soft kisses along the expanse of it. "You were so happy last night, sweet thing, what changed?"

You shook your head- this was wrong, all of this was wrong. And Rhys's lips had brought to your attention something wrapped around your neck snugly.

"This isn't right, I can't even remember what happened last night," you said, tears leaking from your eyes now, and you brought a hand up to your throat, fingering the fabric on your neck. Is it leather? Is it-

"You put a collar on me?" You asked, disbelief in your voice as your fingers attempted to tear the item from your body.

"I figured you might freak out, sweetness," Feyre tutted from beside you, a hand raising your grasp both of yours. "You're ours now, Y/N, you just need a little help realizing that. That's what the cute little collar is for, just to keep you from running away like the silly little kitten I think you might be." Feyre's voice was soft but condescending as she explained it to you, but you were still so lost.

"I don't understand, Fey," you cried, attempting to pull your body out of their embraces. "We're friends, you're married. This isn't okay."

Rhys shushed you, running his hands over your hair. "We might be married, but you're the secret missing piece we've been looking for, kitten. From the moment Feyre introduced me to you, I knew what she meant when she said she had to have you. Neither of us can resist how absolutely sweet and lovely you are." You went to open your mouth to protest, but Feyre's mouth covered yours in a heated kiss. "You'll realize just how much you can't resist us either, soon," Rhys added when he felt you involuntarily relax into Feyre's dominating hold over you.

"As for the not remembering last night..." Feyre started when she finally pulled away from claiming your mouth. "I think I know the perfect way to fix that," she said with a smirk, already moving down below the blankets and between your thighs.

"Feyre stop," you pleaded. "I don't want this, I want to go home," you cried, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Really?" Feyre asked with a smirk, dragging a finger through your folds and collecting the wetness that had pooled there. "Because this sweet little pussy says otherwise."

Tears fell from your eyes faster, shame welling within you as Feyre sucked her finger clean, closing her eyes as she did so. Feyre lowered her mouth to your sex in the next moment, not wasting any time in working you up to your breaking point.

You were still so sensitive from whatever they had done to you last night, and with Feyre’s tongue working your clit like magic you could hardly keep yourself still, even as Rhys pinned down your torso. One of his hands was fondling your breast and keeping you in the bed while the other ran through your hair and kept your face tilted towards Feyre.

You could see her face well again, now that the blanket had slid further down the bed while you twitched and writhed in their hold and against the pleasure Feyre was giving you. Her eyes were locked on your face, taking in every detail as you got closer and closer to the brink with every delicious swipe of her tongue.

To you it was wrong, all wrong. You didn’t want to be reacting, to even be warming their bed at all, yet you were trapped here as the couple worked you into your first orgasm of the morning against your will.

The strangled moan that left your throat was enough to have Feyre smirking up at you from between your thighs.

“See? You love us, and what we can give you. And we love you, Y/N.”

“No you don’t, Feyre, this isn’t love,” you cried softly, too tired and ashamed to put up much of fight anymore.

“It is, darling. We love you,” Rhys reiterated, peppering your neck and face with kisses as if to prove his point. “Now, will you let us feed you? I imagine you’re hungry after all the work we did last night,” he said with a dirty grin, two fingers pinching your right nipple.

Feyre began to move back up the bed and you took the opportunity to roll to your right into the spot that she had occupied while the three of you slept. Feyre sighed.

“Rhys, you can go take a shower and then start breakfast, okay? I’ll get this one into the shower after a little more… persuasion,” Feyre said in a disappointed tone.

Rhys chuckled, but got up from the bed anyway and walked into the bathroom. “Tell me pancakes or waffles after I come back out, darling.”

Feyre’s hands were pulling your back against her front snugly, allowing no room for you to escape the soft press of her body. Once you’d calmed a bit, she let one of her hands snake down between your thighs, gathering a bit of wetness from your center and then rubbing quick circles on your clit.

So sensitive. Her deft fingers brought you to completion twice in the time it took Rhys to finish showering and enter the room for his clothing.

You were a whimpering mess by the time he rounded to the side of the bed you were facing, leaning into Feyre’s embrace as she forced you closer and closer to a third orgasm in such rapid succession.

“I see, you’re just more comfortable with Feyre, hmm?” Rhys asked as he pulled your lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “I guess I’ll just have to spend every waking second of the next week getting you used to me,” Rhys said with a smile before heading to leave the room.

“Pancakes,” Feyre told him, right as her fingers brought you to your fourth orgasm of the morning.

“Got it, darling. Make sure to actually get her in the shower, okay?”

Feyre’s merely lowered her lips to the left side of your neck, sucking a pair of dark, claiming marks over the spaces that Rhys had left unmarked.

Your breathy, contented sigh shocked you so thoroughly you jerked from Feyre’s hold finally and landed on the carpeting.

“Oh, sweetness, still afraid of liking us?” Feyre asked amusedly, bringing herself to the edge of the bed. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over that in a couple of days, I think. Unless you decide to be a brat and fight your fate which, I might add, is useless. Rhys and I love you, Y/N.”

You shook your head at her words. “This is wrong, Feyre, you know it’s wrong. You can’t just keep me here,” you said indignantly, getting up from the floor on shaky legs and attempting to cover yourself with your arms.

“Why not?”

You scoffed. “Because, Feyre, I am a human being and not a pet. I have a life and people that care about me, you can’t just abduct me and get away with it!”

“People that care about you? You have me, Y/N. Your family is mostly dead and the ones that are alive, you don’t talk to! And you even told me that I���m the first friend you made in Velaris, you belong with me. You have belonged to me ever since I first saw you in that coffee shop.”

“What about my job? I have a job, Feyre, they will be worried when I don’t actually start in a few days,” you told her desperately, hoping for any shred of the kindness you’d thought your friend had possessed before today to shine through.

“At the marketing firm? Rhys owns it, sweetie, his cousin Mor manages it. She already knows that you won’t be starting, you have a much better life set up for you now.”

You stared at her in shock. Had everything about your life recently been one big set up?

"What did you do Feyre?" You asked her, despair lacing your tone. If she was telling the truth, then there was no way out of this for you. And-

Oh my god. Your apartment here. Feyre had recommended it.

"I didn't do anything, Y/N. I suggested the job at the marketing firm because you were working yourself to the bone at that coffee shop, dear. I couldn't stand to see you suffer," Feyre explained, prowling across the room to stand in front of you. You were backed against the corner of the room now, with nowhere to go. "And I suggested the apartment here because we have good security, and I've seen the way your regulars would look at you, like they were just waiting to snatch you when the opportunity presented itself." One of Feyre's hands comes up to cup your face, following you as you turned away, still finding its mark. She turned your face back to look at her, and her eyes held such a fiercely protective look, you almost couldn't get your next words out.

"How are you any better than them?" You asked quietly, instantly taking note of how her eyes darkened with anger. "You snatched me away, Feyre, not any of those men. So how are you-"

Feyre surged forward, cutting your words off by slotting her mouth over yours. The kiss was harsh, claiming as she pulled your naked body against hers even as you struggled and tried to pull away.

"I love you, Y/N. And I would never, ever hurt you..." Feyre trailed off as her fingers played with your hair once you'd stopped fighting her. You opened your mouth to refute that claim, but she started speaking before you could. "I am not hurting you, sweetness. You simply don't know what is best for you right now, and sometimes we just need to be shown the right path." You went to argue again- "Now, if you don't shower with me, you won't be given any clothes to wear for the next week," Feyre said with finality.

Fight her, continue to feel disgusting in the off chance that she doesn't still force you to shower, and have no clothes for a whole seven days, or don't fight her, deal with it this once, and have clothes.

You didn't fight as Feyre steered you by the shoulders into their grand bathroom, stopping by the large triple sink counter. She carefully removed the collar from your neck with some type of key, then led you straight into the massive shower that had four huge, separate shower heads- one on each of the three walls, and one overhead.

You turned around right as Feyre started the shower, turning on just the three wall spouts. Water hit you from three sides, and Feyre came at you from the remaining one.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Feyre asked softly as she ran her hands over your body, passing over your nipples far more times than you felt was necessary. You shook your head. All that you could vaguely remember was getting to the bar Feyre had suggested. “That’s too bad, sweetness. You were very eager last night,” she said with a smile, and your cheeks flushed. “Don’t worry, at some point you’ll be able to admit to yourself how much you want us. For now we’ll just keep reminding you how much we want you.”

Feyre gently tipped your head back to wet your hair, taking her time to get it soaked in the warm spray. Her nails scratched lightly along your scalp, and you nearly sighed at the soft gesture.

This is not the same friend you’ve known all these months, you reminded yourself.

Before today, you would have never guessed you would be taking a shower with Feyre. A small part of you had maybe dreamed about it, but never would you have thought it would become a reality. Especially with the added element of you being forced.

Still, you couldn’t help but relax into Feyre’s gentle grasp and she shampooed your hair, then rinsed the lather from it, being careful to not get any suds in your eyes. The shampoo smelled just like the one you used before all of this happened. Strange. When Feyre began putting a thick conditioner in your hair, you realized it.

They don’t just smell like the products you use at home, they are the products you use at home.

Your accusatory glare hit Feyre once she was done rubbing the conditioner in.

“What?” Feyre asked innocently as she wet her own hair.

“Why do you know what products I use?”

Feyre smiled. “I pay attention, dear. I wanted to make the transition as comfortable as possible for you, so I got everything I could think of that you use regularly. Now, will you help me wash my hair?”

You didn’t move.

“Pleaaase, Y/N?” Feyre asked again, a pouty look on her face now, one that you were rarely able to resist.

“Fine. Which bottles?” You conceded, grabbing the shampoo bottle she pointed to and squeezing some out into the palm of your hand. You lathered it up, then set to working it through Feyre’s thick, golden brown hair. When you rinsed her hair, you wanted to let soap run into her eyes, but couldn’t let yourself for some reason. You repeated the process of working the conditioner through Feyre’s hair, and once you were done she turned around to fade you again.

“Time to rinse yours, cutie,” Feyre said, already tipping your head back into the water to rid your hair of conditioner. Again, her nails scraped along your scalp gently, just enough to get your body to relax more. When she finished, she grabbed a cloth and loaded it with body wash, one that smelled of lilacs and pears- very Feyre. Feyre soaped up your body slowly, lingering in the sensitive areas as long as she could before you started to fight her hold again. She helped you rinse off, then extended the cloth to you. “Do me?”

You shook your head. No. “I already washed your hair, Feyre, just let me get out please.”

Feyre sighed, and started washing her body. “You can’t get out yet, you still need to wash your face. I’d suggest it after last night,” Feyre said with a wink, and your stomach churned.

You don’t really want to know what that comment was about. But you wash and exfoliate your face nonetheless, using the identical products to those you had before, finishing just as Feyre was done washing her own face.

She turned the water off, and grabbed two fluffy towels off of the rack for the both of you. She wrapped one around herself, then patted you dry, taking her time to get every inch of skin and dry your hair as much as she could before she dried herself off.

Feyre went to the sink closest to the shower, and you spotted all of your skincare and hair care products lined up attractively behind the middle sink. Feyre was already doing her routine as you examined the bottles and jars, picking out what you wanted to use.

At least they’re giving you something normal.

Once the two of you had finished, Feyre locked the collar back onto your neck, then pulled you back into their bedroom, the massive bed lurking in your vision no matter where you turned. Feyre grabbed two sets of clothing, pulling on her own outfit. First was a lacy black set of lingerie that looked flawless on her, then a pair of black leggings, a rich brown sweater, and slippers.

She then forced you to let her dress you, slipping a pair of blush pink panties up your legs to settle snugly on your hips, and a matching colored bralette over your breasts, which she had for once refrained from squeezing. Your arms were lifted above your head to let a soft pink, long sleeved peasant dress fall over your body, and you were instructed to sit to allow Feyre to put white knee high socks onto your legs and slip your feet into cute pink slipper booties. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as Feyre dragged you out of the bedroom. You look cute, if you had to describe the outfit. It’s similar enough to the style you wear on your off time, though everything seems to be made of higher quality materials than what you were able to afford.

The door to the bedroom led to a short hallway, which Feyre led you to the open end of, coming out in the living room. The two of you walked to dining table, near the far end of the open concept room. There was already a good amount of food on the table, and Rhys was just walking away from the stove with a large plate of pancakes in hand, a large smile spreading across his face when he spotted the both of you.

“And I was just thinking I might have to come and get you girls,” he said with a grin. “Come and sit down, breakfast is ready.”

Rhys pulled out a chair for you, pushing you in once you’d sat down and repeated the gesture with Feyre, who was sitting to your left. Rhys then took the seat to your right at the head of the table and began piling food onto your plate. A couple of sausages, pieces of bacon, chunks of cut up melon, and of course pancakes.

You didn’t think you could eat.

If you had woken up in a separate bed this morning, all of this would feel normal enough. Feyre and Rhys had let you stay over once before, and the following morning had a breakfast similar to this.

But everything had changed, you weren’t here because your friends were kind and invited you, you were here because they had trapped you here. You had a collar wrapped around your neck, that alone would be reason enough for you to want to leave.

“Eat up, darling,” Rhys said as he moved on to plating his own food.

You stayed still, staring down at the food that had your stomach turning.

Feyre’s elbow nudged you gently, and you instinctively looked to your left.

“Go ahead and eat, Y/N,” Feyre said gently. When you still didn’t move, she sighed. “Not eating won’t do anything for you, sweetness. Have just one of everything, please,” she begged, using her soft eyes that were so hard to resist.

So, even with your stomach protesting, you lifted a bite of pancake to your mouth, chewing and swallowing but tasting nothing. Maybe if you play along for a little bit, they’ll let their guard down and you can escape.

Feyre and Rhys chatted about their jobs as the three of you ate- Feyre about her studio, and Rhys about the various businesses under the Night Corporation umbrella. You choked down each bite of food, doing your best to keep attention off of you.

A phone ringing cut through their chatter, and Feyre sighed as she picked it up.

“What?” She asked, annoyance clear in her tone. “Can’t you deal with it? I have something important today,” Feyre said, shooting a smile your way. The person on the other end replied with something that made Feyre groan. “Fine, I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Feyre dropped her phone onto the table and ran her hands over her eyes. “Well, I have to go into the studio, apparently the art class has taken a drastic turn that only I can fix,” Feyre whined. “Will you be okay here with just Rhys, sweetness?”

You raised a brow at her. “As though I have a choice?”

Rhys chuckled at your words. “That’s true, Fey, she’s stuck with me for the day. I’ll take good care of her, don’t worry.” Dread pooled in your stomach at his words. You don’t want to know what type of ‘care’ he has in mind.

Feyre was still staring at you, like she wanted to say something, then looked away when she stood up. “I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour, but I’ll text you to let you know if there’s anything that will hold me up,” she remarked as she placed a kiss on Rhys’s cheek, and one on yours as well. “Love you guys!” Feyre said as she was walking out of the door, purse in hand.

“Love you darling!”

In the silence that followed the door slamming shut, the dread in your stomach grew.

“So, would you like a little tour?” Rhys asked, already stacking your breakfast plates together.

You stared at him. “A tour?”

Rhys smiled. “Yes, darling, a tour. You need to know your way around now that you’re living here. And don’t say no, this is mandatory,” he added when you shook your head.

He placed the dishes in the sink before smoking back to the table, pull in out your chair and extending a hand to help you stand. You ignore it, standing on your own, which made Rhys sigh.

“Right this way, darling,” Rhys said, pulling you by the hand back towards the hallway containing their bedroom. You dug your feet into the ground, unwilling to enter the bedroom with him. Rhys stopped walking and turned to face you. “What’s the problem, doll?”

“I am not going to take this sham of a ‘tour’ if it just means that you’re going to rape me.”

Rhys’s eyes softened at your words, and he pulled you into a hug even as your tried to resist his hold. “Oh, darling. You won’t have to worry about that. I won’t fuck you until you are begging for my cock.”

“Like that will ever happen,” you spat, finally wrenching yourself free of his grasp.

“Oh, it will,” Rhys said assuredly, smirking down at you. “Now, will you let me give you the tour?”

You sighed, but did feel mildly better knowing that he supposedly wouldn’t be forcing himself on you. “Fine."

He continued to lead you back down the hallway their their bedroom resided, but stopped at the doorway opposite it. He swung it open, and gestured for you to walk inside. When you did, your jaw dropped.

It’s as though they had gone into your mind and plucked your perfect bedroom out of it just to recreate it here. The walls were in a soft, dusty pink color with a pale cream ceiling. There was fluffy pink carpet on the floor, looking so soft and squishy you wanted to be barefoot on it. At the far end of the room was a large canopy bed, decorated in hues of pink and purple, with a mound of pillows against the wall. There was a dresser and large closet off to the left, and on the right there was a small sitting area gathered around a table with a tv on it, your favorite consoles already lined up and plugged in, along with stacks and stacks of your favorite games. There was even a cute pink mini fridge and little snack shelf, all filled with your favorites.

“Do you like it?” Rhys asked hesitantly from his place in the doorway.

“Do I-?” You stopped to laugh. “Do I like it? It’s like the two of your read my mind. How?”

Rhys’s cheeks colored slightly as he met your eyes. “Feyre had the idea to look through your Pinterest, and you had a board dedicated to your dream room, so she worked tirelessly to get this ready for you.”

The thought and effort would have been sweet- were they not keeping you here against your will.

You just sighed and shook your head. “Is there more to the tour?”

Rhys nodded and grabbed you by the hand once more. He showed you around to the various guest rooms, the guest bathroom, then to Feyre’s home studio and his office, and finally you were back to the living room. The two of you were stood in front of the couches, looking out at their pool and massive patio.

“Do you want to play a game together?” Rhys asked, gesturing to the double TV and console set up in front of you. “We can play whatever you want, you can even play alone,” he offered.

Strangely, this request put you at ease even more than him saying he wouldn’t fuck you. Almost like it confirmed that the Rhys you had known was still in there, just… different. Darker.

“I don’t know…”

“We could smoke a joint,” Rhys said in a sing-songy voice, having grabbed one out of a box on the coffee table. “Or two. Or three. Just something to help you get your mind of things, maybe?”

The offer was tempting. You could pretend like you were just hanging out at your friends’ house and playing a video game with him.

“Sure, why not?”

The feeling of smoke filling your lungs calmed you down, settling you into a sleepy state where you weren’t thinking about the situation and how fucked up it is, just the passing flow of the river of your thoughts. You and Rhys shared two joints together on the patio, passing it between puffs.

“You know that Feyre cares about you, right?” Rhys asked as he took the second lit joint from you. You exhaled the smoke from your mouth, watching as it was whipped away by the wind.

“I don’t know that I would call this,” you gestured around you and at the collar, “caring about me.”

Rhys sighed. “But it is, Y/N. I know we went about it in a twisted way, but Feyre and I truly want you to be happy and safe. And before you ask, no, I won’t let you go. Just give us some time, you’ll come see how nice your life can be here and how much we care about you.”

You took the joint back from him with a pout, annoyed with him now. Sure, they care about me enough to steal me away and lock me up, but not enough to let me make the choice myself.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Rhys laughed sadly. “No, you don’t. But giving us a chance will make this much more enjoyable for you.”

You took another long drag before passing the joint back to Rhys’s waiting fingers.

“Will you… would you convince Feyre to not… touch me until I’m begging?” You asked hopefully, knowing that that day would never come now.

Rhys eyed you carefully. “I can talk to her about that, if it would make you feel more at ease around us darling."

A weight was lifted off your chest at his confirmation that he would wrangle Feyre in. He let you take the last drag before putting the joint out, and followed you back into the living room.

“Do you have Minecraft?” You asked hopefully, wanting to dick around and maybe build a cute house.

“Of course, darling,” Rhys said, booting up the TVs and consoles, passing a pink controller to you.

Within a couple of minutes, the two of you were as focused on the blocky game as you could be, your minds covered in a weed soaked haze.

Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff (let me know if you want to stay on the taglist for the mini series!)

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Obsidian Salt II

Part 2 of my Witch!Reader x Demon!Rhys fic

Content Warnings: Dark!Rhys, mental manipulation, brief mentions of sacrifices/blood

------------------------------

“Silly little, Witchling, a night is more than enough to make you mine.”

His clawed hand still grips my throat, tight enough to make stars start dancing across my vision. All attempts at pulling him off, pushing him away, fail miserably. 

“You’re shaking, Witchling,” he coos, his breath warm on my neck as he brushes his lips over the shell of my ear, laughing in dark amusement to my plight. “What’s the matter?”

I bash my fists against his solid, and very bare, chest uselessly. “Let go!”

Rhysand, Prince of Hel, hums, as if thinking, then suddenly drops me in a rush, my limp body falling onto the cracked stone floor without the support of his weight. Dried anise and rosemary crushes under my palms--another failed attempt at warding off evil. Our books are clearly outdated. 

My coughing must attract attention, because the door leading down into our decrypt little basement swings open, the old wood hitting the door with a horrendous crack. I glance at the demon I’d accidentally summoned in a panic, if he gets out, I’ve doomed my entire coven!

But the violet eyed demon merely grins wickedly as he dissolves into shadow and smoke, taking my grandmother’s tome, and the spell that would rid me of him, with him into the dark recesses of the basement. I can still feel him there, his icy power chilling the room, but he has no solid shape.

“What are you doing down here?” My grandmother, the leader of our coven, sounds worn and tired and she has used that weathered lilt to worm her way into many enemy’s houses, just to smite them with a snap of her fingers. She may look old and feeble, but it is all a ruse to get people to let their guard down, and once that happens, she can pluck whatever she wants from their open hands.

I’d idolized her as a child. I wanted so badly to prove to her and my mother that I could be just as good a witch as them, but I have nothing to show for it but the scattering of obsidian salt and a Prince of Hel I just let into our home.

I scramble to my feet, mind spinning as I try to figure out how I will explain all this. Though, that becomes useless a moment later when the evidence of my transgressions disappears, as if they never existed. All the dried herbs, the salt in the summoning circle, even my chalk runes are gone. It is just me and a couple of candles in the basement by the time my grandmother makes it down the stairs.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, child,” she snarls, her gnarled cane stomping angrily against the final step. 

She can’t see or smell what I have done. Does that free me or doom me? And how the Hel did it disappear like that? It certainly wasn’t me, which means Rhysand, for some reason, is hiding the evidence.  

“I was…” my throat burns, I run a hand over it absently, hoping the darkness hides the claw shaped indents in my skin. There will surely be bruises too. “Practicing! For the Solstice!” The lie isn’t as smooth as I’d like, but it will be better than the truth.

My grandmother’s worn head swivels to look around the empty basement, her wrinkled mouth pinched in a permanent frown that looks extra deep today. “What have you decided to show us?” There is nothing but disappointment in her tone, even though there is nothing here for her to be disappointed in. 

“It’s a surprise,” I say.

Her cane is made from the first tree ever planted in this town, scared with runes and blessings and imbued with enough magic to power the city’s mage lights for a year; she uses it to smack me in the shoulder, her strength still startling even though I know there’s more to her than the slight hunchback. 

“Do not disappoint me as you always do,” she hisses. 

Shame floods me. I am always the disappointment. Always the let down. My sisters are natural talents. My aunts born with such intense magic they have to go on annual retreats to expel it. My mother hunts men for sport. And I am the girl who was so desperate to be something, she went to a book of dark magic for help.

I hang my head. “Grandmother, I have a confession.” I should just get it over with. There is no point in delaying the inevitable. I don’t possess enough magic to send a demon back to its realm. I will need her help. Better to break the bargain I’d made than wait for it to blow up in my face. 

She sighs like this conversation just might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. “What now?”

“I-” I try to tell her, really I do, but when I open my mouth, no words come out. It feels as if something’s lodged itself in my throat.

Shit, maybe Rhysand damaged my vocal chords!

“I-” I try again the words catch as before. It is not as if I am choking, there is nothing redistricting my airway, I’m not struggling to breathe, but no matter how hard I try to admit my sins, the words stick.

She smacks me with the cane again. “Stop messing around!”

“I’m not, I-” A dark, sensual laugh slithers its way into my head, as if he’d done it in my ear.

She throws up her hands and turns away. “I better not see any of this nonsense at the Solstice. Or you’ll be the sacrifice to the Goddess.”

“Come now, Darling, did you really think I’d let you tell her about our little bargain?” Even mentally his voice is a deep purr that makes a shiver run down my spine. He is thoroughly embedded in my head, I can feel the dark shadow of him sitting like a cat curled up in the back of my skull. Every time I try to mention him, his icy power flows through me.

My grandmother slams the basement door shut behind her, and only then does Rhysand materialize from the corner of the room, leisurely stretching out his great wings as if awakening from a nap. Whatever magic he used to hide the room falls away, leaving the salt and herbs visible once more.

“What did you do to me?” I snarl.

He chuckles as he tucks his wings back behind his lythe body. “We had a bargain, any interference with that bargain will leave you in a similar state of discomfort. If not worse.”

I rub a hand over my throat. “You’re a bastard!”

He saunters closer, footsteps silent on the worn stones. I find myself shrinking back against the wall as he approaches again. 

“You summoned me, Darling, this is the bed you get to lie in.”

“You tricked me,” I snarl.

He’s close enough now that I can smell the jasmine and citrus scent of him, mingled with a faint hint of smoke. Close enough that I can read the runes etched into his bronze skin, the markings ancient and sharp. If he was anyone else, anything else, I would be tempted to reach out and touch, trace the swirling shapes over his defined chest and shoulders.

“Tricked you?” He frowns as he braces his hand on the wall above my head, effectively caging me in against the rough stone. “You summoned me, Witchling, and in case you missed that delightful little threat from the crone, I am your only salvation from a Solstice sacrifice.”

“What kind of demon could be my salvation?” I retort.

He uses the hand not bracing himself against the wall to take my chin between two of his claws, tilting my head up to look at him. I have never felt smaller than I do at this moment. 

“You have no idea what I could give you, if you only asked,” he says, voice dropping to a husky whisper. His eyes drift to my lips, and his tongue slips out to wet his own as he watches the way my breath hitches in my throat when he speaks. “I could show you power you have only dreamed of; offer cities on their knees to you. There is nothing I can’t give you.”

I can see it, as clearly as if it was happening in front of my eyes: Power, glittering and dark pouring from my fingertips, consuming everything in its path; droves of fragile, powerless humans bowing at my feet, their arms laden with gifts and tribute. I didn’t think I wanted things like that. Power was the pursuit of my grandmother, never an option for me. But the feeling of it, even in a vision is enough to make my head spin. Could I really feel like that? 

“You desire power, Witchling, that’s why you summoned me, isn’t it?” He whispers, claws drifting down my throat in a sensual caress.

I nod, too scared to speak, too ashamed to admit that he is right, to admit that I am gullible and weak willed enough to even entertain the possibilities spinning through my head.

“Aren’t you tired of being forgotten? Cast aside? Belittled?”

His hand drifts lower, following the stuttering pulse of my heartbeat down my chest. I should shy away from his touch, but my body shivers under his ministrations instead. I can’t look away from him, from the pretty images he spins round and round in my head like it’s his own personal movie screen. 

“Aren’t you tired of being good and quiet and ignored?” 

He’s so close now if I tilt my head up I’ll brush my lips against his. My own gaze flicks to those full, sensual lips. Perhaps power is not the only thing I want, and I cannot, for the life of me, remember why I don’t want him. It’s like everything has been emptied out of my head except for him.

“Yes,” I whisper. My voice doesn’t sound like mine, like I’m entranced somehow but I don’t know how to break the spell, how to tell if this is me or if it’s him.

“Just a taste is all it takes, Darling,” he closes the gap just enough to brush his lips over mine. It isn’t cold or unyielding like last time, the warmth of his breath ghosting over my suddenly flushed skin. 

My body chases after him like it’s starved, hand reaching up to tangle in the long strands of his dark hair. He lets me pull him back, lets me slot my lips over his. When he kisses me back there is no longer ice in it, only an all consuming warmth that floods my system like water breaking through a damn. 

He kisses like a desperate male; all tongue and teeth, fangs scraping against my lower lip as he takes and takes from me. And I let him. Damn me! I let him push me back against the wall, let his hands slide down my body until he can lift me up and wrap my legs around his trim waist. He tastes like smoke and jasmine and endless possibilities. When his lips are on mine I feel infinite. Under his grip I should feel helpless and frail as I always do, but like this, I think I might just be able to be anything.

A bit of shadow slips from his lips when he finally pulls away, the smoky haze drifting along our shared breath as he puts his lips to my throat. He’s everywhere, in my head and under my skin, everywhere but where I think I need him the most.

His fangs scrape against my throat as I tilt my head back against the wall, letting him have free reign to do with my body as he pleases. “Doesn’t this feel better?” He purrs, the vibrations of his voice against my flushed skin making a shiver race down my spine. 

“Yes,” I gasp when he sinks his teeth into my shoulder, the coppery scent of blood in the air telling me he’s marked me as his before the pain registers. 

Rhys laves over the wound with his tongue. “Never again will you feel small, or powerless,” he says lowly. “Your coven will bow to you. They will regret ever doubting you.”

I rock my hips into his, desperate for some sort of friction. “You-you could really do that?” Words are hard against the images still spinning around inside my head, competing with the feel of his warm body between my legs and his teeth still nipping at my shoulder.

“You need only to say two little words, and all of it is yours, Witchling,” he purrs, lips making their way back up my throat. 

When he kisses me again, there’s the coppery tang of my own blood on his tongue. “Tell me your mine and it will be done.”

My head is starting to feel fuzzy, the room spinning as the images in my head all start to blur together. The stars in his eyes start to twirl around his irises, for a second the movement takes all the color out of his irises, until there is nothing but black emptiness. I blink away the strange vision.

“I-” Upon my hesitation, his lips are back on mine again, his hands exploring my body, slipping beneath my shirt to trace patterns in my skin. I think his claws might scratch marks into my sensitive flesh but my head is too empty to pay it any mind. What’s a little blood?

“Say it,” he presses, voice a husky whisper that makes heat flare in my core. I want to know what other things he might whisper in my ear with that tone. “Say your mine. Let me give you everything you deserve.”

I do deserve more than this. For too long I have been forgotten and ignored or belittled for being a waste of space. I’m tired of it! For once, I want to make people fear what I am capable of. I want people to regret casting me aside when they see me.

“I’m yours, Rhysand,” I say.

Something hot, like a brand inks its way across my spine. So intense and blistering that I scream. He swallows that sound with another kiss, tongue swiping behind my teeth as my body writhes against the blinding pain. 

“It’s ok,” he coos, “just my sigil, so everyone knows who you belong to. It won’t hurt much longer.”

Another kiss is all it takes for me to forget entirely why there are tears streaming down my cheeks. My head feels so incredibly emtpy. 

He runs his tongue over my cheek, licking away the tear streaks that feel so foreign on my flushed skin. “See, that’s better, isn’t it, Witchling?”

I nod even though I can’t remember what he’s referring to. Of course I feel good, he’s here, holding me, whispering sweet things in my ear while his hands roam over my skin. 

He grins, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “We will have everything we deserve, Darling, and more when we’re done with them.”

“Them?” Were we talking about someone? I don’t remember.

The stars really do wink out of his eyes, the violet rapidly disappearing until there is nothing but unending darkness. His wings flare out behind him, apex talons sharpening until the form points. Shadows seep from his shoulders in rolling waves, until their darkness fills the room. “The witches of course. We have unfinished business with them.”

I think, maybe, there is something wrong with the way he looks, some old instinct in me trying to warn me to run. But I reach out a hand and brush it curiously over the ridge of his wing, feeling the leathery membrane shutter beneath my touch. 

“What do you need me to do?” I ask.

He lowers me onto the floor and places a big, worn tome in my hands. I feel a flash of recognition in the back of my mind, but before I can place it, the memory is ripped away by a tendril of shadow. “Let’s start with burning a few books, hm? Then we have some Solstice sacrifices to make.”

------

Tag List: @girl-math-aint-mathing / @hjgdhghoe / @gloomy-hag / @barb00235

[tadpolesonalgae]

Two-Faced[***]

Dark!Rhys x reader

a/n: Honestly I’ve tried to edit this so many times I can no longer tell if I like it or not? Also this is a prequel to Desk Pet and goes along with that universe but can be read on its own 🧡💛

warnings: non-con, shadow play(?), bdsm themes, suggested breeding kink, smut, overstimulation, somnophilia, suggested dacryphilia(?), a little peak into Rhys’ mind at the end

word count: 8,875

-Desk Pet- -Play-Mate-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

You glance into the mirror, readjusting how the thin golden chain hangs around your neck, the small pendant sitting pretty between your breasts.

Easing in a deep breath, you check everything else is appropriately placed, nothing revealing too much skin, no fabric dipping where it shouldn’t, everything neatly wrapped up. You could swear you can see how your heart pulses in your chest in the reflection, a slight shudder passing beneath your flesh as you think ahead to what might unfold.

The deep purple gown settles comfortably over your body, dark and velvety, the neckline modest without being conservative, the hem of the skirts brushing just shy of your feet, sleeves that run down to your wrists, locked in matching golden chains, slim and elegant. Your lips are painted darker than usual to match the purple of your dress, with small golden pins keeping some strands of hair in place. Is it too much?

Dining with a High Lord… Even if you’re friendly, you don’t want to suggest something you can’t give, nor flirt where you can’t fulfil.

In the recent months, you know you haven’t been imagining the intensity in his eyes, how they sweep so deliciously over you, slowly, under the guise of polite appreciation. But there’s nothing polite about the way he looks at you. How it sets your skin on fire, pulse spiking with the slightest curve of his mouth. How your breath hitches whenever his skin brushes yours, fingers grazing your waist to guide you someplace—gentle dominance that makes your body flush with heat. Even at the faintest hint of his scent, you’d found yourself seeking out his gaze, as if sharing in a forbidden fantasy together.

Maybe it’s your fault for letting it get too far. Letting it escalate without consideration for how high he might truly be able to take you. He certainly isn’t the only male in your life. You hadn’t even realised how far things had gone with Rhys until the male you’d been seeing casually had brought it up, and you’d felt a tug of guilt in your gut. The two of you weren’t together exactly, but it definitely wasn’t just sex. There was too much emotional intimacy for it to be such a black-and-white situation. Emotions bleeding over where they should have been kept in line.

A triptych of knocks are landed to your door, gentle but firm, and you tear your gaze away from your reflection—attractive as it is, you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

Easing in a breath, you open the door, pulse spiking as you take him in, raising your chin to meet his violet gaze.

On the wooden deck of your house, stood beneath the warm faelight to illuminate the entranceway, he dominates the space, your attention zeroing in on his figure, dressed immaculately as usual, shirt revealing a peak at the appetisingly tan skin beneath, a suggestion of ink peering over the hem of the linen.

“Rhysand,” you greet with a smile, opening the door wider, previous worries forgotten as he takes up your attention whole. “Rhysand?” He drawls, brow quirking in amusement as he leans forward, and you step into his invitation. “Have I done something to irritate you?” He muses beside your ear, bodies pressed a little closer than appropriate as your arms wrap over his shoulders. His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you deeper into his sturdy heat, spine arching under his direction. “You show up dressed as you are—I thought you said this was a casual dinner,” you smile as you pull away, arms still wrapped around one another.

Violet eyes sweep across your features, the skin between your shoulder-blades tingling beneath his broad palm, and that intensity burns down into you. “You look like this for casual dinners?” He replies, lips curving with amusement. “I look like this for my High Lord,” you reply, rolling your eyes playfully, stepping out of his hold, already missing his heat. “Will you tell me where we’re going to dine? Or are you going to insist on keeping it a secret until the last second?”

“The last second might be a bit of a stretch,” he chuckles, offering you his arm, “but I know how you like surprises, so perhaps arrangements can be made.”

“You could winnow us there with ease,” you muse lightly, linking your arm with his, door closing at your back as he guides you down the steps leading into your front garden, then out into the street.

Violet eyes flick over you, your skin tightening beneath his open attention, meeting his gaze. “A lady deserves preparation,” he replies, heat fluttering in your lower abdomen at the sonorous drawl. “I’m sure you’d still succeed with the surprise element regardless,” you laugh, lips warm from the smile. “I suppose I could always blindfold you?” He suggests, and you gently elbow him, rolling your eyes again, trying to quell the traitorous heat that’s unspooling in the pit of your stomach. “I’d trip up and break something,” you counter fondly, swiftly averting you gaze so he won’t be able to somehow read your emotions. The attraction that always seems to become much more prominent in his presence. More pertinent, and palpable.

“I could direct you,” he replies lightly, a curve to his soft mouth, “I like to think I’m fairly good at giving instructions.”

“You’re practiced at giving orders. There’s a difference,” you counter, unable to help the smile on your lips—that’s undoubtedly shining in your eyes. “Besides, I don’t trust myself in heels.”

“You certainly picked a tricky pair,” he admits, glancing down to the thin golden strings wrapped around your ankles, disappearing beneath your dress. “I’m sure I’ll be regretting that by the end of the night,” you sigh, taking care to avoid any uneven surfaces. “If you need a reprieve, feel free to say,” he chuckles lowly, guiding you down another street, and you silently admire how seamlessly he blends in with the inky darkness of his court. “I’d be more than happy to sweep you off your feet, if needed.”

————

You’d been surprised when he’d taken you not to a pre-established restaurant but to a house he’d recently purchased by the riverside—for ample view of the Sidra, he’d explained, when you’d asked why he’d picked that part of the city.

He’d guided you in, as he usually does when you’re out together, a hand kept lightly against your lower back to keep you steady, especially when passing over cobbles. You’d noticed how his touch had smoothly migrated from lightly brushing against your skin on the way into the house, to settling securely around your waist once away from the public, a response of equal parts concern and satisfaction humming in your chest. It’s hard to keep your head when he singles you out so obviously—like there’s something special about you in particular. Something he can only find in you. How are you supposed to resist a male who makes you feel so treasured?

“You certainly succeeded with surprising me,” you smile, leaning back in your chair, content with the meal—mansaf, with goat’s meat. “I didn’t know you could cook like that?” You muse, meeting his gaze across the cozy table, tucked away in an alcove on the library he’s slowly filling up, tall windows to your right, providing a clear view of the Sidra, rooftops shadowed under the night’s sky. His smile isn’t as full as you’d hoped, instead seeming quieter than usual. “I don’t have much time to indulge anymore,” he answers, and you straighten in your seat. “It would be nice, to pursue my own interests. From time to time.”

Your expression softens as you watch him from across the table—he makes it easy to forget the things he’s withstood. It’s easy to speak with him, to be around him.

“I appreciate you finding the time to do so tonight,” you say quietly, briefly glancing down at your empty plate before returning your gaze to his. “It was delicious.” His eyes twinkle, and a small smile makes its way onto your mouth at the familiar gleam. “I’m glad you thought so,” he admits, “it’s been a while.”

“If this is how you are out of practice, it might be for the better you don’t have more time on your hands. You’d run people out of business,” you say quietly.

There’s a pause that passes between you, and you feel yourself being pulled in, already so thoroughly snared by his riptides you haven’t noticed you’ve been pulled under.

“I know it isn’t much,” you say lowly, a little roughly, pushing up from your seat to walk to his side. “But you deserve the time to indulge in your own interests, Rhys. To be able to enjoy life like the people you devote yourself to protecting do.” Violet eyes lift to yours, swirling and depthless, pulling you further down. “You’ve mentioned what that time was like,” you manage quietly, voice thick with emotion, at all he’s sacrificed to keep Velaris safe. To keep his people safe. “I can’t even imagine what it was like,” you murmur, hand resting gently on his shoulder, hoping you aren’t overstepping.

It isn’t often he talks about what had been done to him, what he’d been forced to do, but when he does…you listen. Take in every word, let him know you hear him, at the very least. That he has someone he can share his life with, someone he can come to when he’s alone, and know you’ll be there.

“You’re out now,” you whisper, “you made it.”

“I’m in pieces,” he murmurs, expression neutral despite the sadness of the admission.

“It’s okay to be in pieces, Rhys,” you reply, stepping into him when he shifts to face you, his hand coming to rest atop your own, fingers dancing to your wrist, wrapping over your forearm carefully. As if afraid to break you, too. “You’re allowed to grieve yourself, after what happened.”

His fingers tighten a little around your wrist, then he’s smoothly standing from his chair, though you don’t step back, keeping together as his hand slowly settles on your waist.

“I don’t think…” he trails off, voice breathy and hushed, and you hold him a little tighter, free palm settling on his upper arm. His throat rolls, and he pulls you the barest bit closer, bodies connecting as heat is shared and swapped, scents pushing together. “I don’t think I’m the same as I was before,” he admits quietly, violet eyes pinning you to the floor, touch pressing into your skin. “That’s okay,” you whisper, “time changes people. It’s okay to shift in essence.”

“No. Not like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your own, your hand brushing against his jaw, his palms wrapping tighter around you, growing more assured in their hold, like you’re becoming a part of him. “I can’t stand it,” he admits, brow pressing to your own, his eyes shut, a troubled expression on his beautiful features. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

You peer up at him, now cupping his face in both your hands, leaning into him. “What is it?” You ask softly, “you can tell me. I want to know what’s troubling you.” Violet eyes open slightly, darkened by his lashes as he looks down at you, brows furrowed in what looks like indecision. Or regret. But then it’s gone in a flash, easing out into something more calm, and familiar. “I want to be happy,” he confesses quietly, words brushing over your mouth so tenderly. “I don’t want to be alone again. How I was.”

“You aren’t alone,” you murmur, thumb brushing his cheek. “You have your family, you’re back with them again—you’re back here again. You survived.” But he shakes his head, and you push slightly closer, letting him know whatever he wants, he can confess to you. You’ll be there for him if he needs.

“I can’t stand not having it anymore,” he breathes, hold tightening on you, voice deeper, rougher, than before. “I should be happy, shouldn’t I?”

Your brows pull together, curving as you nod, wanting nothing more than to comfort him, slotting yourself into the familiar lines of his body. “Everyone deserves to be happy,” you whisper, heart aching, “even if they don’t believe so.” You swallow, feeling hot beneath his gaze, but refusing to step away, not when this is the most vulnerable he’s ever allowed himself to be with you. “If you…” you swallow again, eyes darting away briefly before returning to his. “If you know what you want…” You trail off, bewitched by the swirling intensity of his gaze. Your breath catches, aware of how close you are, how intimate the embrace has become. “…you should have it, Rhys.”

He exhales heavily, relief loosening the tension in his body, then he’s leaning forward, mouth opening over yours.

You freeze, not having expected the bold action, but quickly melt beneath his touch, all previous thought fading to nothing as his lips slant over yours, soft and hot, and his hands are moving across the planes of your body, strengthening as you’re pulled impossibly closer. He’s a really good kisser.

His tongue flicks out, and you start, reeling from his pace, but he’s gently turning you around, mouth still sealed against your own as he pushes you into the wall, hips against your own while his arm wraps tight around your waist, other hand settling over the nape of your neck that’s so small in comparison. Your palms stutter as they shift, unsure where to place them, having been swept off your feet, caught with your guard down. You hadn’t realised just how intense the attraction had become—for either of you.

Rhys makes a hungry sound from the back of his throat, and your insides flutter, spine arching into him, breasts pressing fully against his chest—but you need to slow down. You hadn’t planned on any of this unfolding so rapidly, had intended to be wary of his advances, of the mutual lust binding you together. It’s dominating; overpowering, mind-warping to struggle against, but you have enough sense to know acting on this desire will only confuse things. Mixing tender affection with the sharpened blades of lust never ends well.

“Rhys,” you murmur, pulling away enough to get his name out, but his mouth seals over your own again, and you fight to not be dragged under by hunger, by your desire to follow in his motions. This isn’t something you can rush, if you want it to work. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging him back firmly, heat warming your cheeks. “Rhys, we—”

His hands leave your body, roughly gripping your wrists and shoving them back against the wall, hips keeping you pinned in place as he devours you, prying your mouth open with embarrassing ease, arousal making it hard to resist. His tongue stokes over your own, and a heady feeling rushes your veins, need pounding in your blood, losing grip fast as he sinks his claws into you.

Rhys pulls away from you, and you open your mouth to tell him to stop, but he’s dipping lower, attacking your neck as his canines flash, the kisses rapidly descending into untamed bites and claiming slashes of teeth against soft, unmarked skin. You gasp as he bites, putting his mark into your body, startled by your own enjoyment, how arousal is swiftly rising to meet him, as much as you’re trying to pull away. “Rhys…” you pant, struggling half-heartedly beneath his touch, enjoying how his strength dominates you, a display of power so brutal and fundamental something warms in your chest.

He releases your wrists in favour of roughly gripping your skirts, almost tearing them as they’re shoved up your thighs, making way for him as he grips you tight, hoisting you up so your legs wrap around his hips—allowing him to press against your centre, purple fabric pooled around your waist. Instinctively your arms fly over his shoulders, and then his mouth is reclaiming your own, a flashing frenzy of tongue and teeth that knocks you clean off your feet, heart pounding from the assault on your senses, the ticklish pleasure still tingling across the erogenous skin at your throat.

Your fingers shakily tangle in his hair, and he snarls into the kiss, canines scraping over your lower lip before crushing back against your mouth, the damper on his power waring thinner, and thinner, pressure straining on your bones as you tremble. He’s never come this close to removing it completely around you, and it’s terrifying, your heart pounding in your chest, pulse spiking as you begin to get an understanding of what kind of beast you’ve been taunting.

“Rhys!” You gasp as his hand palms over your breast, grinding between your thighs as he again dips down to your throat, feeling your heightened pulse beneath his teeth. Tongue darting out to taste you.

Your hands stutter over him, torn between trying to pull him away and to tug him closer, to take more of him, startled by the ferocious hunger he’s subjecting you to, and the starvation it’s bringing forth in your own body.

His fingers effortlessly slide beneath your dress, but when they brush the golden string that’s clinging to your right hip, it’s like a bucket of icy water has been speared into your bloodstream. Your palms slam down against his shoulders, leveraging yourself against the wall as you shove at him enough to push him away by an inch or two, allowing your legs to unlock from his hips, standing on your own shaky feet again, nearly collapsing thanks to the sharply-angled heels.

“Rhys, stop,” you demand breathlessly, hands flat against his powerful chest, able to feel how his magic thrums dangerously around you, beating in time with his pulse in deadly waves. “Slow down,” you breathe, gazing up into intensely dark violet, practically plunging into icy indigo, his features turning glacial as he looks down at you, caged in, your cheeks warmed from arousal. He steps closer, crowding your space, and you tense up, abruptly aware of how that lethal strength could just as easily be used against you rather than with you.

“What is it?” He drawls, the tone having hairs rising on the back of your neck in warning, a long lost sense rising from the recesses of your mind to scream its horror at the creature before you, steadily emerging from beautifully carved skin. “I…Rhys, I’m not sure about this,” you answer honestly, hands trembling over his chest, trying to even out your breaths. “I’m sorry,” you fumble, “it’s all happening so quickly—I didn’t expect anything to happen tonight.”

“Is that why you’re wearing these?” He asks lowly, and you stiffen as his fingers brush over your hip, now covered again by your dress, but you know he’s talking about your underwear, how it matches the gold of your jewellery, complimenting the regal purple of your gown.

“I—…that was for me,” you mumble, flushing, shying away from the pressure within his gaze, how his attention crushes down upon you. “So I’d feel more confident around you.”

“Confident?” He remarks lowly, roughly, the slow drag of the word tingling down your spine. “So you always wear something matching whenever you feel unsure?” You falter, glancing away, hands lowering a little but remaining against him, anxious to keep him at bay for the moment. “I’m sorry if I misled you,” you manage, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “But I…if you’re only after sex, I can’t give you that.”

“You’d give more?” He asks breathlessly, pushing closer despite how you try to keep him away. “With someone else, I could manage a one-time thing,” you whisper, “but with you…”

A deep noise rumbles in his chest, male satisfaction resounding through you as your insides flutter, his hands coming to brace themselves on the wall, either side of your hips as he leans down, mere inches separating you. “You want something serious?” He asks quietly, roughly, and you nod, tilting your head to better see him.

His lips curve at the edges, pleased with your reply. “Then come with me,” he murmurs beside your ear, and your breaths stutter as his arousal wraps around you, stark and heady. His hand wraps around your wrist, making to take you elsewhere, but you pull against his hold. “I need you to slow down,” you manage firmly, getting stable footing on the ground—relatively stable, anyway.

“You were so eager a second ago,” he muses, the sonorous drawl returning, his eyes dark and deadly, able to scent your own arousal by now. He doesn’t release your wrist. “I’m allowed to change my mind,” you say firmly, lightly trying to pull away but to no avail. Either he doesn’t get the hint, or…you swallow thickly.

Violet eyes glint, a curve tilting the edges of his mouth. “And what have you changed your mind to?” He asks smoothly, as if indulging a child’s whim.

“I think a lot has happened tonight, and I want to go home and sleep on it,” you say, aware of how his touch is making your skin tingle. A strange weariness creeping over you, eyelids beginning to weigh as the adrenaline wares off.

A sadness flickers in his violet eyes, before it’s vanished, and he shakes his head. “I can’t stand it a moment longer,” he breathes, firmly pulling you into his body, knowing you’re unable to resist. His palm settles on your lower back, and you press your own hand to his chest in protest. “Rhys. Stop messing around,” you say, peering up at him, meeting hungry, dark eyes. “This isn’t funny. Let me go.”

“Lovely, little lamb,” he breathes, angling you so he can peer down at you, and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing intrusively into your middle. “You think I would joke when it comes to you?” He asks gently, violet eyes sweeping over you, and you shrink away, the ravenous lust making your legs feel weak. “I can hardly breathe right around you,” he whispers, “I ache for you. To feel you. To touch you. Don’t deny me for a second longer.”

Your lips part in shock, unable to formulate a response, and his eyes glint with approval, before he’s turning, forcefully dragging you from the room, hand shackled around your wrist as you try to struggle against him, to rip yourself from his hold, but he refuses to budge. You might as well be fighting against iron for how much give he allows.

“Rhys,” you call sharply, tugging away. “Rhysand!” You try grabbing onto a banister, but he’s too strong, and your hold slips away, heels practically clawing lines into the floorboards as you try to lean against him, to counterweight his force—to no avail. “Rhys let me go,” you bark, surging forward abruptly in attempt to knock into him, but he’s been trained as a warrior since birth, and has no difficulty in remaining stable.

“Stop struggling,” he demands lowly, piercing violet pinning you to the floor, and you’re utterly helpless as he effortlessly puts you over his shoulder, sweeping you off your feet with devastating ease. You start kicking, slamming your fists against his back, aiming either side of his spine as you scream at him to put you down, trying to dig your nails into his skin, to rip through his clothes to scratch and slice at him.

You recoil into yourself when his palm connects with your hind, body going taut as you freeze, horror and terror paralysing you, and he chuckles lowly. “Like that?” He asks, voice deeper, and your stomach drops when he reaches a bedroom, able to watch as the door clicks shut.

“Rhys,” you whisper, fear pounding through your veins. “Rhys, put me down.”

Panic roils in your gut as you’re roughly thrown down from his shoulder, knees pressing together as you land on the softness of his mattress, crisp sheets rustling as you try to squirm away from him, pushing further up the bed. “Rhys— Rhys listen to me,” you try, but he ignores you, looming like a nightmare as he grips your ankle, dragging you back toward him.

“Relax,” he muses, fingers biting into your skin as he pushes the deep purple of your dress higher, until you’re certain he’ll be able to see the gold material clinging between your thighs, presented with a perfect view between your legs. “You’ll feel good. You know you’ll feel good.”

“Rhys, fuck off!” You bark, voice shaking with terror, pressure building behind your eyes. “You can’t fucking do this. Just because she did it to you doesn’t mean you have the right to inflict it on other people.”

He snarls lowly at that, pinning you down in an instant, easily slotting between your thighs, his powerful body keeping you where he wants with ease. “I thought you cared, huh? I thought you were eager to be with me. What happened to that, hm?”

“You’re sick, Rhys,” you hiss, “this is sick. You’re fucking insane.”

“It’s okay to be a little insane,” he drawls, mimicking your earlier words of comfort, given in attempts to help him, but in doing so dooming yourself. “It’s more than a little,” you hiss, teeth flashing as you try to kick him off you, but he’s pressing himself flush between your thighs, leaving you without a hope in hell.

“I deserve to be happy, don’t I?” He murmurs so softly over your mouth, and in any other context your heart would have broken at the question—that he would even have to ask. But, “not at my expense, Rhys,” you hiss, heat warming behind your eyes. “Not at our expense.”

“I’m not sacrificing us,” he counters quietly, hand coming up to grip your jaw. “I’m joining us together.” He rolls his hips against yours, feeling him against your sex, how the pressure grinds over your clit, deliciously traitorous heat gathering in response, and you’re utterly helpless as his lips curve into a slight grin, sadism gleaming from deep within his violent gaze.

“I don’t want to join with you,” you spit back, trying to push him away, but darkness gathers on his bed, keeping your wrists bound to the mattress as he lowers his mouth to your throat, kissing and biting his way down your skin, painting a pathway of bruises while his hands glide up your thighs, catching beneath the material of your dress. His lips brush the hem of its neckline, and then he’s smoothly pulling it away, leaving you practically bare.

Your High Lord pulls back, tan skin flushed, pupils dilated with dizzying hunger as he gazes down at his prey, the golden fabric clinging to your hips as you squirm, ankles wrapped in that gilded string, keeping your heels in place, the elegant little chains decorating your wrists, settling around your throat. He groans lowly, rough palms splaying over your waist, resting there gently as he rolls his hips against you, into you, taking his time pulling you apart. Savouring your struggle.

“You were desperate for it minutes ago,” he drawls lowly, right palm raising over your stomach, the pads of his fingers brushing with a feather-light touch upward, starting from your lower abdomen, gliding slowly to your sternum, pleased to feel how your breath hitches beneath his touch. “You’ll be desperate again soon enough.”

“Go to hell, Rhys,” you manage, lip curling back to showcase sharp canines—a set he’d gladly allow to pierce his skin. The only set he’d allow to mark him ever again. “This isn’t fucking okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” he breathes, and your throat rolls heavily as his fingers begin the slow, torturous descent back down your body, trailing over your abdomen, stroking down over the golden fabric, running lightly over your centre. “It’s better.”

Heat flushes your skin as his rough palms grip the underside of your thighs, just above your knees, raising your legs up and out of the way, pressing them close to your torso so he has more room. Callouses drag against your skin, a reminder of his strength, the warrior that’s concealed beneath his finely tailored exterior. He is the embodiment of power.

“Rhys, stop,” you breathe as he settles at the edge of the bed, violet eyes hungrily licking over your clothed sex. You squirm, trying to shift your hips, but his lips brush over your abdomen, and then his teeth are clasping the band of your underwear. He gazes up at you intently, slowly dragging it back—tauntingly; teasingly—until he releases it to snap back against your skin.

“Rhys…” you murmur shakily, the understanding finally beginning to dawn across you that he might go through with it. “Rhys, please. You’re better than this.” Violet gleams with ravenous hunger, dark and starved, and he presses forward, mouth a breath’s width from your sex. “Shall I show you how much better I can be?”

You swallow thickly beneath that look, but manage to nod your head. If you can just get him to pull away, to remove the bonds of your wrists…

Your lips part in a sharp gasp, writhing beneath him as he presses his face between your legs, violet eyes closing as he takes in his own heaven, submerging himself in your scent, your heat. You try to buck away from him, to get further from his mouth, but it only serves to make you more aware of how he’s invading, though his grip has lessened on your thighs.

He exhales heavily, contentedly, shifting between your legs and your muscles coil tense, nails piercing your palms as his nose brushes against… Your toes curl, thighs trying to press together, to ward him away, but he keeps you spread apart effortlessly.

Eventually he pulls back, violet eyes glued to your clothed sex as his fingers hook in the golden strings lacing over your hips, slowly pulling them away. His gaze practically glows, pupils dilating as he peels away the wet material, shame and humiliation burning hot in your gut. Eyes flick up to you, and you force yourself to meet them, to not yield and look away—to not admit defeat. “You’re wet,” he breathes lowly, roughly, depthless hunger swirling in the pits of his pupils. “That means nothing,” you hiss, trying to writhe away from him, fearing what practices his mind will conjure. “I think it means quite a lot more than that, darling,” he breathes, pulling your underwear away completely, then pressing it back to your heat.

You inhale sharply as his fingers run up over you, slow but firm strokes, circling your entrance through the golden fabric, and your pulse spikes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing now?” You snap, voice shaking with fear, darkness now banding around beneath your knees to keep them apart as he stands, peeling your underwear away. Embarrassment flushes your skin when you catch their gleam, how thoroughly soaked they are.

Rhys’s cruel mouth curves, and you writhe on his bed, trying to turn away as he pushes the wet material between your lips, long fingers prying them apart. Your tongue recoils, trying to pull away, but his grin widens, a pleasured sound coming from deep within his chest as he feels you struggle. “Do you taste good?” He asks lowly, fingers stroking over your tongue, “like having that in your mouth? I bet you’re only getting wetter by the second,” he breathes, pupils fully dilated.

You release a sound that should be disgusted, but comes out as more of a whimper. His breath catches at the noise, able to see how his cock is straining against his trousers but he leaves himself unattended—for now.

He returns between your legs, and a noise between a whimper and a snarl rips from your throat, heat flaring across your skin as he licks up your centre, broad palms keeping your thighs absolutely open for him to indulge.

“Rhys,” you panic, feeling pressure build behind your eyes, managing to spit out the fabric that had been gagging you. “Rhys please. Please stop. We can— We can figure something out—”

His tongue swipes over your clit, making you jolt and squirm, trying desperately to thrash against his hold but it’s like being chained up, his grip stricter than iron as he applies himself, suckling at the impossibly sensitive part effortlessly, as if he’s familiar with how your body works. As if he knows already exactly where to touch, suck, and fuck to have you drooling dumb.

Breaths pant from your lips, hips wiggling as one hand trails down your thigh, and you know exactly what he’s planning to do with those long, dexterous fingers of his…exactly how they’ll feel inside of you, how they’ll know where to push and rub at to have you dripping onto his knuckles.

“You want me to stop?” He breathes lowly, roughly, thumbing at your entrance, liking how you tighten around nothing as if eager to invite him in. “You know I could make you feel like an immortal,” he growls, mouth prone to attach your clit with his tongue and teeth should you try to rebuke him. “I could take you higher…further than anyone’s ever taken you before.”

“I don’t fucking want it,” you hiss, lip curled as heat wets your eyes, trying to blink away the hot tears in favour of sending him a look of pure hatred.

Rhys blinks his violet eyes, then smiles, pulling away.

“Give me five minutes?” He muses lowly, a starving glint in his gaze, darkened and scheming. You snarl, then inhale sharply when the darkness releases you, completely freeing you. Immediately you sit upright, pulling your legs together, but refusing to cower before him—keeping your hands at your sides, gripping the sheets to prevent yourself from recoiling physically.

“You don’t deserve a single second of my time,” you spit, blinking away the tears as you snarl. “I regret how much I’ve already spent on you.”

“Not even a single second?” He laughs, hands sliding calmly into the pockets of his finely tailored trouser, perfectly encapsulating the raw power contained within his body. “I’m not sure if I can take you there in an instant without hurting you somewhere,” he drawls almost apologetically, but his violet eyes spark. “But if that’s all you’ll give me…” he murmurs, softer than a breath.

Your breathing pattern spikes, heat flushing intently beneath his gaze. Talons swiftly enter your mind, and you’re utterly helpless as your body starts to tremble, terrifying heat swelling with such ferocity your vision goes tilted, muscles feeling like custard as you fall back into the bed. Your spine arches on its own, toes curling eyes squeezing shut as he plies the orgasm from your body, easing out your pleasure while he stands at the foot of the bed, idly licking at the pad of his thumb that had prodded against your entrance.

Your lips part as it intensifies, and you scramble, thrashing in the bed, a choked noise erupting from your chest as you feel the high in your entire body, like there are hands touching, feeling all across your body, tongues lapping over your nipples, sets of teeth biting at your throat, lips sealing over your clit as fingers pump and curl inside of you.

The scream rises swiftly, limbs trembling violently as sweat is forced through your skin from the abrupt intensity, the orgasm absolutely devastating as you lose all control of yourself, moaning unabashedly as those feelings are drawn out—as Rhysand draws them out. His fingers the ones inside of you, his teeth piercing your skin, his tongue circling your clit.

“Do you want it to stop,” he muses, unable to help licking his lips at the obscene sight before him, the scent of it filtrating into his blood, rushing straight to his cock, hot and heavy between his legs.

The words jumble and melt across your mind, splashing like melted butter into your head, and struggle—for what? For more? For more.

He chuckles lowly, and you scream as he forces you through a second one, having it break like the surf across jagged rocks, arousal dripping down your thighs, webbing between your legs as you try to press them together only for the darkness to spread you apart. Definitely more than wet enough to fill a shot glass or two.

You pant heavily. Ragged, gasping breaths as wild heat ravishes your skin, pleasure bursting at the seams of your body, a perfectly ripe fruit dripping with flavour, ready to break beneath the slightest pressure from a set of sharp, piercing canines the second they graze your skin. And Rhysand is more than happy to bite.

Your eyes are squeezed shut tight, so you can only feel the mattress dip as he prowls up onto the bed, pinning you down, caging you effortlessly between his powerful, ruining arms.

The High Lord allows your orgasm to wash away slowly, bringing you back to the plane of reality he’s on, your skin hot and dewy from the intense pleasure he’s forced you full of. Your lids flutter, eyes struggling to lock onto his as violet pierces into you, doing nothing to hide the deep-rooted hunger that’s tearing him apart. He moves lazily, with the leisure one can move with when they’re in no rush, yet you can sense that undercurrent, the riptide within him that you’ve been caught in, at last dawning on you. The only other tell aside from his actions and confessions, is the strain in his jaw, wound tight as he gazes down at you, eyes so dark they’re closer to being entirely black as shadow and darkness writhes around you in a great, slithering mass, tangling with you on the bed.

“I think you’re more than ready now,” he whispers, the words dragging like gravel across bare, sensitive skin. “Are you ready?”

Tears spill down your cheeks, so turned around you feel entirely out of control. All you can remember is the sizzling burn of pleasure, the electrifying tingle of heat as it sears through your thighs, making your body feel weightless, like you’re above the clouds and bathing in starlight…starlight that’s hot and wet, that trickles down the naked planes of your body…that slips and slides where your fingers drag through it…that tastes like power and possession…laced through with iridescent violet…

A rough laugh drags from the High Lord’s throat, sensing your pleasure-induced daze, facing not even an ounce of resistance as he gently flips you over on the bed, the side of your face pressing into the soft fullness of one of the pillows, saliva pooling inside your cheek, drooling out onto the cotton as he pushes your thighs apart.

He curses lowly, eyeing the mess between your thighs, wanting more than anything to pull you to the edge of his bed, or flip you around again so you’re spread out on top of him, suspended in the air for him to play with and touch. So he can kiss, lick, bite wherever on your body he likes, so he can press his face between your legs, so he can take his time learning the pace you most like his tongue circling your clit, the pressure to apply that will most swiftly lead you to orgasm, the spots inside of you he should rub against if he wants you to soak him.

But he doesn’t. He’s waited too long.

Besides, after tonight, he can do whatever he pleases; you’ll be his. If he wants to dangle you from the ceiling while exploring your skin, if he wants to bind you to his bed while he kisses up your thighs, if he wants to seat you in his lap while he strokes his tongue against your own…he can. The thought has him growling lowly, dark power writhing beneath his skin, aching to manifest with talons and large, spanning wings, to allow proper canines to slide from his upper lip and his skin to become dark and leathery; to yield to his baser side.

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, confused but aroused, and his cock twitches between his legs in response. Trailing a hand up the path of your spine, darkness gathers your wrists in a light coil, bringing them to cross at your back, and he swallows thickly at the imagery. Unable to entirely help himself, having only ever witnessed these events within fantasy, the darkness wraps itself also beneath your shins, raising them from the bed until your calves are pressing to the backs of your thighs, legs bent at the knee.

Breathing deeply, he pulls himself free, noting the slight tremors that run through your body, shuddering lightly from the aftershocks of pleasure, trembling beneath the beast who’s got you at his mercy. So out of it you can hardly understand what’s happening, reduced to a panting, drooling mess. A groan of pleasure rasps from his chest, guiding his tip to your entrance, and slowly…slowly easing in.

Your breaths stutter, small noises whimpering from your lips as your lids flutter with confusion, and he applies a light pressure to the base of your spine, having you curve lightly beneath him as he goes in…and in…and in. His breath fans against the nape of your neck, lips skimming the shell of your ear, and tears spill from your eyes, unable to help as you cry, unable to understand why after having had your mind so thoroughly toyed with.

Rhysand shifts, his forearm banding beneath your stomach to raise you up onto shaky knees, legs still bound while your face presses into the pillow, allowing him to press the entirety of himself inside, his hips meeting the backs of your thighs, at last finding home for that last inch he couldn’t fit into you when you were on your front. You whimper at the stretch, the fullness, the strange pleasure from having no space left inside of you. His lips press to the bare skin of the top of your shoulder, skimming the thin golden chain that remains loosely around your throat.

“So good,” he whispers beside you ear, voice shuddering as he presses his face to the crook of your shoulder, inhaling the thickness of your scent—he could come from that alone, from how you’re squeezing him, the pliancy of your body. “I knew you’d fit me perfectly, and feel how right I was.”

He shifts his weight, and your toes curl lightly, squirming beneath the pleasure, and Rhys can sense it will be a struggle to move, to gather the energy to bring a greater pleasure to both of you. It feels so good as it is, he almost doesn’t want to move, to simply bask in the wet heat of your cunt, the lost familiarity of your scent, the way your body slots so perfectly beneath his own.

You’re struggling internally, grappling for consciousness but overwhelmed by the pleasure he’s forcing into you. You can feel everything that’s happening, feel every thick inch of him that he’s pushed into you, yet can hardly even lift a finger to stop it, tears growing larger as they quietly wet the cotton of the pillow.

“Gods, you were fucking made for me,” he breathes roughly, sounding almost pained as he hoarsely whispers the confession of thought, and it has enough disgust gathering in the pit of your stomach to push you to the forefront of your mind, resurfacing and gasping for breath as you tense, awareness coursing through your blood, suddenly so acutely aware of every place you’re pressed together, every intimate touch of bare skin, and you try to recoil, to squirm away from him.

“Rhys get off me,” you hiss lowly, crying harder as you try to free yourself, but his shadows hold tight, keeping your wrapped up beneath him, physically unable to push him away or to claw at him as you would like to. Your cheek presses into the pillow, neck straining from the uncomfortable angle, the weight being pushed onto your shoulders from the position, and your gaze meets with dominating, depthless violet. You try to thrash, try to writhe away, but you can manage little more than a shift of your hips with the way he’s holding you.

“Aware again?” He murmurs softly, holding you a little tighter, pulling his hips back by a few inches, just to let you really feel as he presses back inside, cock touching against a sensitive spot that has a quiet sob escaping from your throat. “You were enjoying it so much,” he whispers cruelly, like a malevolent spirit urging you toward evil, silently goading and encouraging you away from the good, and instead forward into the bad. “Relax,” he muses besides your ear, your spine unwillingly arching as a shiver ghosts up your back.

Words of hate, of fury and disgust sit ready on your tongue, but he pulls his hips back again, and the breath you take is one you would breathe down before being dragged under a river’s icy surface. One you would take, knowing it might be your last.

He pulls out to his tip, then roughly pushes back in, pushing you into the pillow, and all sense is knocked from your head.

All sense from his, too.

A low growl rumbles through his chest, constraints dissolving to dust and ash as discipline crumbles like sand, disintegrating into nothing as both his hands roughly grip your hips, pulling back to slam into you. Deep, rough, thorough strokes that have his cock hitting spots inside of you, drool slipping over your lips as he fucks the protests out of your mind—fucks the moans from your mouth.

Your vision changes, unable to understand anything you’re seeing through the pure haze of pleasure, unable to take anymore after the two he’d forced through you without having to so much as trace the pad of his finger over your clit. And now he’s pounding into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, filling you up all the while you’re bound and tied, shackled and caged beneath him. For him to use as he pleases.

Tingling heat coils in the pit of your belly, and you’re not sure whether you would prefer the gathering orgasm to be of your own making or his. Whether you would rather it be your body naturally responding to his cruel, dominating pleasure, or for his daemati hands to have slipped into your mind again, fingers easing the puppet-strings to move in the correct formation to have the high rising so swiftly. You hardly have the capacity to consider the thought before it’s banished from your mind, darkness widening the stance of your knees on the mattress so they can twine between your legs, pushing and rubbing at your clit, slick and precum having mixed together, dripping down, slowly making you gleam with arousal that the darkness now uses to catapult you into the orgasm. Shoving you mercilessly into the boiling tempest of pleasure, holding your head below the raging waters so as to drown you in euphoria, to having it fill your lungs and burn at your eyes as it passes through your body.

Rhysand feels you trembling, crying out as you flutter and squeeze him, finding his own high with yours, canines flashing in a barely restrained snarl, teeth biting down into the appetising slope of your shoulder. He feels it as he spills inside of you, hot spurts of cum releasing from him directly into your cunt, and he continues bucking his hips to keep it all pressed deep inside, sloppily grinding against you until your body has ceased its shudders and you’re panting quietly, tears still dripping down your cheeks, nails having bitten deep into your palms but he doubts you’re at all aware of the pain in the moment.

The High Lord curses lowly, breathless as he pulls out of you, seeing how he’s coated in your arousal, wrapped in the evidence of your orgasm, a fresh wave of pleasure having soaked him in your slick, slightly creamy from his cum mixing in. He groans lowly, canine finding place in the corner of his lip as he bites lightly, stroking himself experimentally, then gritting his teeth from sensitivity.

Rhysand glances down at you, ass still kept in the air, trembling; unable to move yet from his shadows, and at once the hunger is renewed, grip tightening on himself as he hardens again. Arousal gathers within him, and he moves almost without thinking, guiding himself back to your entrance, despite how you cry as you feel him begin to push back in, forgetting you will be about to endure a fourth orgasm in less than quarter of an hour, while he is only starting on his second.

You cry out as he firmly presses back in, once again shoving the air from your lungs, and you flinch as the heel of his palm presses hard against the nape of your neck, thumb to one side while his fingers settle on the other, chaining you to the bed by your throat, and allowing him to… You swallow thickly, but struggle with his weight leaning on you.

“Rhys…” you rasp, panic setting in, realising what differences this will make; knowing you can’t take it. “Rhys… Rhys…!” You struggle frantically, arms tugging at the restraints as you try everything you can think of: thrashing against the bonds of your wrists, trying to rock your body side to side to turn over, using all your trembling strength to try and pull your legs free… “Rhys, please…Rhys listen—listen to me,” you cry, fingers moving as if trying to scratch him.

He pays you no mind, grip hardening on the nape of your neck as he pushes in, finding his pace again, following his own instincts this time, the feeling of your orgasm on his cock, how you’d fluttered around him…he’s undone.

Your breath turns more ragged, heart pounding as he increases the pace, feeling inside as it becomes rougher, more feral, more unrestrained, the damper of his power clean off as darkness sprawls across the bed. The rhythm becomes punishing, brutal bucks of his hips, and you nearly scream as he takes advantage of the position, putting his weight behind each thrust, pinning you down by your neck, fucking you into his bed with a conviction that’s obsessive.

Nails dig into your palms, muscles going taut as darkness presses to your clit, rubbing in mean, tight circles, far too harsh for how sensitive you are, thighs shaking with the cruel stimulation. You’re utterly helpless to the way your spine curves, how your toes curl, how you tighten around him with how good it feels—being so roughly treated, pleasure being so mercilessly infused into your body.

And this time, you know he’s tampering with your mind.

You scream as you come again, cock driving into you over and over until your voice gives out, his hips bucking into you in a way that has you forgetting the circumstances, silently begging for it not to end, to not let the pleasure slip away.

A dark grin curves his hellish mouth, daemati fingers effortlessly plucking on the puppet-strings, dragging the high out just as you’d silently prayed for.

But a mind can only take so much tampering. The High Lord knows this, had warned you about it himself before he’d pulled the first two from you. Yet in his haze, caught in his hunger, all he hears are your pleas, and his own mind is helpless to give more and more and more.

It’s only after he’s flipped you over, fucked you full, and sealed his mouth against your own that he realises you’ve passed out, mind exhausted from his relentless ministrations. He doesn’t want to stop, but he knows he can’t continue.

Gazing down at your body, head tipped to the side, your eyes already slightly puffy from crying, he feels a slight ache within his chest. He’s old enough to recognise regret when it appears, the cloying heaviness of guilt that’s so difficult to shake.

He brushes hair from your cheek, wet with saliva, and his thumb traces the curve beneath your lower lip, regaining his breath as he quietly looks over you. You’ll need to rest, to recuperate after the night. As much as he wants to keep you in his own bed, it will only make more damage, and he’s caused enough for the time being. Anymore and he might struggle to fix it.

As it is, he allows himself a few more minutes, leaning over your pliant body, brow pressing to your own as he cups your jaw. He supposes it’s a prayer of his own, though he can’t guess what to.

He’s not sure he wants to pray to something that would listen to him.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[starfall-spirit]

“Is that what you want from me? Do you want me to beg and plead you come home to me? Do you want to see me on my knees for you? Should I grovel, love?”

“It would certainly be a new look for you, wouldn’t it?” she spat.

Ignoring Elain’s squeak, she shoved at his arm to escape his hold, fiddling with anything and everything that was already in its perfect place to ignore the male behind her as best she could. The next time she turned around he didn’t give her the choice of distancing herself.

One hand caught her hip, the other cupping her face. Though his touch was loose and gentle, after weeks apart she was helpless against the pull of their bond. She sank into his chest, trembling slightly, finding that thread between them raw and open. “Darling.” There was a tentativeness to his voice she’d never once heard. Not in their most vulnerable moments Under the Mountain and certainly not in their time together in Velaris. “I’m sorry.” His right hand slid up, winding in her hair to keep her eyes level with his. “You need to know, you are worth more than what you thought I needed. I’ll have you as my mate—my High Lady—or not at all.”

~~~~~

A huge thank you to the brilliant @sarahsoba for making my Scheherazade!Feysand come to life.

She is such a wonderful person to work with.

Read The Silver Tongued Bride Ao3

Read Would You Like Me On My Knees? Ao3

[gardenfaerie222]

A Bouquet of Violets: Chapter 3

Pairing: Feysand

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Feyre is an undercover officer in PPD’s vice squad. Rhys is a mobster who runs a nightclub named velaris lounge. The police need evidence of his illegal transport of drugs and weapons, what they don’t know is no amount of evidence will ever bring him down.

Content Warning: cursing

Feyre woke up to a shrill ring coming from her phone. She groggily reached over, grabbing out for it and hitting just about everything on her nightstand before she finally reached it. Pulling it to her ear, she mumbled out a sleep ladened, “Hello?” closing her eyes and spreading out under the comforter, Tamlin long gone to work.

“Is this Feyre Archeron?” The sleep left her body immediately, Feyre recongnized the sharp voice of the hiring manager, Amren, who had interviewed her only yesterday.

“Um, yes,” Feyre responded, “this is she,” she sat up, pushing the comforter off her sweaty body, immediately wanting to peel the pijamas she was wearing off.

Amren signed into the microphone, and Feyre could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, obviously irritated, which seemed like a good sign, “We would like to offer you the job, if you could come down today to sign some paperwork, you can start tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Feyre smiled, “I’ll come down around one in the afternoon, if that’s alright with you?”

“That’s fine,” Amren sounded even more annoyed with her, somehow, “Ask for Morrigan at the desk, she can get you the paperwork.”

The rest of the call ended quickly, and Feyre was quickly ready to leave after a shower and some breakfast. She was always happy when Tamlin worked, her chest felt lighter and she enjoyed being alone in their home. She loved him, truly she did, but sometimes he just didn’t seem to understand what was going on with her, or care. Like he couldn’t bother to see where she was coming from, especially if another man was involved somehow. She could never tell him about what actually happened the night Amarantha died, besides the fact he was the DA, he would never believe some random man decided to help her without some kind of… coercion. Feyre knew she wasn’t the one out of the two of them that was skilled in coercing people into doing stuff for them, but it didn’t matter. Her opinions didn’t really matter when Tamlin was around. The way she dressed, talked, acted, hell even breathed was dictated by him. Everything had to be just so, and it didn’t help that when she gave any kind of push back, Tamlin’s secretary, and her friend, was just as quick as Tamlin was to remind her everything he does for her and just how grateful she should be. Ianthe meant well, Feyre knew, but it still irritated her to no end that her friend always took her fiance’s side.

Feyre continued to mull over that as she drove across town to the Velaris Lounge, just as dark and beautiful as it had been the day before. She left a quick message for Eris before she went in, updating him that she had gotten the job and was filling out a fit of paperwork, no thanks to the shitty resume he had provided her. It felt like they were trying to get her killed. She pushed the thought out of her mind as she straightened her shoulders and pushed the door open, once again having to let her eyes adjust to the minimal light in the building. The same blonde was sitting at the front desk, and Feyre approached her giving her a tight smile, “I’m looking for Morrigan?” She asked hesitantly, “I was told I needed to get some paperwork from her? I got hired here this morning.”

“Oh yeah!” The blonde smiled, nodding in recognition, “Amren told me you’d be coming, I’m Morrigan, give me just one second I’ll grad that for you.” She stood from her chair with all the grace of a ballerina and Feyre was reminded of another beautiful blonde. Feyre glanced around the small area of the forye, grabbing a chair and placing her bag at her feet moments before Morrigan returned with a clipboard, some paperwork, and a pen, “Here you go, just fill out the first three pages, the rest are for you to take home,” Feyre nodded, quickly filling it out with all the bullshit information Eris had given her. She returned it to Morrigan, and smiled as she called out a quick, “See you tomorrow!” That Feyre nodded in response too with her own small smile.

She stopped at the store on the way back, picking up some clothing that fit the dress code, and the part, as she returned home and breathed a sigh of relief. No Tamlin. He must of had to work late, which she didn’t mind as she made dinner, saving him a plate before going to sleep. She slept fitfully that night, barely truly resting but managed to convince Tamlin she was already asleep when he came in, murmuring her name under his breath. She managed to fake it until his breath evened out and she continued to toss and turn, trying to get comfortable. She managed to get some rest, somehow, because when she sat up, Tamlin was gone again. She made herself busy, making a breakfast of blueberry muffins to hopefully sustain her through her first, very long, night. She sat on her couch for what felt like hours and probably was before she pulled herself up and started getting dressed. She wrinkled her nose at the outfit, feeling both exposed and uncomfortable in the micro mini skirt and the heeled knee-high boots. The top, a plain white tank top, would have been fine in not for everything else she was wearing. She quickly tossed a jacket over it before heading out the door, and for the third time in three days, to the opposite side of town towards the Velaris Lounge. It looked much more lively later in the afternoon, even if it definitely wasn’t the bustling nightclub it normally was at its prime time. Girls were coming in and out of the doors, all dressed similarly to Feyre which she appreciated. It made her feel less self-conscious knowing all the girls looked like her. She walked in giving small nods and smiles to the different girls as they opened their circle to include her.

“Hey!” A girl smiled at her, and Feyre returned it, this one wider than the timid ones she had been giving before, “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” Feyre nodded, “Yeah I applied the other day and did all my paperwork yesterday, so today is my first day,” she explained tugging her arms closer around her, still feeling moderately uncomfortable even if all the girls were dressed like her. The girl nodded in understanding, “you’ll get used to it,” she explained, gesturing to the clothing all the girls were wearing. She felt modest compared to some of the girl's outfits, but each one looked comfortable and confident, which we did not, “So,” the girl continued, most likely trying to distract Feyre from what was making her uncomfortable, “have you met the bosses?” Feyre shook her head no, and the girl grinned at that, “there’s three of them, brothers, and a few people under them after that but it’s the three brothers who everyone knows,” she explained, leaning in like she was telling Feyre a secret, “Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand,” Feyre frowned at the last name, twinging a memory she couldn’t fully recall before pushing it away. She listened to the girl explain how they were always respectful to the working girls, but if anyone ever tried to hurt or harass her, to just reminded them whose club they were in.

A different girl pipped in to tell Feyre to keep her head down, “You’re really pretty Feyre,” the girl told her, glancing around before continuing, “You’re working the top bar which is good because they’re normally in the bottom bar, but if one of the wants you, there’s nothing any of us can do to stop them, just keep your head down and try not to draw any attention to yourself.” Feyre nodded as sickness pooled in her stomach but she kept it down, flinching as a voice outside of the circle, but distinctly feminine called out, “You’re not talking about my cousin are you?”

“No, Mor,” The girl quickly responded and the group around Feyre dispersed, leaving only Morrigan and Feyre staring at each other.

“They’re not as bad as they say,’ Morrigan told her quietly, nodding at Feyre to follow her upstairs into the top bar, “the girls were just trying to scare you, those boys wouldn’t ever hurt a girl who works here.”

“I’m sorry Morrigan I didn’t know they were your cousins and I-” Mor cut her off, furrowing her eyebrows at her.

“It’s just Mor, Feyre, you don’t need to call me by my god-given name,” She laughed slightly, which made Feyre lighten up a little as well.

They started training that day, and every day after that for two weeks. Feyre learned that Mor worked the top bar and the bottom bar, one was open to the public, and the other was private, a bar specifically for crime to take place. Feyre, of course, wasn’t allowed down there during her training. Mor told her she had to get used to the top bar before she could graduate to the bottom bar, but Feyre had a sinking feeling it might have something to do with the icy glare Amren gave her every time she poked her head out of the elevator, looking for Mor whenever Feyre arrived for her shift. Feyre supposed it was fair for Amren to be suspicious, she was here undercover for the police department, but no one knew that. Feyre was receiving the same icy glare right now, as she stepped out of the elevator and into the wide open room. “I’m looking for Mor?” She called, glancing around as her eyes landed on a table full of guns and ammo, and in a corner a group of laughing friends doing drugs. Her eyes were quickly diverted as Amren grabbed her arm, leading her away from the scene Feyre couldn’t tear her eyes away from, “What are you doing down here, girl?” Amren hissed at her, her eyes flickering with violence making Feyre’s hands shake but she kept her voice steady. “I’m looking for Mor,” She explained, glancing behind her to see if she could catch a flash of blonde hair, or a rough estimate of how many guns were on the table. Amren shoved her into an office, snarling, “Just wait here,” she ordered, before slamming the door shut behind her. Feyre glanced around the office, noting the filing cabinets and impressive desk, with a leather chair behind it. Feyre took less than a moment to think it over before she headed towards the filing cabinet and flipped through some of the documents she found in there, weapons orders, drug running, hits, everything was in there, she was reaching to pull her phone out and take pictures when she heard to door open, making her turn on her heels and slam the cabinet behind her closed as she took in the man in front of her. “You,” she gaped, staring at him in shock, suddenly remembering why the name Rhysand sounded so familiar, this was the man who helped her cover up a murder. “You could have called,” He said breezily, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him, “Instead of breaking into my office.”

“I didn’t break in,” Feyre sniffed, crossing her arms, “Amren put me in here because I was looking for Mor.” “Well, Feyre darling,” Rhysand started, a smirk playing on his full lips, “I don’t think Mor is hiding in my filing cabinet.” “Obviously,” Feyre huffed, ignoring the way his eyes were raking up and down her body, making her cross her arms tighter and glace away in disgust. She breathed a sigh of relief when Mor pushed the door open herself, not missing the look of surprise Mor quickly covered as she found both Feyre and Rhysand standing in the room.

“C’mon Feyre,” Mor spoke softly as she ushered her out the door. Feyre huffed as she heard Rhysand call after her, “Nice seeing you Feyre, darling,” her nostrils flared as she stomped behind Mor. She was not getting paid enough for this job. Not by a million.

A/N: The formatting on this chapter is messed up but I don't even know how to fix it, anyways, enjoy :) Rhysie is back

[aphroditelovesu]

Yandere Rhysand Headcanons (General)

"You're mine, but if you don't agree, maybe I should convince you to accept it." — Rhysand.

❝ ⭐ — lady l: I've been thinking about him a lot lately, so take a few hcs of him 😇. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💜

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, manipulation, loss of mortality (?), mention of kidnapping and death.

❝⭐pairing: yandere!rhysand x gender neutral!reader.

Rhysand has lost a lot during his life and has experienced and witnessed unimaginable horrors. These experiences, these memories, made him who he is. Having lived a large part of his life witnessing cruelties and committing some of them, he never thought he could become so passionate, so obsessed with someone.

But you attracted him in a way no one ever had before. Maybe you might be his mate or someone he really grew to adore, but you were his. You became his the moment your eyes met his.

Your touch, your presence, everything about him yearned for you. He wondered how someone like you could love someone like him, marked by darkness and pain. But it didn't matter, because he was determined to protect you, to love you in a way he never thought he was capable of.

You became his light, his reason to fight the shadows that haunted him. And despite all the suffering he carried, he found comfort in your arms, knowing that, with you, he had finally found something he could love for his entire immortal life.

Rhysand tries his best to contain his obsession to himself, his darkest thoughts and feelings towards you because he knows they're not right. He's fully aware that this is wrong, that the way he feels isn't normal, but... He can't control it. He can't control what he feels.

You make him doubt his own morals, make him question how he should really think and feel. Everything he believes becomes wrong when you enter his life. Rhys knows it's wrong to force someone to be with him but then why does it feel so right to you? Why does the way your fingers intertwine with his feel so right?

Rhysand isn't the type to kidnap you on sight, no, he'll only do it if he really has no choice. He may try to manipulate you, offer you to live with him in Velaris, or offer you a job and a place in the Inner Circle. He will subtly try to make you get used to him and the people in his life.

Rhys is a master at manipulation and lies, and although he doesn't like manipulating you, he will if you are defiant. With his daemati powers, he can easily invade your mind and force you to do things you don't want to do. Even if you have strong mental walls, he can still break through your defenses. It's not something he wants to do, but he's not against it either.

He is a High Lord and he wants to have control over everything. About his Court and about you. Rhysand is controlling by nature and the idea of ​​not being able to keep you under his control leaves him distraught. Like a thorn in his skin, he will be uncomfortable with this. You need to be his, even if it's not of your own free will.

To say Rhysand is possessive is an understatement, he is completely possessive and jealous over you. Just the idea of ​​you being close to someone other than him makes him furious. Fae males are known for being possessive and he's no different. He will have no qualms about killing anyone who gets too close to you. You are his, let that be clearly marked in your head.

If you're human, he'll probably find a way to turn you into a fae. Maybe using the Cauldron's powers or combining those of the other High Lords, but you won't die. He will make sure of it.

Because he is a complete manipulator, Rhys can use his mental powers to drive people away from you. He can easily slip through their minds and make them hate you, and despise you. Your friends and family have become repulsed by you, all thanks to him. And when you finally go into his arms for comfort, Rhysand will be satisfied. He is the only one for you.

You will be intensely pampered. Rhys loves giving you gifts, from expensive and rare jewelry to anything. You will be spoiled and adored by him. Massages, food, anything you want will be yours. Just ask and he will give it to you. Everything to make you happy. Speaking of which, Rhys would probably love to take care of your wardrobe. He would choose your clothes and they would always match his.

Once Rhysand became obsessed with you, your life would take an unexpected turn. As much as he wants you to be with him willingly, he will have no problem forcing you to do so. Maybe he feels bad, but seeing you next to him makes him forget it quickly. There is no way to escape him, Rhysand is the most powerful High Lord in history and has very competent means of bringing you back. You're stuck with him for the rest of your immortality.

He would destroy the world behind you and anyone who tries to help you will also be destroyed. But if you play your cards right, you could end up becoming his consort and without any kind of freedom or privacy.

[vellichor01]

I'm sorry my wips take so long to post. I'm working on a Dark!Rhys fic rn. I may post the moodboard and a blurb later just to post something. But bc of work and wedding planning and everything else, I can't write a whole lot at one time so it's generally 200 or so words at a time. Hopefully I'll be able to get it published soon

[rhys-ravenfeather]

I had a vision.

[zanephillips]

Rhys Wakefield and Freddie Stroma After the Dark (2013)

[wedarkacademia]

“I had two longings and one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to be always alone.”

― Jean Rhys

[littlefeltsparrow]

Feyre’s arrogance is actively cultivated by the Inner Circle because it lets them contain her in a bubble of ignorance. If Feyre feels sure of her authority as High Lady, then she trusts that the Inner Circle will be subject to her power and never betray her. That illusion makes it easy to undermine her, because she is convinced of her security in their world. Her naïveté, coupled with her rapid rise to power makes her easy to persuade and manipulate.

Also, Feyre’s alignment with masculine power makes her think that she no longer needs feminine solidarity/sisterhood which isolates her even further. Lording her power over her sisters pushes them further away and prevents the Archeron sisters from fully uniting with one another. Her willful blindness to the injustice of Nesta’s plight is a way of convincing herself of her authority and the false idea that she could never be subject to such treatment.

[thebellekeys]

Ember Quinlan is the realest one for stepping into Prythian just for five seconds and realizing how horrifying Rhys and his treatment toward Nesta are.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Obsidian Salt III

Summary: Demon!Rhys' plan for the Solstice comes to a head

Content Warnings: Dark!Rhys, Mental Manipulation, DubCon, Slight NSFW; a dash of slut-shaming/body issues; mentions of blood and burns, nothing super graphic.

Part One / Part Two

-------

There is only one thing I can be absolutely certain of: I have no control of my body. Flames dance from my fingers, the color and shape of them wrong. It’s not the orange and yellow hues it should be, but shades of blue and purple that don’t burn, no matter how much pours from my fingers. My skin doesn’t blister. The heat doesn’t touch me. Stranger still, I can’t feel the pull in my chest that tells me I’m using too much energy, even though I should. The words on my lips are a spell in a language I know I don’t speak, but they flow off my tongue as if it is all I have ever known. 

Worse still, I can’t remember what it is exactly that I do and don’t know. There is only this thick darkness in my skull and the flames that glitter around my fingers like tiny Sprites. There is nothing before this, and nothing ahead of this. Only now, watching the pile of tomes and old books burn on the charred forest floor. A blood moon rises swiftly ahead of us.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Witchling?” My companion’s voice is a lover’s purr, rich and silky next to my ear as he watches from over my shoulder. I can’t remember where or when I met him. All I know is that I want more of his approval. I think I might do anything for it as his hands settle on my hips. My head feels strangely empty of everything except him and the strange fog, but I don’t entirely mind the quiet, as long as I get the reward of his lips and body against my own.

“Mhm,” I hum, leaning back against the firm planes of him. 

His hands slide under my shirt and skim higher, his claw tipped hands drifting with enough pressure to make me shiver without drawing blood. “We’re almost free of them.”

I take my lower lip between my teeth and bite down against the whimper threatening to slip out of me as his hands come up to cup my breasts. My body is not my own because it’s his.  I crave every bit of affection he’ll give me, every touch and kiss and whisper of breath against my flushed skin feels like a gift. 

“Why start by burning books?” I ask, trying not to sound so needy by moaning like I want to when he gives my nipple a harsh tug. My body betrays me in the end, chest arching into his touch, practically begging for more.

“No spells to counter us,” he replies. I know he can feel my desperation, know he’s egging it on by rocking the hard length of his erection into the supple flesh of my ass, but his hands slide back down my body, robbing me of the pleasure I so furiously crave.

 His hands stop at my hips, claws dipping into my skin as he holds me in place. “Not yet, Little Witch. You’ll have your fun once we’re done here.” 

I tilt my head back against his shoulder, pouting, hoping he might change his mind as I rock my ass back into him. 

One of his hands leaves my hip to grab me firmly by the throat. “Don’t be greedy. You’ll take what I give you, when I decide to give it to you.”

My body freezes, held by some invisible grip even as he releases me. The loss of contact makes panic swell in my chest. “I’m sorry! I’ll focus.”

The hard lines of his face, distorted in the firelight, soften just a bit. “Good girl.”

The panic settles in my chest as the invisible grip on my body falls away. That’s better, even if he doesn’t put his hands on me again as he motions me away from the dying embers of our book pyre. At least I have him close. 

Rhys walks with his hands in his pockets now, wings tucked tight behind him. His gate is unhurried, as we stride through the quiet woods, the blood moon lighting the way. I think its arrival might be important, but I have no memories of why. 

“The witches will be gathering soon,” he says. “They’re expecting you.” 

Violet eyes glance over my attire and he adds, “You’ll need to change.”

I don’t question him as he steps onto a well worn trail and follows it all the way to a house. My house. The memory of it comes back into focus as if it had been lifted out of a fog, though it looks strange to me now. The runes along the foundation look like they were made by children, the wards they cast are flimsy at best. Strange, I’d always thought they were the best in the neighborhood.

“You see them as I see them,” he explains as he lifts a clawed hand and tears right through the glittering ward. “Key is in your pocket.”

Right. I slide my hand into the pocket of my jeans and find the key along with a couple crushed pieces of dried rosemary. What the hell was I doing with it? 

I slide the key into the lock and step into the dark house. It’s utterly silent, all the lights off. When I reach for the light switch, Rhys bats my hand away. “The neighbors don’t need to know we’re here.”

I somehow know my way around in the dark, even as the memory slowly returns, slipping out from the fog like a frightened prey animal. My room is the smallest, crammed into the attic, my footsteps echo on the stairs as we walk, but Rhys makes no sound. If anyone was in the house they would have assumed I was alone. Every once in a while I have to glance back over my shoulder to make sure he’s still there.

He only lets me turn the lights on in my cramped bedroom once he’s sure there are no windows to give us away. The sight of him having to duck to not slam his head against the slanted roof is amusing enough to make the risk worth it. He settles himself on my bed after a moment of knocking things around with his wings, long legs folded beneath him on my worn quilt, a frown crossing his handsome features.

“I’ve seen prison cells with more space,” he huffs.

I go to the wardrobe jammed in the corner, the old oak doors hanging on by a single, rusted hinge that squeaks when it opens. I wince as I start pushing old sweaters and jackets around, unsure of what I’m looking for. “What’s the dress code for this?”

The apex talon on his left wing scrapes against the wall, slashing through the worn wallpaper, and he huffs as he wraps the leathery membrane around himself like a cocoon. “Fucking witches. All so godsdamn small!”

Once he’s sure he’s not going to wreck anymore of the decor, he turns his attention back to me and I feel heat rush through me once more as those violet eyes roam over my body. “You’ll look good in black.”

A blush works its way up my cheeks as I start pushing pastel sweaters and multicolored t-shirts out of my way, looking for anything black. There’s a small, lacey thing tucked in the back and I have a distinct memory of someone telling me not to wear that to some function or another but the details or fuzzy. All I know is that someone, somewhere, made me feel small the last time I’d worn it. And I will never let anyone make me feel like that again.

I pull it out of the wardrobe and hold it out for Rhys to see. Something about him heightens all my worst emotions. My anger feels tenfold. My insecurities have tripled. I need him to quiet one and use the other, that much I do know.

His fangs glint in the witchlights the bob from the ceiling as he takes it in. “Certainly not the attire of a virgin sacrifice.”

A shadow from within the fog lets me see my grandmother’s threat from yesterday and I ball the dress in my hands up in my fists. “I’m no one’s sacrifice!” There’s something… different in my voice, and whatever it is makes the witchlights shutter. 

Rhys only grins triumphantly at the sight. “That’s my girl.” 

I take a shuddering breath to calm the pulsing of something I feel in my veins, something I can’t identify, something I don’t remember possessing before. Something that belongs to Rhys just as much as I do. It starts with a buzzing feeling in my spine, where his sigil sits. 

“I’m going to go change.” A tendril of shadow snakes out from underneath his wings and snags me by the wrist, pulling me towards where he sits on the bed before I can even take a step towards the door. 

“Why so shy?” He teases, wings unfolding enough for him to reach out a clawed hand and brush it against the buttons on my jeans. “What are you afraid I’ll see?”

I shiver at the contact, my legs moving on their own accord until my knees bump against the bed frame. He has such complete control over me, I don’t know if he even knows it. “I’m not afraid of anything!” I try to protest but my voice shakes when I speak.

He grins as his claws retract to let him pop the buttons open, large hands slowly pushing the loose fabric down my hips. It is an effort to stand still, to not climb into his lap and straddle him right here in my ratty bedroom. 

Once the fabric is past my thighs my jeans fall to the floor in a pool around my ankles on their own accord, his callused hands now stroking up my exposed flesh to reach for the hem of my sweater. I am no blushing virgin, but I have never been this aroused by a simple action before either. I find myself biting my lip as I watch the way his hands move over my body. I’m scared if I move too fast or make too much noise he’ll stop, just like he did earlier, leaving me empty and cold in the loss of his touch.

He leans forward on his knees, wings parting just enough to let him lean forward without batting into the walls, to brush his lips over my stomach as he removes the sweater inch by inch. Every second passes by like an hour, his kisses slow and unhurried as if we have all the time in the world. 

I squeeze my eyes shut as his lips ghost over my ribs, nose brushing up against the band of my bra. His lips are so plush and warm, I can’t help but wonder what they would feel like wrapped around my nipple. The thought makes heat pool between my legs and I instinctively clench my thighs together, looking for some form of friction to take the edge off.  

He nips teasingly at the valley between my breasts, but leaves my bra in place as he finally pushes the sweater over my head and onto the floor. “Aren’t you pretty,” he purrs.

I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, one hand braced on his muscular shoulder to keep myself from falling directly into his lap. I need to kiss him. I need to have his lips back on mine.

He chuckles wickedly as he stops me with a hand on my throat, squeezing just enough to halt my movements. “What did we talk about earlier, hm?”

“Please, Rhys,” I whimper.

“After we’re done,” he promises, unbothered by the effect he has on me, knowing I’m so totally at his mercy and desperate for any attention. I think he likes keeping me here. Likes knowing he can dangle pleasure within reach and then rip it away from me before I can truly have a taste. It might be the most effective way to keep me from looking into what we’re doing and I am a fool who keeps falling for it, but anytime I start to question why I allow it, the fog returns in my head and all the questions disappear in a rush. Just as they do now.

My eyes feel heavy and my head empty as I nod, the movements of my body foreign, like a puppet being jerked around on a string. 

He pulls the dress over my head with the same slow, teasing pace as he’d taken off my clothes, and it only makes the heat beneath my skin all the worse. The dress halts on my upper thighs, just long enough to cover all the important bits, and his hands linger on the hem, fingers tracing strange shapes on the inside of my thighs.

I might be desperate enough to try begging one more time, were it not for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Rhys dissolves into shadow and smoke and dives underneath the bed as the door opens and my Mother strides in, broom still in hand from the flight over.

“What are you wearing?” She says in greeting.

That pulse of anger that had made the lights flicker returns and she glances at it with one, manicured brow raised in surprise. 

“I thought it looked nice-”

“You look like a whore,” she returns, hands smoothing over the green cloak dusting her shoulders. If she cares about the new display of power, she doesn’t mention it. Probably thinks it's a fluke. Or perhaps an errant flair of her own magic, she certainly has enough to spare. “Change before you head out. I’m sure your performance tonight will be embarrassing enough as it is without you being seen by everyone in that awful outfit.”

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

“You told me you were going on a diet,” she continues to chastise. “That dress certainly proves that a lie.”

I run a hand over my stomach self-consciously, but I can’t think through the fog to find an argument. 

“Honestly, Y/N, is all this a joke to you?”

“No!” I protest but she cuts me off.

“You certainly could have fooled me! Our family name is on the line here, you understand the reputation you have to uphold, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother,” I try again, but she continues on like I hadn’t.

“Our family holds the front line against both the human world and the demon one. Do you know how much work that takes, to keep the demons leashed to their dimension and keep those stupid humans in the dark? Do you have any idea the sacrifices we’ve all had to make? The work we’ve all put in?”

“Yes-”

“Do you know how many Sisters I have lost? How many I had to decide to sacrifice to preserve our coven’s strength?”

“I understand-”

“To show weakness is to invite our destruction. This peace you have gotten to grow up in has come at a terrible price. It is not a game.”

“I know-”

“No, you don’t!” She hisses. “Because if you did, then you would have taken your lessons seriously. You would have studied harder. You wouldn’t be an example of weakness today.”

My hands are clenched so hard at my sides my fingernails have left indents in my palms. “I will not disappoint you tonight, Mother.”

“You only have one shot to prove yourself, because if the Salem girl beats you, you’re the sacrifice, you understand that don’t you?”

Rhys’s sigil on my back burns. “I know. She won’t beat me. I’ve been practicing.”

She frowns as she shifts her broom to her other hand. “I wish I believed you.”

She might as well have hit me. 

“I have to hunt tonight, there are too many humans on the border.”

And as powerful and proud as my Mother is, she can’t stand there and watch me make a fool of myself. As always, the Coven provides a perfect excuse for her to not be around while I “disgrace the family name”  and “make her wish I was never born”. The instances in which she said those very words flood my mind at a feverish pace, spinning round and round like a whirlwind movie performance. The burning at my back spreads all the way to my fingertips and I swear I feel the flicker of a flame between my clenched fists again.

“Do you really think so little of me?” I ask, my voice a lot smaller than I mean it to be.

“I stopped expecting big things from you a long time ago,” she retorts, straightening her cloak again. If she feels any remorse for the words or concern for my wellbeing, she doesn’t show it. I am as expendable as any other witch in the Coven, maybe more since she thinks so little of me. “Just try not to die tonight, ok?”

“I won’t be dying tonight,” I say through my teeth.

She nods, turns towards the stairs, then glances back one last time over her shoulder. “Change before you go.” Those are her parting words for my impending doom?

The door shuts behind her and I lash out and slam my fist into the wall in frustration; the first movement of my body all day that has felt distinctly mine and not so terrible intertwined with Rhys.. The wood groans under my burning knuckles, but worse still, the fading wall paper smolders, the edges burning and crinkling, the smell of melting glue filling the air. I glance down at my hands long enough to see a flicker of those blue flame disappear between my knuckles through the tears brimming my eyes. 

Rhys materializes from under the bed, looking annoyed that he can’t stretch out his wings. “That was harsh, even for a Witch.”

I stretch out my hands, palms splayed, no more flames to be seen, even if the wallpaper still smolders. “Is this from you?”

“It’s the amplification of what’s already inside you,” he says.

My Mother’s words still ring in my ears. “There’s nothing inside me.”

He reaches out a hand and tilts my head up to look at him. “We both know that’s not true, Darling.”

I wish I could remember how he came to me; remember which god I needed to thank for bringing him to me. No one understands me like he does. He makes me feel seen, like I’m not entirely a burden. The fleeting moment of control I had over my body disappears, dispelled by this new touch of his hands against my face.

He wipes the tears that slip down my cheeks with his thumbs. “Ready to show them exactly what you are, Little Witch?”

I’m not going to change the dress. And I’m not going to die today either. “Yes.”

He grins wickedly, eyes going all black again. “Then let’s give them a Solstice no one will ever forget.”

Those words are the last thing I remember before the fog takes me completely. There is only darkness and shadow, floating and swirling so intensely around me that I lose sight of everything. I am not a person, I am a thought, tossed around in the dark. Dully, I am aware of sounds. Of a flash of heat on my skin. Of the distant sound of screaming. Terror becomes a companion, but it is never an emotion that comes from me, only something that walks alongside me in the dark. Through it all, there is never a moment that I am not aware of him. His being is as intertwined in the darkness as I am, I think he might very well have been its creator as well as its caretaker. Even here, the brush of him is enough to keep me from thinking too hard about it. The darkness is good and soothing and nothing to fear, no matter what sounds come from outside it.

When he finally sets me free from the darkness, it is in a world once again on fire. What looks like a celebratory parade now lays in cinders, the charred remains of a skeletal figure clutching the melted wheel on the front. The air is heavy with ash, the wind blowing embers across the blood red sky. 

There is more screaming. Underneath what once might have been a floral arch, twisted in the burning ribbons are people… no witches, fighting for an escape that doesn’t come as the winged death god that has followed me all day stalks towards them with his claws out, chuckling at their plight.

Something in me recoils, fights against the invisible hands that hold me, just enough to let out a scream of horror as the witches meet a bloody end, the gore splattering across Rhys’s wings. He turns to look at me then, grinning wickedly, no violet in his eyes to be seen, only endless black pits.

The shadow in my skull parts just enough to remind me what he really is: Demon. Prince of Hel.

My hands shake at my sides. My back aches and burns like someone had tried to set me on fire, but I am wholly unscathed compared to the carnage and destruction around me.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

But the fog in my head closes in tighter, sharper now, like talons digging into my skull. I scream as I fall to my knees, but the hands that hold me won’t let me reach for my head. Blue flames still dance from my fingertips, flames I don’t remember unleashing. 

“What?” Each word is a battle to get out. “What did I do?”

The blood on his hands is cold as ice as he brushes a hand over my cheek. “What you were meant to do, Little Witch. What they were always scared you could do. Don’t you see? You’re free!”

Free? Whatever the Solstice celebration was supposed to be is irrelevant now, there is only death and fire and it’s all at my hand. The moment guilt starts to creep in, the fog rips it away from me, replaces it with that same need to please him.

“You freed me?”

Invisible hands help me stand again. He braces a hand on my hip to steady me as he brushes his lips over my forehead. The fires seem irrelevant like this. “They’ll never hurt you again. They’ll never hurt us again.”

I can’t remember what he was saving me from. Before I can ask the question, a false sense of gratitude worms its way into my chest. Another gift from him. The more gifts he gives me, the more hollow and cold I feel my insides becoming. My head doesn’t know reality from the world he creates inside my mind, but my heart is another matter. There is something very, very wrong with him. With me. But I am not strong enough to fight it. The sigil at my back burns when I try.

“What now?”

Plush lips brush against mine. My body moves for me, chasing the heat of him. Chasing the blissful pleasure of emptiness that comes when he touches me. His wants are mirrored through me somehow. 

“What would you like now, My Little Witch? The rest of the Coven? A throne perhaps? There is nothing in your way. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

I don’t know that I want anything. Nothing feels real. Nothing but him.

“Want you,” I say, voice a little breathless, as if conjuring up anything of myself from within the fog is a tremendous effort. It certainly feels like it. I don’t know if that’s another gift from him or not. Everything is becoming so very muddled again. 

The demon grins as he asks, “And then?”

Images swirl around my head. Each carefully planted by those invisible hands. I am powerless to resist their influence. “No more witches.”

“I couldn’t think of anything better, Darling.”

-----

Tag List:

@girl-math-aint-mathing / @hjgdhghoe / @gloomy-hag / @barb00235 / @scxrletwitches

Thank you for all your patience! <3

[tadpolesonalgae]

Deal With The Devil[***]

Dark!Rhysand x Reader

a/n: Another little drabble to add to the Desk Pet series

warnings: Dark!Rhys, fingering, collar/leash, Court of Nightmares, smut, noncon

word count: 5,096

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Put this on.” 

You stare at the dress he has over his arm, unable to fully understand what you’re looking at. After having spent so long being denied your own clothing, for him to now offer it to you, no— order you to wear it…alarm bells are chiming in your head, body frozen as he throws off your habits, succinctly disrupting your routine. Rhysand raises a brow, free hand sliding into his pocket as his cruel lips curve, an amused glint in his violent gaze. “I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity to hide yourself from me,” he drawls, and you swallow thickly at the implication, eyeing the dress warily—it must be a trick of some kind, but he never doesn’t have you backed into a corner. As usual, you have no choice when it comes to him. Hairs rise at the nape of your neck—you have to approach him. 

He enjoys playing mind games like this, the subtle manipulation of forcing you to come to him, to put yourself more at his mercy than you are already, naturally and through his own machinations. Steeling your spine, you keep the tremble from your fingers as you walk forward, every sense on high alert as you get closer, and closer…personal circles overlapping as you cross into his space, hastily reaching for the dress, practically snatching it from his arm before making to hurriedly get away.

Rhys grabs you, hand gripping your waist as he tugs you into him with a force you can’t resist, internally recoiling as the finely tailored fabric of his shirt grazes against the bare skin of your breasts, pressed flush to his upper body as he towers over you. You crane your neck, giving yourself no choice but to meet his intense gaze, to force yourself to look him in the eye with every ounce of hatred you can pull together. His lips curve, a look of approving amusement on his hell-hewn features. “I would tell you not to misbehave tonight,” he murmurs, lowering himself so his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of your ear, hand settling with revolting entitlement on the bare skin of your waist, able to feel every finger, every joint as they curl into you. “But I think you know I quite enjoy it when you try to be fierce. When you try to fight back.” 

You twist your head away from him, feeling as your hands begin to shake as you dig the heels of your palms into his chest, trying not to push him away but to keep him from closing the little distance there is left—not openly fighting back, but trying to preserve what space you have. The low drag of his chuckle sends a shiver down your spine and you wonder if he intentionally chooses clothing that’ll feel abrasive against your bare skin. “Now be good, and go and put this on for me, or would you like me to do it for you?” He muses, mouth lowering so his lips brush against the intimate slope of your throat, your breath hitching. “I can’t promise to keep my hands to myself—I’m sure you already know that, though.” 

Then he releases you, and you step out of his immediate circle, holding his gaze for a second before turning away. Any chance you have to show defiance, you need to take. But it’s difficult navigating your own emotions. At times you’re so tired, so worn down you don’t want to protest, want to fall into unconsciousness while he puts his harsh touch over your body, want to obey and please just so it might pass more swiftly—even if you know he would never let you get away with it. He would find a way to make it last regardless of how you act. It feels so pointless—even when you’re completely immobile, numb to him as you spiral he finds a way to wring pleasure from your body. It’s unfair. 

“You have two hours,” he says, both hands now settled in his pockets, and you’re unable to suppress the blink you give, the sign that he’s caught you off guard again. A cold feeling licks over your skin. What’s he planning?

But he only smiles slightly. “I’ll come and find you when your time is up,” he says, violet eyes gleaming with that almost constant hunger. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

————

You’re surprised by how claustrophobic it feels to have your skin covered, in spite of the lightness of the material, its thin breathability. He probably factored that into the dress’ design though, and you dislike the amount of thought he’s given. 

The neckline is wide although surprisingly not particularly low as it sits just shy of your shoulders, offering an elegant view of your collar bones while keeping your chest covered by the way the two pieces of fabric overlap when joined to the seam of the skirts. Another surprise there. The skirts are made up of four long, rectangular panels of pale fabric that also overlap, and while you’d like to think it’s to keep it from being too restrictive of your movement you know it’s made that way to facilitate his ease of use. It’ll be less trouble to get the skirts out of the way, if he wants.  

You glance over to the wardrobe, knowing it contains a full-body mirror on the inner door. You don’t want to look though. 

You don’t want to see how much you’ve changed. 

———

The floor has fallen out from beneath your feet, skin slicked in a cold, slimy residue as you recognise the darkness of these hallways. You’ve never been in person before—never had a reason to, nor has he ever allowed you to—but none of that prevents you from understanding where he’s brought you to. To the deepest part of his Court, rife with evil and oozing malice. 

Why are you here?

The sounds of voices grow louder, and your stomach drops, figuring out what will happen. He’s told you of the person he becomes here, what he’s like when he’s sat on that throne—with hindsight you know he doesn’t become anyone. The mask is simply removed. 

He rounds a corner, and you can see the double doors at the other end of the hallway, can hear the muffled voices from behind it, and fresh fear saturates your skin. You’d grown accustomed to the touches he’s infected you with, had grown used to his kind of inflictions that leave bruises aching within your body, teeth that mark and bite mercilessly for the sake of his own twisted pleasure. 

Your feet stop of their own accord, staring ahead to the doors, unable to make your body move like it should, like you’re commanding it to so he won’t figure out how terrified you are. He’ll only exploit your weakness, and he’s taken advantage of you enough, you can’t do anymore. You really might fall apart this time. 

Rhys pauses, glancing back at you with that look on his face that’s a mix between hunger and amusement. It feels like he already knows what you’re thinking, the desperation that’s rapidly taking over your body, overwhelming your mind, pulse increasing in frequency and weight as you look at those doors, then to him. “What’s…what’s behind there?” You ask, hating how weak you sound. 

“My Court,” he answers simply, turning so he’s facing you, cruel silver-ringed hands sheathed in his pockets. “Why…why are you—…” you choke on the rest of the question, unable to help the small retreating step, the way your legs tremble and your arms raise up to cross over your body as if it will serve any kind of protection. You can manage in solitude. When it’s only him who’ll witness your degradation. Your humiliation is kept secure within a vacuum, strange and out of context in the horrid privacy of his home. Between two people, there’s no real confirmation, no reason to believe one over the other. But if he takes you into that room…takes you in front of his court…you can’t fight against the beliefs of so many people. 

If they believe you to be his whore, you’ll become it. 

“I’m not…” you whisper, subconsciously taking another half-step back, fingers trembling as they curl over your shoulder, grip around your waist. “No…” you breathe, shaking your head. Violet eyes gleam, hunger deepening as he takes a step toward you. Then another, and another after that. He’s getting closer, long legs effortlessly covering the ground between you, and you can see as time slows the way his hand raises from his pocket, reaching to grab you. To drag you before his court, and shove you to your knees at his feet for everyone to see. To your knees…

It’s the only pathway you can find, one that might keep you safe, so as Rhys’ hand reaches for you, you lower your head, one leg bending at the knee before the other is following, lowering yourself into a kneel. Hands tuck into your lap, trying to calm their shaking as you keep your head cast downward, feeling humiliation settle on your shoulders, breathing shallow and uneven. “Please,” you whisper, brows pulled tight together in regret, ashamed you can’t summon the courage to fight him. That you have to beg. Yielding to the cage he’s been trying to put you in for…you don’t know how long it’s been. 

Dark leather shoes step into your vision, and your eyes briefly close, wanting to shut him out. “Please…what?” He asks, voice a touch fainter than you’re accustomed to. “Please, not in front of them,” you whisper, nails beginning to press into the tops of your thighs, not at all certain your gamble will even pay off. If it’ll make a difference, or if it’ll be all for nothing. 

Quiet pulls between you, Rhys remaining silent as you keep your head bowed. 

“How about a bargain?” He murmurs, but you’re so overcome with fear you make nothing of the lack of cruelty in his voice. “I’ll keep you to myself, no one will see you, and in return, you will do as I say, without complaint, for one night.” 

Ice filters directly into your blood, a cold sweat dripping down your back as you register the offer. But is there anything he could ask of you that he hasn’t made you do already? “As long as no one will know what you ask of me,” you whisper in reply, putting what little faith you have left into the Mother, trusting she will hear this final, desperate cry, and at last have mercy on you. “Then I agree.”

“Very well,” Rhys answers quietly, and you flinch as the bargain inks itself on your flesh. His hand comes into view, silver rings twinkling in the low light as he holds out his palm for you to take. You fight against the shaking of your body, but you tremble nonetheless as your fingers slide over his own, letting him pull you to your bare feet. 

His violet eyes gleam, and then he’s guiding you towards those doors at the end of the hallway, keeping your arm linked with his own. He’d said no one would see you, had felt the bargain on your flesh, and know he’d spoken true, and yet you can’t help the instinctive resistance as he guides you to his Court. 

The mouth that will lead you to the belly of the beast. 

————

Rhys had already explained how no one could see you, how he had worked his way into the minds of his subjects, and erased you from their sight, and still you doubt.

You suppress a flinch as his palm grazes up your waist, nerves on edge from being surrounded by so many people after having spent so long with just him. It’s almost overwhelming, in a way, and you have to wonder if he intended this. 

You’re sat on his thigh, hands in your lap to keep from having to touch him any more than you need to, shoulder perpendicular to his chest, head turned away from him to keep an anxious eye on the writhing crowd before you on the floor below the raised platform of the dais. Violet eyes brush over your cheek, his attention stroking over your exposed skin and you’re horrified you’ve become so attuned to him you can recognise when he’s watching.

His hand rises, knuckles brushing below your breast, and your breath catches, body turning rigid with apprehension as his hot lips graze your throat. “You’re still anxious, aren’t you?” He muses just shy of your ear. “They can’t see you,” he says, mirth clear in his voice as his palm moves slowly to cup your breast intimately. “You’re all mine.” 

You swallow thickly at the reminder, that he’s manipulated it into being you desiring only his attention, that he’s so gently twisting the narrative you can hardly tell what the original was. 

His lips curve, then his touch is receding, instead pushing you to your feet between his legs and you turn to look at him warily, distrust blatant in your eyes as they meet his own, amused set. 

“Go play,” he tells you, mouth quirked, brow raised slightly. “You can see for yourself—I don’t mind. Just don’t touch anyone.” The curve of his mouth shifts into a slow smile, barely restrained violence glinting beneath the darkness of his eyes. The threat is clear enough. It takes a few seconds before you’re turning away from him, slowly making your way step by step down the dais, slowly getting further and further from his presence. Nothing significant, though. You’re not sure if any distance would be significant enough to have you feeling safe. 

Gathering courage, you make your way over to a male who’s sipping on his drink, eyes wearily cast in the direction you’ve come from, glancing up at the High Lord who’s sat on his throne atop the dais. He doesn’t even look at you as you approach, and your throat rolls as you pause before him. Hesitantly, you wave your hand in front of his face, a few inches from him, and yet there’s not even a single sign he sees you, or is even aware of your existence.

“I told you,” Rhys’s shadowy voice calls from the dais, amusement clear. “Are you satisfied now, little lamb?” You grit your teeth, pulling your hand back to your body before turning to face him, the writhing crowd at your back as you look up at him on his throne. “Why do you call me that?” Rhys smirks, leaning into the support of his thumb and index finger, middle digit curved to slightly obscure the sinful quirk of his lips, as if trying to keep his amusement to himself. 

Your brows narrow slightly, resentment pushing through your features that you usually try to keep neutral for the sake of not stirring anything in him. He seems most interested in you when you’ll give him reactions of some kind. Not that being numb and expressionless, or even asleep has ever given him pause. 

His eyes run over you with interest, but you can’t quite regret the question. It wasn’t like he was going to bring you here without violating you in some way. Putting his defiling touch into your body with those cruel, elegant fingers. 

“Why—”

“Crawl to me,” he orders softly, that soul-deep hunger pinning you to the ground with its quiet ferocity. A starvation so deep it has your legs trembling slightly. You have to make a decision here, antagonise him further by refusing to do as he says, or undertake the humiliation of crawling back up the dais to him, where he’ll likely keep you knelt between his legs like a pet, occasionally running his fingers through your hair soothingly. As if to thaw out a beast. 

“I have to admit,” he says, drawing your attention, his silky voice cutting through the generic noise of his nightmarish court. “Out of everything I’ve had you do, every position I’ve put you in and every angle I’ve fucked you from, I liked it when you knelt for me. When you did it for yourself.” You freeze, staring at him, horror unspooling in your gut at the soft drawl of his confession. “I think it’s an avenue I’d like to explore with you,” he muses, and that cold sweat returns. 

His eyes close briefly, lips curving as he smiles to himself, offering you precious seconds to regain composure before they’re opening again, previous…something, gone, replaced by that familiarly cruel, cold glint. Hungry and merciless. “Now come here,” he commands roughly, and darkness shoves at the back of your legs, shoving you to your knees as it wraps around your throat like a collar. “I’ve given you enough time to work yourself up, so crawl.” 

Rhys’ fingers flex as a leash of darkness appears in his grip, a dark, shadowy band wrapped firmly around his knuckles as he tugs on it punishingly, forcing you to fall forward onto your arms. Fear springs up in your flesh, as you face what you’ll have to do. You swallow once, before regretfully bringing your knee forward, hands moving distantly as your body starts into resentful motion, movements forced to be somewhat exaggerated to avoid kneeling on the fabric of the dress he’d put you in, the cold, unforgiving stone biting into the bare skin of your palms. 

“I think I quite like it when you’re obedient,” he muses, tugging lightly on your leash, encouraging you to raise your gaze to meet his once you’ve reached the foot of his throne though he doesn’t allow you to sit upright, forcing you to remain on all fours as you look up from between his long legs. “I’m sure you do,” you reply, trying to keep your expression neutral but unable to keep the bite form your tone. “Does it make you feel better?” 

Rhys blinks, violet eyes running over you with a foreign look in his features—interested and…anticipating…? But it’s gone as quickly as it came, vanished in less than a fraction of a second, leaving you unsure if you’d even seen it in the first place. “You’re rather talkative,” he muses neutrally, gazing down at you. You hold his gaze, trying to remain steady without showing too much resistance, hold your ground without being too compliant. 

His lips curve, “are you in a good mood?” 

You’re a fucking piece of work, you think vehemently, not quite possessing enough restraint to muffle your thoughts. His eyes twinkle like he’s heard it, but makes no comment on it, instead pulling on your collar. “Up here,” he instructs, and your heart drops. 

He guides you into his lap, and you fight against the urge to squirm as he pulls your back against his front, then, with sickening tenderness, gently hooks your legs either side of his thighs, pushing them apart. It’s exactly as you predicted, and you watch from somewhere far off in your mind as his hand trails across your stomach, keeping you slightly slouched against him. “You know what’s so wonderful about this dress?” He asks idly, fingers trailing up between your breasts leisurely, like he isn’t actively violating your body. 

Violet eyes glance sidewards to you, your head resting reluctantly against his shoulder, feet hooked around his calves to keep from sliding down his body. You know he won’t let you back up if you fall, and you hate it when he uses your mouth. When he finishes down your throat. Coating your tongue. Sometimes your face if he’s feeling particularly perverse. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway,” you mutter softly, trying to keep the shake from your hands. 

Rhys hums amusedly, pressing a small kiss to your temple, your body wishing to recoil at the twisted display of gentle affection. “Why don’t I show you, instead?” He asks, hearing the resigned sigh that breathes from your lips, eyes sliding shut briefly as you brace for his touch. His lips curve because they have to, and then he’s guiding the panels of your skirts to the sides so only one lays between your legs. 

Pressed so intimately against him, he can feel the slight flinch you give as his fingers dip down, running almost experimentally over your bare cunt, pressing lightly to your entrance. You grit your teeth, keeping your eyes shut as he drags them back up, settling over your clit, unable to help the way you wind your feet a little closer around his calves, to assure you of some kind of stability as your body becomes more rigid. 

“You should open your eyes,” he muses beside your ear, fingers leaving you to press up against your lips, pushing lightly against your tongue. “It’s not everyday you’ll get to sit upon a throne like this.” 

I don’t want to sit on a throne, you think, eyes remaining shut as he coats his digits in saliva before circling your entrance again with those delicate, teasing fingers. An image of you sat neatly in his lap close to how you are now except his cock is buried inside of you pushes into your mind, your eyes shut, lips parted and brows curved in needful pleasure, and you startle. Rhys’s arm bands across your waist to keep you from jerking upright, and you can hear his dark laughter brushing softly against your skin. 

His digits rub over your entrance lightly, before again raising to circle your clit, and you hate how heat is beginning to gather in response to his touch. The pads of his fingers circling lightly as the arm across your waist raises to grip your jaw, turning so your head is facing forward. “Open your eyes,” he commands lowly, digits continuing with the horrid movements. Trying to steel yourself, you follow the order, gazing across the crowd that has no idea you’re even up in his lap with Rhys simply feeding them an illusion of something else. Do they even know their High Lord is here, or has he removed himself from their minds too? 

“See all those people?” He asks, digits slowly sinking into your heat as your gaze follows his direction, scanning across the crowd. “All those people, and none of them have a clue what you’re doing.” 

“What you’re making me do,” you correct resentfully, but quietly. 

“Not for much longer,” he counters, lips parting in a secretive smile beside your temple, curling his fingers against one of those spots he’s become sickeningly familiar with. They scissor inside of you, and the image returns to your mind, how your back had curved, his hands on your hips while yours rested on his thighs, your legs spread over him as he kept you facing his court, forcing you to look at them—how oblivious they were to your suffering. 

He pushes you so you’re upright, and you swallow thickly, knowing his hands have moved to the ties of his trousers, working himself free. 

Rhys’ hands return to your hips, dark magic moving the back panel out of the way as he guides you against him, lining himself up with your cunt. 

“Sit down,” he orders quietly, and your hands tremble where they’ve settled on his thighs. Slowly, shakily, you settle in his lap, shuddering as he fills you up, spine curving a little as his cock pushes inside of you until you’re pressed tight together. 

Heat flushes your skin, head lowered at how good it feels to have him inside of you, how easy it’s becoming to fall into the pleasure just to escape from hatred and disgust. To give into heat and touch and physical stimuli in favour of waging this psychological war. You can’t help how you squeeze him, cunt tightening as you pant heavily, feeling as his fingers trace up the curve of your back—absently, idly, as if he’s waiting for you to adjust to him before he starts with his torturous ministrations. 

Teeth bite hard at your lip—why is it always him giving the orders, always him in control, always him surprising you and catching you off guard. You hate it. 

But earlier, when you’d gone to your knees, there had been a second there where he seemed taken aback. Even though it had been you yielding power, it had felt, for a moment, as though you had control. 

Rhys’ hands stutter over your skin as you raise your hips, then slowly settle back down. Repeating the minimal motions, the slight circles as you wind over him without him having said anything.

Violet eyes are glued to the sweep of your hips, the fluid movement of your spine as you roll against him, nails piercing into his flesh, hands nearly fumbling, overcome with an intense sensation in his muscles, like he’s paralysed as he watches you move of your own accord. 

At your back, you can feel his attention but his grip has lightened almost entirely, practically having fallen away and you wonder what he’s thinking, what’s going through that dark mind of his. You wish you didn’t spend so much of your time pausing on that, wondering why, trying to figure him out. It should be as simple as he’s evil—cruel, selfish, and utterly monstrous—but he’d managed to worm his way into your heart before he’d revealed his true colours, and you haven’t been able to entirely remove him since. The contrast between the male you knew and the male his is, is startling; jarring. Unresolvable. 

But why does it have to be about him? Why do you have to care about what he thinks of you still? He’s proven to be a monster—why should you care what a monster thinks of you? 

His cock touches a part inside of you, just grazing it lightly, but it’s enough to have you searching for it again, shifting your hips in attempts to have him rubbing against it, but—you’ve lost it. A huff wants to work its way up your throat, but you keep it down, head raising upward, eyes closed as you try to continue searching for it, rocking your hips over him, grinding against him, raising up and down…

Surprise filters through your blood as Rhys’ hands find you again, holding your waist as he directs you, and your eyes peek open, fluttering around him as he shows you where that spot is, a rich moan falling from your lips as satisfaction fills your chest. A pleased feeling improves your mood, and you follow the motions, lids tempted to shut again to bask in the sweetness of the heat. 

Why hadn’t you done this sooner? Ignored him entirely and just taken what you could get? A tiny part of you whispers her doubts at where those thoughts have come from, but the pleasure softens her too as she liquefies without much resistance, melting into the pleasured chambers of your mind. 

When Rhys guides your hips higher, you follow thoughtlessly, his grip sliding you up and down the thick length of his cock and your lips part on a sharp breath, chasing after the pleasure that’s swiftly building in your lower abdomen, breathing becoming shallow with every touch of his cock. His hips buck suddenly, and your eyes fly open from the sharp spike of pleasure. 

Thoughtlessly, you resign yourself over to him, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of your lapse in judgement, his grip tightening on your hips as he effortlessly leverages your hips, slamming you back down on him in a way that repeatedly knocks the breath from your lungs. 

Doesn’t this feel good? He asks into your mind, a shiver running down your spine at the low caress of his voice. Doesn’t it feel so much better when you aren’t fighting against me? 

I thought you liked that, you think, having no control over what crops up in your mind, the vulnerability not nearly as terrifying as it should be, though. And I thought you didn’t care what I liked, he replies, darkness gathering at your shoulders, pushing the overlapping panels of fabric away so the sleeves fall over your arms, baring your breasts to the cool air of the underground court. 

True, you think, unable to push him away but not really wanting to. 

True? He repeats, a strange note in his voice but you’re not really concentrating on him as darkness swirls at your breasts, grazing across your sensitive nipples. That you don’t care what I like, or that it’s better when you’re good? 

Both.

Rhys’ breath hitches, grip momentarily fumbling at the sharp belief of the word, but you continue, chasing the high you’re approaching, soft moans spilling from your lips and he feels his mask slipping, panic rising in his chest as the desire to turn you around, to take you away from this court, to take you back to the safety of his house in Velaris, grows with startling strength. 

Your eyes slide shut as the orgasm blossoms throughout your body, breath catching at the intensity of the pleasure. “Rhys…” his name flutters from your tongue, pouring from your mouth as heat swarms your mind, muddling your thoughts further, forgetting time and context. “Fuck, Rhys…”

The High Lord regains his control, slamming you down on his cock as he hears his name pronounced in your lovely voice, soft and delicate despite the brutality of his bruising touch. 

“Fuck, say my name again.”

Say my name again.

The command comes from both sides, external and internal, the soft order whispering up your spine as you shake and tremble in his lap, overwhelmed. 

“Rhys…”

Rhys…

He groans roughly, and you feel as he spills inside of you, touch softening ever so slightly as he shifts behind you, brow resting on the back of your shoulder, feeling as his breath fans across your skin. Your spine curves, darkness still lightly playing with your breasts, more soothing than teasing now.

You glance down at yourself, and catch sight of jet black ink in your skin, the bargain mark stamped between your breasts, and you recall, not entirely fearfully, the deal you’d made with him. 

He had forced you into a position of compromise, and as usual you feel you were manipulated into yielding more than him. 

An entire night, under absolute obedience. 

What will he ask for? 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[starfall-spirit]

Smoke and Mirrors

@officialfeysandweek Day 2: Mirrors

Read on Ao3 // Dark Feysand Masterlist // Feysand Week Masterlist

Fic Cover //🎨: @amnevitahdrawsstuff

Summary: Curious as to how Feyre vanishes from her locked room night after night, her father promises the choice of a bride to whoever can piece it together. The problem, with each night of dancing she falls deeper into the thrall of the Court of Nightmares—and the High King has never been one to share.

TW: Dark!Rhys, mind control, non-con, murder, and further manipulation in later chapters. The dove is dead, my friends. Read at your own discretion.

“There was once upon a time a King who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other. They all slept together in one chamber, in which their beds stood side by side, and every night when they were in them the King locked the door and bolted it. But in the morning when he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out with dancing and no one could find out how that had come to pass.”

~The Shoes That Were Danced To Pieces, The Brothers Grimm

Chapter I

Feyre

“What is that?”

Feyre looked back at Elain. “My new mirror. Do you like it?”

“It’s… a statement piece.”

“It’s hideous,” Nesta scoffed from the doorway. “Not to mention ancient. It doesn’t even suit your room.”

“Yes, well, that’s because mother decorated my room, isn’t it?” Feyre snipped back, still slightly bitter even after enduring the bright color scheme for years now. She finished straightening the oddly shaped mirror over her dresser with a slight smirk, one finger following the curve of the border.. “I think it adds character.”

“I think it looks like something out of the Court of Nightmares.” Feyre and Elain turned to their sister in confusion. “You’ve never heard the tale?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a ridiculous story meant to make children behave. In the Court of Nightmares there lives an evil High Lord who demands his sycophants snatch up children who are a terror to their families. The same is said for women who don’t save themselves for their husbands.”

Feyre scrunched her nose, exhausted with the obsession the men in their family’s circle seemed to share regarding marriage. Their father did enough to ensure that, locking them in their rooms the moment the sun set each night. The things she’d give to see a starry sky for once in her life. She didn’t see what use their astronomy lessons were when they’d never seen a clear night sky.  Perhaps that would change with their social debut. She wasn’t thrilled with the concept, but their mother had finally convinced their father that the three of them would soon be deemed too old to be marriageable, particularly Nesta, who would turn twenty-five that spring.

She let herself wonder for just a moment if her husband would let her have more freedom when she was caring for their home or if he would be as fond of the tight leash her father kept. Hope only stretched so far when it came to the “gentlemen” of high society. 

Before she could let her imagination unfold on the subject the door swung open without warning, their mother standing in the doorway with her seemingly permanent scowl in place. “Girls, why is it that I still see three dresses where the seamstress left them this morning rather than on your bodies. Feyre,” she snapped. “My gods, you haven’t even bathed! I should have known allowing you to go to the market this afternoon was a mistake. One I won’t be repeating. I—What is that ghastly thing?”

“A mirror, Mother.” Though she itched to make some quip about the woman’s narcissism, she managed to hold her tongue. “You said I could select something of my choosing for my birthday, did you not?”

Eyes narrowing, she huffed. “We will discuss its removal later. Go,” she ordered. “I want you bathed and dressed in half an hour. Your maid will bring your gown.” 

Muttering something incoherent, she ushered Elain and Nesta from the room. Alis was there a moment later with a wry glint in her eye and a garment bag in hand. “At least the dress will suit your coloring this time.”

“Yes,” Feyre murmured, drawing the gauzy gown from its protective bag. “At least there’s that.” 

It was lovely. Though she loathed to admit her mother had decent taste in anything, formal wear was her strong suit. It seemed Feyre’s debut was important enough to consider colors that wouldn’t leave her looking washed out. The faster she found a husband, she supposed, the faster she would be his burden rather than her parents’. An odd wife instead of an odd child. 

“A home of her own to care for and a taste of motherhood will give her a dose of reality,” she’d once overheard. “She’ll learn her purpose one way or another.”

She was content enough to follow her mother’s command, bathing quickly and donning the dusk blue dress just in time for Alis to see to her hair and cosmetics before her mother returned, a sharp nod the only thing resembling praise that she’d earned. “Good enough. Shoes, then join your sisters in the hall.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She glanced over her shoulder to the back of the room, trying to catch a glimpse of herself before going downstairs for the evening, gasping softly at what peered back at her. “What is it?”

“I—nothing,” she claimed, gathering her cashmere shawl. “I’m ready.” But even as she shook off the unease that had settled over her, she couldn’t erase what the mirror had shown her. An obsidian throne crowned by twin serpents she knew would be deadly if given life, and seated on it an otherworldly male wreathed in shadows of his own design. In that fleeting moment she couldn’t make out much of his face. Only a pair of violet eyes that seemed capable of peering into her very soul. The feeling followed her until she greeted the winter sun.

Ushered into their family carriage, Feyre barely concealed her huff when their mother began rattling off orders for the evening party. Hearing it all before, it took an impressive effort to actually pay attention. 

How the woman could manage to talk through a forty minute carriage ride was beyond her, but she and her sisters didn’t have a moment to get a word in even if they’d wished to. “And most importantly, you are never to reject an invitation to dance. Gods know each of you need every opportunity you can get.”

The door swung open, the straight-backed footman offering a hand to help each of them down, as their father was not in attendance this evening.

“Smiles, girls.”

~~~~~

Feyre had never been so thrilled to hear her door lock behind Alis as she was that evening. After playing the games of the court for hours, all she wanted was a bit of quiet, even from her dear confidant. To think, the next ball they’d been invited to was only days away, hosted by the very man who seemed so keen on getting to know her. Tamlin certainly didn’t seem like the worst suitor, but there still seemed to be something missing.

Unless she was being a foolish romantic, hoping for a love match.

“Gods,” she groaned, moving to her vanity to remove her makeup. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Long day?”

She shrieked at the silken male voice that filled the room, frantically searching the space for someone who may have hidden in the curtains or under the bed before she was shut in for the night. Cauldron, she was in nothing more than a nightgown and a man was in her room. “Relax, darling. I won’t hurt you.”

“Wh-who are you?” Perhaps if she locked herself in the bathroom she’d be safe, if confined. 

“Now, Feyre, we’ve met already, haven’t we?” She froze, trying to place the voice without a face to show for it. She had never really believed in magic, but now… “I’ve seen your dreams, learned your wishes. I could grant them too.” 

Slowly the pieces began to fit together. The voice with no body, the throne in the mirror, the vendor’s hesitation to sell to her that morning—his superstitions she’d brushed away. “It’s cursed, girl. Every time I try to throw it out it ends up right back in my stall, I swear! Tomorrow morning you’ll think I’ve stolen it from you.”

“I was waiting for the right buyer to claim it,” the voice claimed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, darling.” She could hardly breathe—felt dizzy in her rising panic. “Look at me, Feyre. Look in the mirror.”

Slowly turning, her eyes locked with his. There were no shadows this time, leaving his face and body unobscured. She realized he was likely the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—not that she had much experience with grown men beyond those present at this evening’s ball. But a more important note to make was not how he compared to human men, but to those of his own kind. Because while the contours of his face and broad build might be something one could look beyond, the pointed ears beneath his raven black hair, could not.

She stumbled back, part of her fearing whatever magic he possessed would allow him to breach the glass between them and snatch her from where she stood, virgin or not. “You are a faerie.”

“Now, so quick to cast judgment, darling. I’ve done nothing to harm you, have I? I promised I wouldn’t and if you know anything about my kind then I’m sure you know a faerie’s word is binding. I cannot lie to you, pet.”

“Is this how all fae choose to communicate with mortals, or do the rest find us too plain for their entertainment?”

He chuckled. “All that matters, darling, is that you are worth my attention.”

She swallowed. “And if I do not wish to have your attention?”

His charming grin broadened. “I have been honest with you, Feyre. It’s only fair that you return the favor. If you did not crave my attention you would have been screaming at that locked door the moment I identified myself.”

Feyre pursed her lips. Though his words rang true, she didn’t appreciate being called out. She did crave company, she realized. Even after the exhaustion of the evening, the years of lonely nights outweighed the social strain of a single evening. 

“You have announced your presence, but given no name or title.”

“Darling.” His amusement softened to something she couldn’t quite label. Not that she had much need to. His title wasn’t important at the moment, just that she listened to him. Each word he spoke was true after all. “Much better. You’re a lovely thing once those hackles fall, aren’t you.”

“I—”

“Come closer, little mate. Let me see you.”

Another step brought her to the dresser and couldn’t help but reach up to the glass, her palm flush against the faerie’s. It was the strangest sensation when the mirror’s face rippled beneath her fingers, but the soothing hold over her mind did not waver. That is until her hand met the familiar warmth of human flesh, a calloused palm cradling her soft fingers.

“And now you’re mine.”

That strange hold snapped, reminding her of her caution—the fears born of instinct and stories told, each and every one a warning to heed. “What did you do to me?”

The faerie only smiled, squeezing her hand tighter and pulling her into his dark world.

~~~~~

Perhaps it was the strange means of travel, perhaps it was her fear. Either way, Feyre was dismayed to find herself waking curled up on a set of silken black sheets, clearly having lost consciousness long enough to be carried into someone else's home. Not carried—abducted. 

She shivered, pulling back the edge of the flat sheet just enough to ensure her clothing was still in place, immodest as it was on its own. Scanning the room to make sure she was truly alone, she scurried across the room to snatch the robe thrown over the cracked armoire. She’d just finished tying the oversized garment when she sensed another presence in the room.

“Show yourself,” she demanded, attempting to be subtle as she scanned the room for anything resembling a weapon. “Enough games!”

“As you wish, darling.”

The space behind her warmed slightly, the solid male form behind her unmistakable. “Who are you?” It was a small miracle, Feyre supposed, that her voice was steadier than her hands as she pulled the neck of the robe together until it pressed flush to her throat. “Why did you bring me here? I have not—I wouldn’t—”

Despite their truth, Feyre couldn’t summon the words that may change the course of her fate. She knew what made a noblewoman valuable on the marriage market. If she could just convince this faerie she hadn’t ruined herself…

“It’s not your virtue I’m concerned with, Feyre darling.” A mark against her childhood stories, if he could be believed. But why else would he abduct a human from her home. “Beastly as most of our customs and traditions may be,” the man continued, “the society I’ve found a home in might be considered progressive in comparison to your human beliefs.”

Feyre turned to face him. “Society.” She retreated another step, praying he hadn’t seen her eyes dart to the fireplace a moment ago—and the iron poker beside it. Which of them would be faster, she wondered, if she could keep her intentions secret long enough to wield the makeshift weapon? What color would he bleed? “You are a lord, then.”

His lips curled into a half smile, as if her assumption of his status was amusing. “Something like it. The caste system you know is a bit different from our own, I’m afraid. But we’ll get back to that.” He took a step towards her, giving her an excuse to draw closer to her goal. The cowed girl he seemed keen on controlling would become a woman with a weapon. “First—”

Feyre didn’t let herself hesitate. The moment her hand closed on the poker she turned the sharp end on her kidnapper with the intent to wound, if not kill. 

Only for her body to fail her. Her mental freedom was claimed just as swiftly, cold talons forcing their way past the brittle wall she had seemed to create through her own instinct rather than practice.

“Oh, my pet.” His thumb pressed into her wrist and her hand spasmed, the iron rod clattering against the wood at their feet. “What are we going to do with you?”

She would have been trembling, if she had control of herself. Perhaps it was a small mercy then, that he had this hold over her. “It doesn’t have to stay this way.”

“What do you mean?” she managed to grit out.

A slow smirk bloomed across his disgustingly perfect face just before he reached for her. His large hands were feather light as they followed the curves of her body, finally settling on her hips. The heat of them could have burned straight through the thin fabric of the robe maintaining her modesty. And the way he looked down at her… she wasn’t quite certain how to describe that look. The claws holding her mind began to retract and at last she could think—could breathe again. 

“So dramatic, my pet.” Her eyes snapped back to his, her demand lingering on the tip of her tongue before she thought better of shouting at him. He had used his magic against her twice now. He could certainly do it again if she caused trouble. “Smart girl.”

“You can read minds.”

“Read them, control them. It does wonders in keeping the unruly… we’ll say compliant.” She shivered again. “You’ll do well to remember, my darling Feyre, that I am always with you.” Because even now, her body once again her own, a shadow had taken root in her mind. She had a feeling it would make itself at home for a good long while. Until she discovered a way to block him out. The faerie chuckled. “Perhaps in a century or two you’ll find yourself strong enough. If all goes to plan.”

She tensed. “To plan?”

“Later, little one. For now—” One hand slid to her front, fingering the knot keeping her stolen robe closed. “—I’d like to strike a bargain.”

~~~~~

Rhysand

“A bargain?” the girl sputtered. “You really think you’ll get away with this? My family—”

“Your family doesn’t believe in magic, darling. Who's to say their wild little rebel didn’t learn how to pick her bedroom lock and run into the night to avoid a loveless marriage? If they aren't convinced in the beginning, persuasion is my specialty as you now know.”

His little mate didn’t need to know the truth behind his curse. It wouldn’t change the fact she belonged to him—would remain here at his side in the end. Stubborn as Feyre Archeron may be, Rhys had never picked a battle he couldn’t win.

All this victory would take was persistence and a firm hand. The rest would fall in place on its own, starting with the girl and ending with her fool of a father.

“Please,” she began to beg.

He tutted, pressing a finger to her lips. That wouldn’t do. At least not yet. “The details,” he finally purred in her ear, dropping one hand to cradle the same wrist he’d gripped to force the poker from her hand, sweeping a thumb tenderly over that trigger point until she shivered against him. She may not be aware of their bond, but she responded to it all the same. “Each night when your handmaiden departs, you will let the mirror bring you here. Two wraiths will greet you in this room and prepare you for the evening’s activities.”

“Activities?” she whispered, her warm breath grazing his cheek.

“You will dance for me, darling. Some nights before my court. Others may be for my eyes alone, here in this very room. You will be painted with the symbols of my court, dressed in my colors, drunk on my wine.” Her eyes widened when the back of her knees hit the bed, apparently not having realized he was slowly guiding her across the room. “You will belong to me from dusk till dawn, starting tonight.”

Her thoughts were overridden with panic, limbs flailing the moment her back met his sheets. “If you fail to comply, you will lose your privilege to return to the human realm. If you fail to arrive I will cross the veil between us and drag you here myself.”

“You can’t do this!” she cried, still attempting to break free of his hold, even as he successfully immobilized her.

“I’m the High King, darling.” Leaning down, he licked up her neck, delighted when she once again shivered beneath him. “I can do anything I please.” ~~~~~

Feyre

High King. Feyre wasn’t quite certain how different that was from a regular king, but she did know one thing. She had finally found the sort of trouble she couldn’t slip free of. “I—” She choked on her words, startled by the fingers that grazed her clitoris. “What are you doing?”

She tried to wriggle away, only succeeding in further stimulation.

“Providing some encouragement.”

“I’d be ruined.”

“Say yes, pet, and that can be prevented.”

Those talons once again breached her mind, this time gentle, encouraging, as he suggested. “You’re cheating.”

A snap of his fingers and her clothes were gone. “Yes,” he purred into her mind, that cruel mouth leaving a hot, wet trail of kisses from the soft spot behind her ear all the way down to her shoulder. “And I have no intention of playing fair until you agree to my demands. You’ll dance for me, darling. One way or another.

“You. Are. Mine.”

Two thick fingers sank into her and she gasped, kicking and squirming until she felt him brush her hymen. “Please,” she panted, closing a hand around his wrist, not that she had the strength to stop him.

“I’ll give you ten seconds, darling. Agree to live between my land and yours and I will wait to claim you. Try to defy me…”

She would belong to him in every sense. “Ten.” She’d be trapped in this realm every hour of every day for the rest of her pathetically short life. “Nine.” The High King’s whore. “Eight.” Serving his every whim before his court. “Seven.” To agree to the bargain would bring her back into society’s marriage machinations. “Six.” Likely standing at the altar before she turned twenty. “Five.” She may end up loathing her husband rather than loving him. “Four.” But what kind of person would she be if she left her family entirely? “Three.”

“Wait.”

“Two.” His fingers pressed a little farther into her.

“I have conditions!”

He chuckled against her breast, those clever fingers dragging just so. “Of course you do, darling. Do begin.” His hot mouth closed over her nipple and she whined. She should hate this. She should really, truly hate this.

“I’m waiting, Feyre.”

She loathed him. Why could she not loathe his touch just the same?

“You can’t—y-you—”

She was already lost to the pleasure of his touch. She had no chance now of forming a coherent sentence. His teeth pinched down hard on her nipple and she cried out. Better then, to embrace that mental connection. To submit to it. It was a lovely feeling, trusting the talons tightening by a fraction, those subtle shadows from before fading to make room for their solid counterparts.

She let the thought flit across her mind, that he would not leave his realm with the intention of harming her family.

“As you wish, little mate. So long as you come to me and keep our little secret, your loved ones will be safe.” Her left arm warmed slightly, from her fingertips all the way to her elbow. “Now you bear my mark,” he crooned, his satisfaction crystal clear.

An odd feeling niggled at the back of her mind. Saying that this was wrong. Offensive. She couldn’t quite grasp why. Any smart man lays claim to what belongs to him, doesn't he? The more obvious, the better. “That’s right, darling. It will remain glamoured to human eyes. Except for yours. We can’t have you forgetting for a moment who you belong to.”

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @sajirah // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

The first couple of you that I tagged aren't normally on my list, but I added you because you've been so invested in my snippets. Let me know if you want to be removed or kept on permanently.

[gardenfaerie222]

A Bouquet of Violets: Chapter 1

Pairing: Feysand

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Feyre is an undercover officer in PPD’s vice squad. Rhys is a mobster who runs a nightclub named velaris lounge. The police need evidence of his illegal transport of drugs and weapons, what they don’t know is no amount of evidence will ever bring him down.

Content Warning: Assult Mentioned, Violence, Domestic Violence, Cursing, Mental Health

“Fey…re…?”

“F…eyre?”

“Feyre?”

“oh, I’m sorry,” Feyre blinked, “what was the question?”

“How are you handling everything?” The therapist asked her, and Feyre stared at her blankly. How was she handling everything? What was everything? The man she killed a few months ago, her partner setting her up to be assaulted only to get herself killed? Of course, the therapist was only asking about one of those things. It was assumed when she was found that something had been attempted, but she refused a rape kit and told them she was fine, even with the ripped tights bundled deep into the back of her closet. She thought she might burn then, but who knows if nylon is even flammable. She could probably google it, but what was the bother.

The therapist was staring at her expectantly, and Feyre realized she still hadn’t answered the question that had already been repeated to her, “I’m fine, eveything’s going well,” she smiled, trying to force it to reach her eyes. Her therapist didn’t look convinced, and Feyre didn’t blame her. She looked terrible. She had lost weight, already previously being petite it did nothing to keep her from looking like a skeleton or a scarecrow. Her hair was flat and dull, looking more like mud then the bronzy gold it had been previously. Her skin was sallow, and pale, her eyes rimmed in a nasty purple. She looked like she hadn’t slept in months, probably because she hadn’t. Every time she tried she dreamed of a nameless, quite literally faceless, man staring at her. Asking her why she did it, running his hands up and down her legs, finishing what he had tried to start. It terrified her, startling her awake. The bouts of nausea after her nightmares half convinced her something from her dream was true, that maybe she compartmentalized, and that she was pregnant. That test scared her more than any siren did, even if they still make her flinch.

The case into what happened with Amarantha and her, and was she assumed was an assignment from vice had been dragging. Internal affairs ordered her to attend these therapy sessions, among a million interviews about what had happened. Of course, what Amarantha had done wasn’t a part of any investigation. She was corrupt. Feyre was quickly finding out, the whole Prythian Police Department was. Amarantha was being hailed as a hero, even if her and the IA officers all knew the case they were “working” wasn’t exactly above board. It left a sour taste in her mouth to see the woman who let her be drugged, and was going to let some man assault her under the pretense of doing her job, be buried with honors and her photo hung in the precinct.

None of this Feyre could tell the woman in front of her, as she offered a smile that probably looked more like a grimace, “Really, everything’s going well, I have a great support system.”

Another lie, her support system consisted of her fiance, Tamlin, and no one else. Feyre’s sisters didn’t talk to her anymore, she probably hadn’t heard from them in almost half a decade. Not since she graduated college and moved in with Tamlin. She could still hear them telling her not to, not to move away from them, not to move in with him. She didn’t see what they saw then, that Tamlin was crazy, controlling, and heading down the path of physical abuse. He hit her, but occasionally she’d end up with bruises on her arms in the shape of fingers, and much more frequently, with drywall in her hair from where he’d punch the wall next to her head. She hated when he was like that, he scared her. Anger flashing in his eyes, his jaw gnashing like a wild beast, spit flying. He’d probably kill her someday, she didn’t know if she’d stop him.

“Feyre, I can’t help you, unless you help you,” Her therapist eyed her over glasses, but Feyre kept the smile plastered on her face.

“The best thing for me is to get back to work,” Her therapist didn’t seem to believe her, but Feyre finally got the stamp she was waiting on. She was fit to return to work. She actually really did like her therapist, and maybe if it wasn’t ordered by internal affairs, Feyre really could have utilized the resource. She wished she could talk about her nightmares, and the fact that she killed someone, the fact that she’s happy Amarantha died. God, she felt like a terrible person. The walk out to the parking lot, and the drive back to her house, she felt dread settle in her stomach. She got to return to work, which was great, but her coworkers weren’t the most accepting. It also didn’t help that after Amarantha’s death she got a good idea of who was corrupt and who wasn’t. One heavily outweighed the other.

Could she really even judge the other corrupt officers when she knew she was a murderer? It was a dilemma she dealt with daily since the incident. She thought she was a good person, and she thought the man she killed was a bad person, but she was biased. Of course, she thought she was a good person, who actually thinks they’re a bad person? At the same time, how could someone who drugged and assaulted women think they’re a good person? That’s the question. There’s plenty of stories on the news excusing rapist, and even more podcasts and videos online saying men couldn’t help themselves. Maybe they really did think they were good people.

Feyre shrugged off that train of thought as she pulled into the driveway of the house she shared with Tamlin. She glanced at his car sitting in the spot next to her and steadied her mind for a moment before pushing the car door open and stepping out. It took her less time than she wished to get to the front door, turn the key, and step in, “Tam? I’m home,” She called out, plopping her bag down next to the door and kicking off her shoes.

“How’d it go?” He called back to her, but she didn’t miss the slight mockery in his tone as he appeared in the doorframe of his office.

“It was fine, we just talked about Am a little bit,” She responded, admittedly glazing over most of the appointment since she herself wasn’t really paying attention.

“I don’t know why they’re making you do that,” Tamlin scoffed, moving across the foyer into the kitchen to lean against the counter.

“I don’t know Tam, maybe because my partner was murdered while we were on a job? They seem to think that might be a little traumatizing, not to mention everything else,” She rolled her eyes, knowing full well she had developed an anxiety disorder and PTSD. Her therapist had told her as much.

“Yeah, right,” He scoffed, crossing his arms, “You and Amarantha went out, off the job, you let some guy touch all over you and she got shot, you weren’t even there when she got shot what do you even need therapy for?”

“That’s not how it works,” Feyre snapped back, her eyes blazing, “I was fucking drugged Tamlin, I have no idea what happened when I was out. I didn’t even want to drink, Am made me.”

“Oh, what?” He laughed, “Did she pour the drink down your throat? Hold your nose closed? Be serious, Feyre.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Feyre mumbled, turning to walk back toward their bedroom. The first thing she felt was a searing pain in her wrist, making her flinch as she whipped around. Tamlin was holding her arm, tightly.

“Tam,” Feyre whimpered, eyes becoming glassy as he squeezed tighter, “you’re hurting me.”

“You need to show me respect,” He seethed, glowering down at her, “You should thank the stars I didn’t leave you when you cheated on me, and came back all messed up in the head. I’m sticking by your side Feyre, because I love you,” he stroked her cheek with his free hand, but his vice-like grip on her wrist didn’t loosen.

“I am grateful Tam,” She breathed out, eyes watering and a few tears overflowing, “I know this is really hard for you,” she felt bile rise in her throat as she spoke the words.

“Well, I’m glad you understand that,” He smiled at her, but it wasn’t kind as he released her wrist, and she rubbed the sensitive skin.

Feyre braced herself as she let the other shoe drop, ‘I got cleared to return to work.”

“What? Why do you need to go back to work? Especially if you’re so traumatized from your last assignment,” her nostrils flared at the mocking tone he took on when he mentioned her therapy but she stayed silent, taking a breath before formulating a response.

“I love my job Tam, I really want to go back,” She pleaded, “it’ll be good for me to get back into the routine.”

“Whatever Feyre, do whatever you want,” Tamlin rolled his eyes at her, barely glancing at her as he moved to go back into his office, “you never listen to me anyway.”

She didn’t breathe until he closed to door, no matter how small the buffer was, she appreciated it. She went to their room, turning the water as hot as she could tolerate it, stripping off her clothes and glancing at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible, her hips and collar bones protruding, her face gaunt, her healthy glow gone. She glanced away, stepping into the shower and promptly sitting under the practically boiling steam water. She scrubbed her skin till it was pink and raw, and sat until the water turned to ice, she sat until she heard Tamlin come into the bedroom, and knew it would be a long night of playing the dutiful fiance and shooting awake from nightmares with seconds to make it to the bathroom.

“You coming, Feyre?” Tamlin asked her from behind the closed door of the bathroom.

“Yeah, of course, just give me a second,” She called back, wrapping herself in a robe and taking a deep breath to steady herself before opening the door, giving him a soft smile and hiding her bruised wrist behind her back.