Ok I just saw your Vamp!Rhys brain rot headcanons post and I'm letting you know right now if you do not develop them into full blown chapters for Vamp!Rhys I'll literally sue for emotional damages ok thank you <3
The bed is, surprisingly, empty when you awaken, the last rays of evening light filtering in through a crack in the curtains. Your hands brush absently through the cold sheets as if they could tell you where he’d disappeared off to. He’s not usually up this early.
With a yawn, you slide out of bed and yank on one of his discarded shirts, leaving the silky button down open down the middle in a half-hearted attempt at decency before padding off in search of him.
The library and game room is empty, the curtains pulled tight, the air a little stuffy. You can hear Cassian snoring from behind his closed door and a tendril of shadow still guard’s Azriel’s door handle, telling you that he’s not off with either of them this early.
Eventually, you find yourself wandering down into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty too, but figuring it’s worth a shot. You’re surprised to find Rhys bent over the stove, shirtless, sleep pants slung low over his hips as he carefully chops a mix of vegetables. His ears twitch as you walk towards him, a sure sign that he hears your approach.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says without turning. You can hear the pout in his voice without seeing the purse of those full lips you love so much.
“Missed you,” you say as you slide your arms around his waist and bury your head between his shoulder blades.
He sets the knife down long enough to run a hand over where yours hold his waist. “I was coming right back.”
You place a kiss against his spine before leaning around him to get a better view of what he’s doing. “I didn’t know you could cook?”
“I am a thousand years old, Darling,” he purrs. “That’s a long time to not learn how to prepare a meal.”
There’s an old, hand written book propped up against the stone wall, the swirling script fading under the cruel hands of time in a language long forgotten. The pages are brittle and yellow now, the date written in the corner nearly illegible.
“What are you making?”
Skilled hands throw in diced vegetables and dried herbs into a pot simmering with some sort of red sauce. “Something my mother used to make me,” he says softly. “These are her recipes.”
Your chest tightens. He’d told you about the hunters that had killed his mother and sister not long after that night when those hunters had come for you. He’d, understandably, been on edge since, the encounter bringing up a lot of old memories he hadn’t touched. It’s little surprise that he would try and find some solace here.
“Smells good,” you say.
He twists and pulls you in front of him, so you can watch as he works. “Can’t find all the right ingredients,” he frowns. “Some of these spices have been lost to time. I think these will work instead. Hopefully.”
Rhys dips a wooden spoon into the bubbling liquid and brings it to your lips, “Try this for me?”
You give it a second to cool before taking a taste, the mixture both earthy and spicy, but deliciously warm. “It’s good!”
“Yes, but is it right?” He insists.
You tilt your head up to look at him, brows raised, “How would I know, Rhysand? By the sound of it, most of the things you’re missing were lost to the world before my parents were even born.”
You think if he was capable of it he might have blushed against the mistake. Instead, he kisses the top of your head. “I suppose I could ask Az.” He licks a bit of the mixture, frowning as he goes, before putting the spoon directly back into the pot. Apparently a key ingredient in ancient recipes is a little bit of saliva.
A moment later, the shadowy vampire emerges, summoned for this oh so important errand. Azriel’s dark hair is sleep tousled, shadows swirling lazily around his bare shoulders. Any other morning with the two males looking like this you would have climbed them like a tree, but this morning is apparently for other things, as Rhys nearly flings the spoon in Azriel’s direction.
“What am I missing?” He demands.
Az takes a taste and spits it into the sink. “What did you do?!” He all but shoves the two of you out of the way to reach for the spice rack in the cupboards above your head. “Your mother would have beat you with that spoon.”
“I know!” Rhys huffs. “What did I forget?”
Azriel starts opening old jars of dried herbs and adding them into the pot. “Egg and thyme for one thing, dumbass.”
Rhys grabs the book off the counter and looks more closely at the recipe, keeping one arm around your shoulders to have you close even so. “Oh, yeah I did forget the egg.”
Azriel cracks four of them into the mixture, before throwing in more herbs. “You’re cooking it too high too.”
Rhys brushes his lips over your hair. “Wanted to bring it to you in bed before you woke up.”
You twist and lean up on your toes to give him a proper good morning kiss. “I would have loved it anyway.”
“Human taste buds are disgusting,” Azriel huffs.
You hear Cassian’s footsteps before you see the half-awake vampire stumble into the kitchen. “Are we cooking what I think we are?”
“Not if Rhys has anything to do with it,” Azriel huffs.
“It was for Y/N!” Rhys returns. “I didn’t make enough for everyone.”
“But she’s so good at sharing,” Cassian says with a wink, his sleep thick voice enough to make heat pool between your legs.
Rhys lifts you up and places you on the counter, beside where Azriel still chops more ingredients, so he can kiss you deeper this time. “Mine.”
“Not with your cooking she’s not,” Azriel quips.
Cassian tuts as he comes over to Azriel’s other side and dips a finger into the now simmering pot. Azriel smacks his hand with the back of the wooden spoon and Rhys hisses, fangs glinting in the candlelight.
“How are you supposed to take care of the little human if you can’t even cook her a decent meal?” He brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste, then frowns. “Do neither of you own any peppers at all? What is this, baby food?”
“I added the aleppo, just as the recipe said!” Rhys retorts.
“You definitely didn’t! Your mother never made anything this bland!” Cassian insists.
“I’m following the recipe!”
Azriel snatches the book, scarred hands thumbing quickly through the pages. “I remember it being spicier.”
Rhys frowns. “Maybe we’re thinking of that other recipe she used to make?”
“No that one was for dinner,” Cassian returns. “I definitely remember a spicy breakfast dish. Especially on cold winter mornings.”
“He’s right,” Azriel chimes in, eyes still glued to the pages.
“I mean, our tastes did change when we turned, maybe we’re the problem?” Cassian asks, running a hand over his face in thought.
“Your tastes change when you turn?” You ask.
“A little,” Rhys says with a frown, violet eyes on the dish. “Maybe you’re right, Cass. Did you think it was spicy, Darling?”
“A little,” you reply. “It could use more, I think, but again, I’ve never tried it before so I’m not exactly an expert.”
Cass peers into the pot. “It looks right.”
Azriel sets the book back on the counter with nothing short of reverence. “Guess it is us.”
Rhys’s face falls, it’s like watching him lose a piece of the past. You take his face in your hands and kiss the tip of his nose. “I think any mother would be proud to know that you loved something so much that you put all this effort into sharing it, whether is tastes the same or not.”
His grin is soft, like the kiss he plants on your lips, taking his time to pull out of it.
“Thank you for sharing a piece of you with me,” you say.
Azriel scoops it up into four small portions, the wooden dishes old and reminiscent of a time long passed. Not the formal dining ware they bring out at parties, but a little piece of home that managed to survive the passage of time.
It’s delicious, Az had been right about needing the egg and thyme, it brings a more rounded flavor to the dish. But it would have been equally fine if Rhys had brought the first attempt to you in bed, simply because he loved you enough to try and make something for you even when he could not fully enjoy it himself. It tastes all the better because it’s something the four of you can share, can make new memories out of. You certainly will not forget it, not even in the coming change of your mortality.
“Well now you’ve got me curious for what other ancient recipes you’ve been hiding,” you say as the meal comes to a close.
“You make us sound like we’re old as dirt,” Cassian huffs.
You wink up at Rhys as he kisses your temple. “A thousand years is a long time. What else can you make for me?”
Warnings: Angst, talk of therapy, emotions, boundary setting
Word Count: 2758
A/N: So this is the beginning of an arc that may make people uncomfortable. I have thoughts about mates as SJM has defined them (too limiting, restrictive, I don’t think mates are the end-all be-all of love) so I’m going to play with the concept a bit for probably the rest of the story. Don’t like it? Don’t read it. It starts here. Title for this chapter comes from “Linger” by The Cranberries.
Likes/Reblogs/Comments are so so appreciated! I’m looking for feedback on this new direction I’m taking, so please let me know what y’all think!
Banner by me, dividers by firefly-graphics
Part 2 | Part 3
Exiting Hypatia’s office later that week, Niamh had to raise a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun. Across the street she spotted Azriel casually leaning against the railing overlooking the Sidre. He noticed her and approached, falling into step beside her as they walked down the street.
It had become a bit of a tradition between them — Azriel would fly her to her appointment, wait for her to be done, and then they’d go get lunch together at a cafe on the corner that was not too busy and served good food.
They slid into their usual booth and Azriel asked how her session was that day. She gripped her hands together on the table in front of her.
“I think I’m ready, Az.”
“Ready for?” he asked, hazel eyes gliding over the menu even though he would order the same thing he did every time they came.
“For seeing Rhys again. To have the conversation. Put this all behind us.”
His menu hit the table and he regarded her blankly. Noticing a tremble in his eyebrow, Niamh tried to see behind his blank mask. While his face didn’t give anything away, his shadows twitched and swirled uncomfortably. His wings tensed slightly, then relaxed.
He was hiding something.
Niamh’s head tilted to the side, “What are you not telling me, Az?”
He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it as the server approached their table. They placed their order with him and he dashed away.
Az sipped from his water glass in order to avoid her gaze. “His mate is here this week.”
“Oh. Have you met her?” she asked since it was what she thought her response should be, not that she particularly cared about the answer.
He shook his head, “Not yet. He hasn’t brought her to Velaris.”
“Because once he does, Tamlin will find out, and then the whole world will know.”
“Right. He’s hosting her at the Moonstone Palace until he’s sure she can be trusted.” Niamh hummed in agreement, and Azriel continued, “Are you sure you want to talk to him now?”
Niamh shrugged, “Hypatia thinks I’ve made good progress and I want to get this behind me, especially when tensions with Hybern are increasing. Although I’ve decided I’m not going back to my apartment; I quite enjoy having a yard.”
Azriel chuckled, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Right. Speaking of, any luck finding the Queens in the dreamscape?”
“No, not yet. I found a few of the palace servants but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
Their food arrived, set in front of them by the server. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before Niamh broke the quiet.
“Will you bring him to the house? Once his mate goes back, that is. I…I don’t want to interrupt their time together.”
“Yeah, I can bring him to you. I think she’s going back tomorrow, I’ll try to get him there on Saturday,” he assured her, “If you’re positive that you’re ready for this.”
She nodded. “I’m sure, Az. Thank you for double checking.”
A flash of something despairing flickered in his eyes that betrayed the half-smile on his lips. “Anytime, Niamh.”
The next few days Niamh spent tidying up her small house and finishing the numerous small projects she’d started but somehow never finished. Replacing the trim around the front door, sweeping up the dirt she’d tracked in from her garden, clearing all the papers and books off her kitchen table. She made sure all her indoor plants were happy, then spent the rest of the day in her garden tending to the flowers and vegetables and herbs she’d planted.
She loved her little house, and she wanted to show Rhysand that she was thriving on her own. Her evening was spent getting her person in order — face and hair masks, a manicure, and the best-smelling body lotions she could find.
Saturday morning came and, as promised, Azriel knocked on her door with the High Lord in tow. Niamh glanced out the window and had some of the wisteria vines open the door for her. Azriel let Rhys enter first. The High Lord she’d been avoiding brought with him a wave of nerves and she clasped her hands together in front of herself.
She braced herself for a tongue-lashing, but it never came. Azriel closed the door and Rhys took a few more steps inside. He was looking around at her vine- and art-covered walls, her stacks of papers and books. Everywhere, it seemed, but at Niamh herself.
Making eye contact with Azriel she shot him a look that asked, ‘the fuck?’ The shadowsinger only shrugged.
Niamh rolled her eyes impatiently, then broke the silence with, “It’s good to see you, Rhys. Welcome to my home.”
Rhys, having bent to read the titles of some of her books in a stack in the far corner of the room, straightened.
“You live here? I never would’ve guessed.” Some of the tension in the room evaporated as they both smiled. From the corner of her eye she saw Az slip into the shadows to give them privacy.
“Do you want some tea?” she asked, gesturing toward the kitchen door. “It usually helps in these situations, makes it so there are things to hold and stir…”
“Tea sounds lovely,” Rhys said, smoothly opening the door and holding it for her. She swept over to the stove and filled the teapot with the pre-boiled water she’d prepared. Using her powers she had some of the vines grab two teacups and set them on the table before pulling out Rhysand’s chair. He chuckled and sat down.
The vines poured the tea into the teacups and Niamh took a dainty sip. Rhys’s hands hovered around his cup, his violet eyes fixated on them. She took the opportunity to scrutinize his appearance.
Still gorgeous as ever, his skin having regained its natural golden brown tone in the months since he returned. His hair was a little grown out and his features were drawn, like he hadn’t been sleeping well, but he was still unfairly good-looking.
“Azriel tells me you’ve been seeing a therapist,” Rhys interrupted the quiet moment and Niamh quickly looked away so he didn’t catch her staring. His long fingers danced with the steam rising from his cup.
“Yeah, Hypatia. Her office is right on the Sidre, she’s really helped me. Put things in perspective, figure out why I’m so…” Niamh could only gesture to her temple. She didn’t want to apply words like ‘crazy’ or ‘broken’ or ‘fucked up’ because of the negative connotations.
“That’s great,” Rhys said, “I’m...impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“It takes a lot of guts to hide from a High Lord in his own court and get his closest friends to lie about it.”
There it was. Rhys played offense right from the start, like she knew he would. Her sins laid bare at her feet. Yet there was no malice in his tone, no gathering storm behind his words. He actually seemed amused, maybe even a little impressed as he claimed.
Niamh bit back the sarcastic answer that nearly leapt off her tongue, knowing that she needed to have an actual conversation with Rhys instead of joking all her problems away. She stared at her hands, the delicate tea cup, the warm brown liquid inside it while she formulated her answer.
“I was scared. Ashamed of myself. All I wanted to do was hide away from you so that maybe I could pretend…” she trailed off, the confession stuck at the back of her throat like a dry cracker.
“Pretend what?” Rhys asked softly, his right hand moving towards her left one but stopping midway. She could feel his eyes on her face as hers didn’t move from her tea. The inside of her bottom lip grew raw from her nibbling.
Just say it. Say it. He won’t know unless you say it.
She forced out in a barely-audible whisper, “That you still loved me.”
The space between her eyes prickled and she blinked rapidly, willing away the impending tears. Rhys’s right hand lifted and cradled the back of her head, drawing her toward him. She let him settle her face on his shoulder. His other arm encircled her in a hug and she hated how much he felt like home. How much she had missed him.
So she let the tears form and fall onto his black shirt, his citrus and ocean warmth emanating from underneath it. He pulled her closer and held her tight. His lips graced her brow with quick, affectionate pecks while he stroked her hair. It wasn’t until she felt her temple growing wet did she realize he was crying too.
Pulling back, she looked up at him. Her ex-lover, ex-fiance, ex-ex-ex. His eyes bloodshot, tear tracks marring his cheeks, he met her eyes and captured her chin in one hand so she couldn’t look away.
“I do,” he said, voice raw with emotion, “I do love you, Niamh. I need you. I need you. Come back to me, just come back, please.”
Echoes of his time Under the Mountain rang in her ears. Her visits to him while he slept, providing him relief from the horrors he witnessed on a daily basis, he’d said the same thing. She’d interrupt his nightmares of Amarantha writhing above him, of the torture she made him commit on others. He would beg her to stay, beg the world to stop turning so he wouldn’t have to wake up. His dreams became his only means of escape, the only place he could see the sun. She had been the one who gave that to him.
“I’m here, Rhys,” she cupped his face in her hands, letting her thumbs clean up his mess of tears while her heart launched out of her chest. “I’m right here.”
He pulled her into his lap, deftly flinging one of her thighs over his so she was straddling him before crushing her against his broad chest. She’d missed how he could manhandle her so easily. Memories bubbled up that she pushed back down — now was not the time.
“This is torture,” he mumbled into her hair.
“What is?” she asked, pulling back to see his expression. Her mid-back rested on the edge of the table. Rhys’s grip loosened and he rested his hands on her waist, gaze downcast between them.
“Loving,” he finally said, letting his fingers trace random patterns along her sides. “How can I love you and Feyre at the same time? How can I want you both so badly it hurts?”
His violet eyes looked up at her from under his lashes. From this angle and the earnestness in his voice, he almost looked childlike. The look was begging for guidance, advice, answers. She brushed some of his hair off his forehead and he leaned into her touch.
“Because love isn’t pie, Rhys. There isn’t a finite amount of it in the world, it’s endless, infinite, and can’t be contained or willed away.”
“When did you get so wise?” he half-chuckled, fingers toying with the ends of her hair behind her back.
“Fuck you, I’ve always been wise.” She tapped the tip of his nose with her finger and earned a surprised look from him. Gratifying. “Remember when you wanted to dye your hair candy-apple red?”
He laughed then, a real laugh that split his face open and crinkled his eyes. When he stopped, his eyes settled on hers and she watched as he seemed to review all their memories together. She’d long since built up her mental shields against his demati powers, but the fondness written on his face told her everything she needed to know.
He would always love her.
And she couldn’t deny him that.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low and seductive.
That’s when a tidal wave of reality crashed down on Niamh’s head, dousing the fire that was burning through her veins. He still had a mate.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” she admitted, pushing herself off of his lap and backing a few steps away. Grimacing at the feel of slickness between her legs, she also noticed how Rhys’s black pants were slightly tented at the front. How easily she could’ve slipped him free and taken him—
Focus, Niamh.
Rhys dragged a hand down his face. “Right. Feyre.” He leaned back, draping himself over the kitchen chair, his whole body open to her in case she wanted to come back.
“I just don’t want it to jeopardize anything, if she found out that you and I were sleeping together when she hadn’t accepted the bond—”
“She doesn’t know.” He interrupted the beginning of her babbling.
“What?”
“Feyre doesn’t know she’s my mate. She’s still in love with Tamlin and…if he makes her happy, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t interfere.”
Niamh gaped at him, utterly lost for words. “She’s in love? With my brother!?!? And you haven’t tried to talk her out of it? Haven’t even told her she’s your…fucking shit, Rhys, are you actually stupid?”
His hands turned into tight fists and his jaw hardened. “Everything she did Under the Mountain, she did so she could be with him. What kind of complete and utter asshole would I be if I ruined that for her? It would only reinforce what she already thinks of me and I would risk losing her forever.”
Living in Velaris for so long, Niamh had forgotten all about the Night Court’s terrifying reputation and the mask that Rhysand was forced to wear in order to maintain it. That was another reason he relished in their dream visits — it was the only place it was safe for him to be his true self while he was imprisoned.
“I suppose that makes sense, but Rhys, what are you going to do if they get married?”
“I made a deal with her Under the Mountain. One week a month, she lives here.”
“At the Moonstone Palace, right. Azriel told me.”
“I’m hoping these visits will show her...show her I’m not the monster she thinks I am,” he rasped, voice thick with more tears. He closed in on himself, crumbling in front of her.
Before she could stop herself, she pressed him against her chest, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. His arms wrapped around her waist, hands resting on her upper back.
“I can talk to her, if you’d like,” she offered gently. Rhys looked up at her from her chest and quirked an eyebrow at her. “I’m serious! I spent my formative years in the Spring Court and I know how manipulative Tamlin can be. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My ex-fiance being my wing-woman might make me seem desperate.”
“And you’re certainly not that,” Niamh teased, tugging at the hair on the back of his head. He growled at her.
“Careful, Niamh,” his tone was low again, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
She kept her rough grip on his hair and lowered herself to look him directly in the eye, leaving mere breaths between their mouths.
“You and I both know that I can finish spectacularly,” he growled again and lunged at her but she held him in place by his hair, continuing, “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to jump back into bed together yet.”
She released his head and backed away again, resting her hip against her kitchen counter out of reach of him.
Rhys dropped his head in dejection, then ran a hand through his hair. He nodded at her, accepting her decision but sending her a gently questioning look, as if he was worried he had done something wrong.
“I’m not ready. This is the first we’ve spoken since you got back, and things are…complicated. I would prefer if we postponed our, uh, pelvic reunion until things are more settled.”
“Of course, Sweetrose. We can wait for the pelvic reunion,” he teased, rising from his chair and pressing a kiss to her hairline while he ran his hands down her arms. “Now why don’t you give me the official tour of your house?”
“Not much to see but if you insist,” she said, taking his hand and relishing at the feeling of his fingers entwined with hers. At that moment she finally felt that Rhys was back.
Summary: Rhysand and Niamh turn a spark into a flame.
Pairings: Rhysand x OC (Niamh, no physical description but AFAB parts are mentioned)
Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUTTY SMUTTY SMUT MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! A hint of pining, use of mind powers for dirty talk, mention of past SA (not descriptive), fingering/handjob, mild choking, a little cumplay, begging, P in V sex (wrap it before you tap it, y’all), feelings talk, mentions of complex relationship dynamics. Plus Rhysand is a warning on his own.
Word Count: 3223
A/N: This is my first time posting smut that I’ve written, only my second time writing it so please be gentle! Rhys sure isn’t ;)
All joking aside, since this is a new subject for me I appreciate feedback more than usual! Likes, Comments, Reblogs, Notes, anything!
Title is from “Tonight, Tonight” by The Smashing Pumpkins, Banner made by me.
Enjoy!!
Part 3 | Part 4 | Masterlist
It didn’t take long for Niamh to crave Rhysand in all the ways she used to. Fifty years of absence, then nearly three months of avoiding him had indeed made her heart — among other parts — grow fonder.
The High Lord certainly didn’t help matters.
He was sweet. Thoughtful. When they were apart, he’d send her little missives written on scraps of paper about how boring his meetings were and how much he missed her. He brought her seeds for rare plants she could grow in her garden or greenhouse. He’d even suggested some changes she could make to her small home to make it habitable for him — turning the spare bedroom into a walk-in closet and replacing the tub with one large enough for two.
And yet, he hadn’t made any moves to restore their physical relationship. He’d promised he would let her take the lead on that front, and she had to admire his restraint. He hadn’t so much as asked for a kiss on the cheek or to hold her hand while they were on their various dates.
Together they’d spent an afternoon walking through the Rainbow, dipping into any little shops that caught their eye. He’d taken her to the botanical gardens and listened to her lecture him about the different species of plants they encountered. Her first family dinner back they had partnered for charades and wiped the floor with Mor and Cassian while Amren and Azriel had buried themselves in books.
A few times she’d caught him with his hand hovering near her shoulder or the small of her back, but he’d pull the hand away and bury it in his hair or shove it into his pocket when she noticed. She could tell his patience was fraying.
Niamh’s own patience was wearing thin.
Tonight he’d taken her out to dinner at her favorite restaurant along the Sidre. While walking home, their hands kept brushing against each other until she threaded her fingers in between his. She couldn’t miss the self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face as they approached her front door.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve seen you home safe and sound. I suppose I should take my leave.”
He didn’t let go of her hand, instead raising their entwined fingers to place feather-light kisses along her knuckles. The way his violet eyes locked onto hers, radiating care and adoration and confidence, had broken her.
He wouldn’t be leaving her. Not tonight.
Using her free hand, Niamh grabbed the High Lord by the back of the neck and pressed their lips together, their entwined hands squished between their chests so she could feel both of their heartbeats.
The kiss was cathartic, passionate, burning with pent-up hunger. He used his free hand to skate down her shoulders to her hips, pulling her against his body. He turned them, lips reacquainting themselves with each other, and pressed her against the front door of her house.
Niamh groped for the doorknob, opening the door and stumbling backward into the foyer with a girlish giggle. Rhys caught her, a rich laugh emanating from deep in his chest. A second later he was pressing her back to him, his nose brushing along her neck, inhaling her scent and groaning. Distantly, she heard her front door slam shut and lock.
“You smell incredible, Sweetrose,” he said, the deeper tone of his words making her shiver. His hands rested on her hips again, the feeling burning through her. Plush lips pressed themselves into the skin of her shoulder, trailing up her neck and finding the spot that made her melt.
Niamh’s head fell back and she moaned, “Rhys…”
“Mmm, I love it when you moan my name.”
His reply made her arousal spike and she pulled out of his grasp, latching her mouth to his. Ravenous, she shoved her hands into his hair while he pulled the short sleeves of her dress down over her shoulders.
His lips parted from hers and attacked her neck and collarbones and the tops of her breasts, sucking hard and then soothing the skin with his tongue. Obviously he remembered how much she liked being marked up by him.
She remembered a few things of her own as well.
“Fuck, Rhys,” she moaned, pulling on his hair just enough to make it hurt. Rhys growled and nipped the plush top of her breast, she gasped in pleasure. Before she could retaliate, his strong arms wrapped under her ass and lifted her so his face was buried between her breasts. Niamh squealed in surprise.
“What are—”
“Bedroom,” was his only reply, slightly muffled by her tits. Niamh couldn’t help but giggle. Without moving his head, he blindly crossed through her living room and turned down the short hall that led to her bedroom. Depositing her on the bed, Rhys then hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her toward the edge.
Niamh sat up and he knelt on the floor in front of her, large hands stroking down her thighs. When he looked up at her she felt the question around the hedges made of adamant in her mind — the ones she’d constructed against his demadi powers.
Are you sure?
She nodded and lowered the walls — the sensations they shared with each other could be downright earth-shattering — leaning forward to press her forehead against his, eyes closed in the sheer bliss of being able to touch him again.
I want you, Rhys, but only if you’re ready.
She couldn’t help the flash of one of his frequent nightmares that appeared — of red hair, a piercing of blood red nails on his skin — then it was gone. Rhys’s hand gripped the back of her head and pressed his head harder against hers. Her eyes popped open, taking in his closed-eye expression and tracing his cheek with the tips of her fingers.
As she opened her mouth to apologize her mind was flooded with memories of the moments like this they had shared before he was imprisoned — Rhys kissing his way down her body, Niamh doing the same to him, every imaginable position, her fingers tracing his tattoos, the way her brow scrunched as she came — on and on he sent her the endless memories until she was flat against her bed. Whether she’d fallen or he’d guided her down, she didn’t know, nor did she have time to ponder it because the second the memories stopped Rhys rose from the floor and tugged at the skirt of her dress.
She propped herself on her elbows and took in her High Lord, standing tall and proud at the end of her mattress, his trademark smirk across his lips. The darkness of the night settled around him, along with the moonlight coming from the windows. He cut an imposing frame in the small room — she was glad he hadn’t unsheathed his wings lest he knock everything off her dresser and shelves.
His hand tugged at her skirt again, the other working the top button of his own black shirt and Niamh got the message before he had a chance to plant the idea in her mind.
I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
Now take off your clothes before I rip them off.
Eager, High Lord? She teased into his mind and he tore the rest of his shirt off, growling low in his throat.
“You have no idea,” he said, leaning onto the mattress and nipping at her neck. A rush of cold air encircled her entire body. When she looked down, her dress had turned into black mist and was drifting away from her body, now naked before Rhys.
She only had a second to glare at him — You took too long — before his mouth was crashing against hers, his body leading her down onto the bed with his. Her core flooded with heat when his body slipped between her knees, his own arousal pressing against her inner thigh. She reached down and yanked at his belt; she needed him, now.
“Eager, Princess?” he chuckled in her ear, teeth scraping along her earlobe. All she could do was nod, working his zipper and reaching into his pants to reveal his length. When her hand wrapped around his thick cock he groaned, a new wave of arousal making her nearly drip.
“Fuck, Niamh,” he muttered as she squeezed and started pumping him in the way she remembered he loved. Rhys sat up on his knees, tracing his hands along her body and gazing down at her. His eyes were mere rings of violet around dilated pupils, blown out with lust. He looked down at her adoringly, watching her stroking his cock for a moment, then stroked a long line through her folds. She moaned loudly while his fingers worked at her aching sex, spreading her open for him.
“You’re so wet,” he marveled, tilting his head to watch, “And I’ve barely touched you.”
Her hips moved against his digits, seeking friction, and he obliged by slipping a finger in and crooking it, sending a jolt of pleasure ricocheting through her. A second finger joined quickly, slowly pumping in and out of her. She squeezed his fingers with every pass and his breath hitched.
Rhys’s head dropped back and exposed the long line from his throat down to his throbbing cock and Niamh couldn’t resist — she ran her free hand from the base of his cock over his chiseled stomach, between his stunning pecs with swirling tattoos, and let her hand rest at the base of his neck, squeezing lightly.
Rhys gasped out a breath, then found her bundle of nerves and pressed, making her cry out. His free hand came to cup one of her breasts, then he bent and flicked his tongue across her sensitive nipple, all while his fingers still worked their magic inside her. She felt her climax approaching.
“Please, Rhys,” she begged. “I need you.”
Before she finished her sentence he shoved her hand off his purple-headed dick and lined himself up against her entrance. Raising the fingers that had been inside her a moment ago, he held eye contact with her as he licked them clean. She whimpered at the obscene sight and the feeling of him pressing insistently against her wet hole.
He tore his eyes away from hers and looked down at where they were almost joined. Rhys loved watching his cock disappear into her.
So pretty for me, he said into her mind as he slid inside inch by inch, letting her adjust around him. Feel so fucking good. Fuck, I missed you. Not gonna last long…
Me neither, she replied, then out loud she breathed, “Fuck me, Rhys.”
It started slow, allowing for each of them to find their long-lost rhythms, him dragging along her inner walls and her arching against him to drive him deeper, deeper, with every thrust. Once they found it, which didn’t take long, Rhys picked up his pace and it was all Niamh could do but cling to him, nails digging into the muscles of his back and heels pressing into his ass as she moved with him.
His thrusts were deep and brutal and fast, each one sparking waves of flame that tore through her as he hit the spot deep within her that made her see stars. Between the stars and the flame, she wailed with almost overwhelming pleasure.
This was healing.
This was homecoming.
This was reunion.
“‘M gonna cum, love,” he grunted, hand seeking out her clit again. “Cum for me, cum for me.”
She clenched, their labored breathing and his dirty words throttling her toward release. His thumb circled her clit once, twice more, and she was thrown into ecstasy.
Her thighs trembled and her throat went hoarse as he plunged into her again and again, his own pace faltering just as her orgasm was sputtering out. As his release coated her walls, he pressed their foreheads together again, sending her nothing but affection and love and gratitude before sliding out of her which made them both shudder.
He lay back for a moment and they stared up at the canopy of her bed, criss-crossed by a climbing pothos plant. She looked over at him, his stunning profile in sharp relief against the moonlit window. Mother above, he was gorgeous. His eyes were closed, a satisfied smile curving his perfect lips. His ink-black hair was disheveled and a flush crept over his perfect cheekbones, hands resting on his stomach. Satisfaction rolled off of him, invading her own mind for a moment.
Was she satisfied? Sexually, yes, very much yes, but in other aspects? She didn’t know. Niamh didn’t know what came next for them or what this “pelvic reunion” — as he’d jokingly called it — meant for their relationship, or if it even meant anything at all.
They were grown-ass High Fae, however, and the ambiguity between them was frustrating. Niamh couldn’t let herself fully trust his actions. Doubt consistently crept into any sweet moment they shared, like now as they reclined in post-coital bliss.
She shifted to lay on her side, facing away from him. He was quick to fill in the space behind her, wrapping one arm over her waist and the other under her head to act as a pillow. For a moment she allowed herself to savor his closeness, how his sculpted form felt pressed up against her naked back.
If she’d learned anything from her sessions with Hypatia it was that it was always better to ask for what one needed. She needed to know.
“What are we doing, Rhys?”
“Cuddling,” He responded casually as he brushed light kisses along her bare shoulder. The hand of the arm under her head came up and played with a strand of her hair.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Sweetrose?”
“We slept together and you have a mate,” she whispered.
“Ah, that.” She felt him shrug against her back, “The bond hasn’t been accepted, she doesn’t even know what it is. And she still hates me. We have time, Niamh, trust me.”
Guilt welled within her.
“So…what?” Niamh nudged him away from her and got out of bed, yanking on the silk robe that was tossed over the back of her vanity chair. She tied it off with a sharp snap of fabric. “I’m just someone to fuck until Feyre realizes she’s your mate?”
“It’s not like that,” he started, reaching over the space she had just occupied, beckoning her back into bed with him. “Come back to bed.”
“But it feels like that!” She noticed his fist clench in her sage-colored sheet at her words. “It’s all I can ever be to you now, a place holder while you-”
He interrupted her this time, vaulting off the bed with impressive speed and gripping onto her upper arms. He hunched over to look her in the eye, intensity radiating from him in powerful waves. “You are not a place holder. I love you! I have loved you for hundreds of years, despite everything that should’ve kept us apart. You have always had my heart, my very soul, Niamh.”
The adamant hedges around her mind were still down and he took advantage of that, sending her wave after wave of love. It swept through her mind and made it nearly impossible for her to remain rational. She clung to the life raft full of questions she had, arguments to be made. Slowly, she put her walls back up.
“You speak of everything that should’ve kept us apart while ignoring the biggest thing that will for sure come between us.” Niamh pulled out of his grasp and put some space between them, “Even if she doesn’t know, even if she hasn’t accepted it, you’re mated, and I can’t see a way around that.”
She turned around and wrapped her arms around herself, missing his presence even though he was mere steps away.
Over the last few weeks she read more about mating bonds. Everything she read said basically the same thing; mating bonds were rare and sacred. No magic could break it, and denying one would most certainly drive one or both parties mad. Part of her wished that Rhys would move on and forget about her, focus his love on his mate so it would hurt less when they were torn apart by the bond.
“Do you think if I could help how I felt about you that I would be here?” She heard him approach, felt the warmth of his bare body through the silk of her robe when he came to stand behind her, not touching her. “My parents were mates, equals, and they fucking hated each other. I seem to recall a certain Spring Court High Lord and his Lady who also weren’t too fond of one another?”
He was right — she hated that he was right. A Mating Bond, however unbreakable, did not mean the mates would be happy together. Her own parents had given her a grim look at what an unhappy mating looked like; her father, an abusive rageful tyrant, and her mother, a shrinking violet too afraid of her husband’s wrath to defend her children against him.
She turned and leaned her butt against her vanity, arms still crossed and looking up into his violet eyes that brimmed with concern and a touch of fear.
“Don’t you love her?” Niamh asked, not sure which answer she preferred. He’d told her he loved his mate — Feyre, she remembered — when they’d reconciled over tea.
Slowly, Rhys nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “I do love her. I also love you, and like you said love isn’t finite,” he explained, closing the distance between them, tilting her chin up with a finger so she had to look him in the eye. “The Cauldron gave me a mate, yes, but thoughts of you, Niamh, got me through every damn day in that prison and most of the days since my return. I love you. I will never stop loving you, even if Feyre accepts the bond.”
“I…I know. But this whole nebulous, complicated thing is difficult. Knowing that you’re going to have something permanent and special and I’ll be alone…it hurts.”
He tilted his head like a confused puppy, “You don’t think we’re permanent?”
“Bonds are intense, powerful magic. Who’s to say that you won’t forget all about me once she accepts?” Niamh shrugged, annoyance with herself rising. Why couldn’t she just accept that Rhys loved her and be happy?
The answer was obvious. She would get hurt, and she’d rather have it be her fault than his. It was easier that way, cleaner. But she felt her desire to keep fighting against herself waning, her impulse to seize the moment with Rhys eclipsing it.
Rhys reached out his hands to her, his sculpted muscles moving under his golden skin as he did. She unfolded her arms and put her hands in his.
“I don’t know what will happen, Niamh, but I need you to believe that I will always come back to you. You will never lose me again, I swear. On my life, my position as High Lord, on fucking Velaris itself.”
His sincerity overwhelmed her. And finally — finally — she let herself believe him.
