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braxlrose · 9 months

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request: my first request is😼 bill kaulitz x reader who is a hopeless romantic i mean he finds such messy and simple things romantic and he doesn't like extra things like some bed with rose petals and candles... i mean he finds romance in a bouquet of randomly picked flowers (although roses of course can be 😝) finds romance in smoking cigarettes in one of the abandoned buildings (obligatory of course lighting cigarettes looks like Bill first lights his cigarette and then lights her cigarette with his cigarette ykykyk) I find romance in dating at McDonald's or such a date at or a date sitting on the sidewalk sipping a slushie or an energy drink.. RUSHES RUSHES..(such aesthetics that I can't describe... such a lil peep 😒)

teenage dirtbag bill x f!reader

• teenage dirtbag bill who sneaks into your room at night to spoon you. bonus points if he's a small spoon

• teenage dirtbag bill who kisses your forehead before going to class

• teenage dirtbag bill who buys you those cute candy cigarettes for you to make you laugh

• teenage dirtbag bill who loves hanging out with you and your little siblings because he thinks they're so adorable

• teenage dirtbag bill who got scolded by you after you found him trying to teach your little sibling how to roll a joint

• teenage dirtbag bill who ended up wrapping you in his arms afterwards and getting high with you

• teenage dirtbag bill who loves it when you bail him out of detention because he was caught smoking.

• teenage dirtbag bill who kisses your entire face when you make him food when he's high 🥺 pookie gets the munchies

• teenage dirtbag bill who loves it when you leave lipstick marks all over his face and would proudly go out in public with them on

• teenage dirtbag bill who uses crackle nail polish because he thinks it looks edgy

• teenage dirtbag bill who brings you to a carnival so you guys can indulge on heinous amounts of cotton candy

• teenage dirtbag bill who writes songs about you and sings them whenever hes drunk

• teenage dirtbag bill who brings you to McDonald's and orders 30 things off of the 1 dollar menu because you can get more food that way

• teenage dirtbag bill who tries to pierce himself with a safety pin and ends up crying because it hurt 💀 he swears he didn't cry whenever you bring up the story though

• teenage dirtbag bill who picks you the dandelions when they're all fluffy and white because he thinks they're cooler than the regular boring yellow ones.

• teenage dirtbag bill who sneaks candy into movies for you.

• teenage dirtbag bill who buys you new cds to listen to when you finish the ones he already got you

• teenage dirtbag bill who gets you ice cream from an ice cream truck when you're feeling sad

• teenage dirtbag bill who carves pumpkins with you for Halloween and always brags about his being super cool. "Yours is really good too Honey, but mine! Look at it! It's so coooool!"

• teenage dirtbag bill who confesses his love to you when he gets high even though you guys have already been dating for forever

• teenage dirtbag bill who slaps you away and says he has a girlfriend when you try and kiss him when he's super drunk because he doesn't realize it's you.

• "NO! NO! No! Noooooo!" Hes all pouty and his eyebrows are furrowed, "I have... a girlfriend. Goooot it?"

• and you're all like "really?! Well, can I tell you a secret?"

• and he just nods along waiting for you to speak when you're like "I'm your girlfriend."

• you just watch his eyes widen and his jaw drop and he's like "reallllyyyy?! oooohhh mmmyyy goddd you're sooo pretty though."

• teenage dirtbag bill is a cutie pie

• teenage dirtbag bill who gets super happy when you buy him the fruit roll ups with the tattoos on them so he can some on himself

• teenage dirtbag bill who lights your cigarette with his or shares a cigarette with you while you're sitting in his lap.

• teenage dirtbag bill who asks you to marry him whenever he feels like it's the "right moment" just waiting for the day you say yes.

• by "the right moment" I mean after you two had sex for the first time or when you guys went skinny dipping together or when you guys are on a late night "picnic" watching the stars.

• picnic aka 2 turkey sandwiches and some slim jims

• teenage dirtbag bill who holds you in his arms and smokes a cigarette after you guys had sex for the first time. he doesn't plan on letting go of you any time soon.

• teenage dirtbag bill who is ironically amazing at driving, especially when he's high, so you're always a passenger princess.

• teenage dirtbag bill who has his hand on your thigh whenever he's driving

• teenage dirtbag bill who brings you to a drive in movie theater to make out with you

• teenage dirtbag bill who is super intimate. even though he isn't into all that extra crap, he's very mushy.

• teenage dirtbag bill who lays on your thighs whenever he can because he loves how soft your skin is.

• teenage dirtbag bill who tattoos your name onto him

• teenage dirtbag bill who has promised since he was a little kid that he was going to marry you one day.

• teenage dirtbag bill who finds it super cute when you get all excited when he let's you put face masks on him

• teenage dirtbag bill who let's your little siblings put braids and pig tails in his hair with bows because he loves how you smile whenever he plays with them.

• teenage dirtbag bill who writes his name on your clit with his tongue whenever he goes down on you.

• teenage dirtbag bill who buys you your favorite chips whenever he comes over. yk, just because he wanted too

• teenage dirtbag bill who goes on long walks at night with you

• teenage dirtbag bill who asks you for the answers on tests because you're just so smart and he can never remember

• teenage dirtbag bill who thinks your the prettiest person in the entire world on the inside and out.

• teenage dirtbag bill who has a camcorder and records videos of you guys all the time for your "future selves"

• teenage dirtbag bill who also has a Polaroid cameras and candid pictures of you whenever he thinks you look super duper pretty.

• teenage dirtbag bill who picks up sea glass whenever he finds it on the beach and gives it to you.

• teenage dirtbag bill who buys you those candy necklaces and bracelets and puts them in expensive jewelry boxes as gifts for you.

scenario one.

"show me your tongue." Bill said as you too were walking hand in hand. You turned your head towards him and staring laughing.

"What?!" You giggled out, taking another sip of your drink.

"I wanna see if your tongue is blue, come on! Show meeee!" He begged and whined, pouting and fluttering his eyes at you. You gave him a quick kiss on the lips before sticking out your tongue.

"So?" You asked, biting your lip and moving your hand to wrap it around his arm.

"Super fucking blue." He laughed, sipping his drink and continuing to walk down the street.

"Blue blue or Berry Blue?"

"Whats the difference?"

"Ones blue and the other is Berry Blue," You rested your cheek on his shoulder and looked up into his eyes, "Duh."

scenario two.

You nuzzled your face into bills chest as you two sat on a cement block, hanging out with the rest of tokio hotel. Your eyes gazed up at Bills face as he brought his cigarette to his mouth. He was so beautiful, you couldn't help but stare him at forever.

"Okay, would you guys rather be able to do anybody you want with no chance of STD's or pregnancy but have to drink a cup of pee everyday, or have a pregnancy scare once a week but be able to do whatever you want and not get in trouble?" Tom asked, taking a sip of his beer.

Bill took his cigarette out of his mouth and brought it down to mine, still looking up at the rest of the guys, "Is the pee yellow or clear?" Bill asked, smiling a bit as he questioned Tom. I breathed out some smoke and I could feel Bills fingers threading through my hair. It was always so calming, I could practically fall asleep.

"Yellow. Obviously." Tom scoffed, taking a drag of his cigarette and looked around at the rest of us.

"What do you think, hmm?" Bill asked, looking down at me as he tapped the cigarette on the cement. I laughed a bit and sat up more, still in his lap and leaned into him again.

"The second one, obviously. No way am I drinking someone's piss everyday." I answered, wrapping my arms around Bill who had begun laughing and kissing my forehead.

taglist: @hearts4kaulitz @burntb4bydoll @spelaelamela @bored0writer @fishinaband @billsleftnutt @tokiiohot @bluepoptartwithsprinkles @saumspam @5hyslv7 @killed-kiss @memog1rl @80s-tingz @billybabeskaulitz @victryzvv9 @banshailey

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tadpolesonalgae · 3 months

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Play-mate[***]

Dark!Rhysand x reader

a/n: something so comforting about writing dark!character fics (is that worrying?)

Warnings: dark!Rhys, non-con, light choking, smut, fingering, degradation, brief impact ‘play’, overstimulation, squirting, nipple play, dumbification, breeding kink, this is a sequel to Desk Pet but can be read on its own

Word Count: 7, 245

Perhaps the one pleasure you can still keep safe is those rare but precious nights he works late. The ones where you’re allowed to resign yourself to lethargy, fatigue soothing your muscles as you melt across the small pallet that lays beside his own, much larger bed. Relaxing into the soft sponginess of the plump bedding, silky smooth fur swelling around your body as the plushness dips, swallowed by the single thick blanket you’re allowed in the winters.

With the darkness covering the lands so swiftly, you often find yourself lighting a few candles, disliking the obtrusive glow of the fae lights, plucking a thick book from his shelves, and curling up to read upon your meagre but wonderful pallet. Something more likely to be offered to a pet than a fae, but somehow large enough to comfortably contain you.

In your world of passiveness, it’s the single joy you’re allowed—reading on a cold winter night, tucked up cozily with a book, left entirely to yourself. No rough palms bruising your jaw, no deft fingers pushing into the slippery wetness of your mouth, nor touches that hurt more than frostbite.

Hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end, raising across your bare body, still kept entirely naked for his ease, and you discard the book, noting the page number. The wet roughness of your tongue swipes across the soft pads of your fingers, suffocating the tiny flames swiftly, keeping your digits flush until the skin stings, careful to keep too much smoke from filtering to the air. You want him to think you’re asleep—he’s less likely to take interest if he knows you won’t be reluctant. Less likely.

Freshly oiled hinges swing open silently, but you know he’s entered the chambers and you remain mostly concealed beneath the thick blanket, the soft cotton brushing your shoulders, hiding the intimate skin of your breasts.

The night before he’d taken a particular liking to them, teething across the aching peaks, suckling them into his mouth one at a time, grinding for a seemingly endless period between your legs, only the cloth of his finely tailored trousers protecting you from him. He’d bitten, sucked, pinched and flicked at your breasts until he’d finally been satiated from whatever sexual interest had initially grasped him. Tongue soothing the raw peaks, swollen and freshly-licked from attention, gleaming in the low lights like candy.

Now they ache more intensely, small threads of soreness plucking through your chest, small throbs of pain soothed into your flesh like a balm being rubbed into skin until it’s absorbed by the surrounding tissue. Brought in and softened, slowly seeping across your breasts, nipples still aching most acutely.

You hear him now, walking on cat-soft feet across the wooden panelling, skin prickling with familiar awareness as his attention skates over you like how your eyes would have, at some moment deep in the past, scanned your own bedroom upon entering it. Counting your belongs, making sure nothing had been displaced or removed without your knowledge: potted plants still sitting pretty along the windowsill; candles still decorating the side table; clothes folded unobtrusively atop a chest of draws to be put away. And so as your eyes would have once mindlessly catalogued your belongings, now his brush over you, curled neatly to the side of his bed, waiting patiently for use.

The thought has a kind of disgust rising in your stomach, one you thought had long since been numbed. Becoming so warped and twisted it would never flare again. Yet here it is, sitting gelatinously at the back of your mouth, resting fully in your throat, as if waiting to be regurgitated—spat out and disposed of so it’s no longer a bother.

He pauses adjacent to your bed, and you wonder if he’s reassessing your positioning. If he should have instead set your pallet at the foot of his bed so he wouldn’t be tasked with travelling to the other side for access. Instead the sound of muffled fabric floats to your pointed ears, conditioned to recognise all of his noises: onyx black buttons being slotted through midnight blue holes; fabric whispering as it’s shucked off broad shoulders that can carry the width of your waist, having been unkindly tossed over it more than once; ties that rasp like rope, and he pulls them free, loosening the band of his trousers before leaving to prop himself upon the bed, likely removing the rest of the clothes before disappearing into another room.

Even in the moments of his absence, his sense clings to you, as if he’s somehow been granted ubiquitous sight, observing you while he should not be able to. His magic settles in the air, thick and dense, like the fog that pools in valleys, masking the dangerous potholes and rocks that manage to stumble themselves into one’s pathway, creating a lethal road to navigate.

Sheets rustle, and you realise he must have re-entered at some point, having gone undetected as your mind helplessly wandered, seeking escape from the dreadful pleasure he so regularly subjects you to, forcing you to take long, languid drives of his hips, hands pulling and tangling with your hair, intrusive power seeping into your mind, controlling you from the inside out.

It’s only once he’s seemingly settled that you allow yourself to consider a hell-free night. Liberated, if only temporarily, from his deep aches and contagious pain. How he enjoys putting his sickness into your body, releasing his cruelty upon your bones, like you’ve done something wrong enough to be deserving of his inflictions.

Sheets rustle again, and your heart stumbles despite even breaths, ones that are deep and regular, suggesting peaceful sleep in the hopes of remaining undetected by his attention.

“I know you’re awake,” he says lowly.

Your skin prickles tightly, littered with goosebumps as his words send small thorns pushing into your tender flesh. He shifts on the bed, and you can feel as his eyes settle, taking in your form and the things he’s free to do to it.

“You think pretending to sleep will save you from me?” He asks, mirth clear in his honeyed voice, softer than satin, softer even than a lover’s, like warm clouds and fresh feathers. “Do you have any preference for what happens tonight?” He asks idly, as if speculating upon an item from a menu, considering his options with careless interest. He will get a meal no matter what he decides on.

Roughened fingers grip your shoulder firmly, and you fight the jolt that urges to burst through, remaining tight but relaxed, melting into the softness of your floor bed, willing him away. Willing yourself to appear quiet and uninteresting. For a short moment it appears to work, his touch leaving your dirtied skin, pulling back into the great warmth his own bed, as if he’s a beast who’s curling his tail in preparation for sleep, coiled tight to whip out at a moment’s notice.

But then the sheets rustle again, and a firm heat snakes down, slinking down as his power pulls back the corner of your blanket, allowing the naked sturdiness of him to collect at your back. One arm slides beneath your rib cage, folding at the joint to wrap across your middle, his large palm gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you flush to his chest while his free hand trails between your breasts, fingers feathering up to your throat, wrapping around the comparatively small extension. A heightened pulse drums against his digits, bumping against his tight hold, alerting him to your own awareness. Lips stretch beside your ear, hot mouth grazing its shell as he strokes your hip like you’re a pet to be soothed.

“Nothing to say for yourself, or do you simply not care?” He asks mildly. The sinister question registers fully in your mind, already beginning to shut down in attempts to preserve what little pieces you have left that he hasn’t already touched. “You were so vocal for me last night. What happened?” He laughs softly, the arm beneath you shifting so his fingers can graze your ribs, stroking just below your breast, still aching from his rough attention. He squeezes your throat a little tighter, eyes prickling with the pressure, the burning in the bridge of your nose. You won’t ask him to stop—you’d only be wasting your breath.

The High Lord hums at your back as if he’s disappointed by your lack of a response, put off now you aren’t doing as he likes, a small reminder while he may have control of almost everything in your life, he cannot control your thoughts. Or rather, if he did, there would be nothing left of you to enjoy: if he continues to replace small pieces of yourself, is it still you he’s playing with?

He releases your throat in favour of dipping to your breasts, the arm beneath you skating over the softness of your stomach, brushing with a feather-light touch over your abdomen, feeling the slight flutter of tension beneath his fingertips. Rhysand brings his mouth lower, suctioning over a small spot below your jaw, trailing along the tendon keeping your head to your shoulders, following to your collar bone. “Should I give these some more attention?” He inquires, and you bite back a pained noise as he pinches your nipple, tugging lightly on the bruised peak.

His other hand drops lower, exploring the familiar area leading between your legs that you’ve preemptively tried to lock together. The digits pause, feeling your obstinance, your clear reluctance to let him touch you any further, and he hums approvingly, pleased with your resistance. “Better,” he murmurs onto your skin, even as his magic wraps tightly around your thigh and ankle, pulling you back to lean against his chest, guiding your leg over his hips. You squirm at the invasive press of him between your thighs, gently forced open as his mouth latches over the intimate skin of your throat, lapping up your flavour as if he isn’t in possession of such sheer power that he’s able to have you whenever he pleases—and fully takes advantage of it.

Lips part as he cups your heat, pressure building behind your eyes as his fingers splay across the intimate part, lazily taking his time, both going slow for his own enjoyment and for your torture, making sure it’s dragged out as long as possible. He doesn’t want this to be something you can switch off for a few minutes a day, he needs it to be hours long, twisting you until you fit the shape of him, so wary and worn from taking him you end up bending and slotting to hold his impression within your bones. His finger presses to your clit and he relishes in the flinch he feels within your stomach and thighs, desperately suppressed on your side in attempts to keep his hunger at bay, as if the possibility of remaining indifferent to him might stave off the ferocious starvation than comes alive in him every night without fail.

“One day, lovely lamb, you’re going to break,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, digits lazily circling as he plays with you mindlessly, so well familiarised with your body he no longer needs to pay attention to where he’s touching—it will always be the right spot. “You’re going to shatter for me, and fall apart at my feet. All soft and pliable. Begging for me to either give you the pleasure you’ve spent so long resisting and hating, or for me to give you your end right then and there.” His fingers slide lower, his touch dripping across your skin as he flicks across your nipple, drawing a pained inhale from your mouth, caught off guard.

“Would you like to know what happens after that point?” He asks mildly, as if he can’t feel the way you’re trembling in his arms from the effort of keeping yourself together when he can pull you apart with such ease. There’s always that edge of terror when you’re forced to lie with him, that he might one day tire of your resistance and pluck at your mind for good, banish your rationality and lock it up somewhere, or simply annihilate it completely. That one day, he might decide to go into your mind, and steal it from you entirely, take control of you and make you truly beg for him like he enjoys seeing, having you perform for him dumbly, crawling toward him across the floor, touching yourself upon his bed, pleasuring him of your own accord. The fear never leaves you, that he might one day decide to make use of his daemati powers, and leverage them against you.

His palm smacks across your cheek, digits digging into the soft muscle of your jaw as he grips you punishingly, drawing you away from the torment of your inner thoughts. “Are you sure you want to do this dance tonight?” He asks lowly, able to feel the tautness of your limbs, how you’re trying not to squirm or recoil, trying not to fight against him. “I’m in a rather pleasant mood for once. I would suggest you try to appeal to my better side,” he advises coldly, hot lips brushing bare skin. “Is that clear?”

“Go to hell,” you manage weakly, tremors making their way into your voice.

The High Lord’s lips stretch into something wicked and pleased, hand sliding down to your throat, tilting your head so you’re leaning to give him more access, his grip swallowing your back whole. A low sound of pleasure drags from his chest, hips rolling languidly into your hind, fingers slipping lower to bask in the stiffness of your body as he presses to your entrance, leg still hooked over his hip so you can’t prevent it. Disgust crawls across your body, having your skin tighten with awareness and attention, focusing on where his touch is branding you, burning in his handprints so they’ll never leave your soul.

“You don’t like it when I touch you?” He provokes, hungry for resistance. “From the amount of times you’ve come on my fingers alone, I would have thought you like the way I can make you crumble.” His digits circle your entrance, keeping you pulled flush against his chest, forced to lean your weight onto his shoulder as he pushes in, and you want to scream at the invasion. How many times has it been, and yet it never gets any better, skin constantly soaked in oil, doused from head to toe in it so thoroughly you wish for a match to end you. One spark, and you’d be gone, blessedly free of him. Perhaps at last released to a place away from his touch, a world where you’re clean and safe, and you’d never met him.

Or at least, he’d never have forced you to be his.

Maybe there could have been a happy ending.

“I hate you,” you manage to hiss out, trying to ignore the sensation of his fingers pumping slowly, curling against spots he has no right to know or touch with such familiarity, digits dragging in and out until slick has begun to coalesce to prevent pain. Again he hums, and it sounds encouraging, like he wants you to repeat it, like the words give life to him, allow him to continue to thrive and feed off you. “I hate you,” you say again, voice breaking from how many times you’ve said so, and yet it never encapsulates the depth of betrayal that squirms in your gut, the anger and frustration that once burned in your chest at the severe maltreatment. Things could have turned out differently, if only…

“I hate you so much, Rhys.”

Pressure spills over, quietly dripping down your cheeks, hot water splashing down into the pillows. You don’t want to cry in front of him, don’t want to allow him that emotional proximity. He’s taken so much from you, it’s unfair that he will ruin this, too. His fingers graze a spot deeper, and your breath catches, familiar heat beginning to take root in the pit of your belly, that disgusting, shameful arousal he puts into your body, something you shouldn’t feel, ever, for him.

“I’m glad to know you feel so strongly for me,” he replies lowly, nipping at the tip of your ear, reminding you of all the other unpleasant things he’s served to you, the ways he’s used those teeth upon your body to summon pain to your skin. You wish he wouldn’t. If just for one night he would soften his touch, lessen the brutality he likes to play your body with.

If you gave into him…would he be nicer? You don’t understand where the thought comes from, but your mind has taken a severe turn since he first put his hands on you, rarely anymore surprised by the things that come and go, drifting by like leaves on the wind. Instead you allow yourself to ponder it, plucking it from the mellow streams of thought, cupping it in your hands to examine a little longer. Would it be worth it? The degradation of following along with him to grant yourself some reprieve? If it’s the only way to maintain your sanity, to keep yourself intact, isn’t that all that matters?

You dare experiment, trying to soften the tension in your muscles, to force yourself to melt over him, to reduce the tautness that’s been tightly stitched into your seams, until you’d become rigid and stiff. He’s surprisingly comfy, body slotting against yours, fingers continuing to slide in and out, and you manage to lean into him, skin pressing to skin, bare and prickling with awareness. You could swear one of his exhales sounds eerily like a laugh, like he’s enjoying watching you attempt to save yourself, but it’s something different, something more sinister you have yet to guess at. That perhaps he’s got some larger plot, and you’re falling nicely into place, manoeuvred by an unseen force.

“Enjoying yourself, lamb?” He asks beside your ear, a shiver passing down your spine at the lover’s caress. Teeth bite together against the sickening pleasure he’s bringing out of you through pumps and curls of his fingers, the base of his palm rolling into your clit. A small sound jumps from your tongue, a wash of heat soothing the pressure across your abdomen. Words of agreement rise to your lips in answer to his question, but you swallow them down thickly, feeling the syllables lodge in your throat beneath his palm. “I hate you,” you repeat, the only things left you can use as a defence, but even those three words seem to be losing their bite as your head lolls against his shoulder.

“You hate me?” Rhys breathes as he drags his fingers out fully, wetness trailing up your abdomen as he raises his hand to your mouth, just another obscene act he likes to watch you perform. The fixation he has with your mouth has never previously taken your attention, seemingly appearing as a familiar gesture when having intimacies with another person, yet you dwell on it for a little longer than usual when he runs the slick pads of his fingers over your lips. The digits part, and you can make out silvery strings connecting them together, like the threads of a cobweb.

“Open,” he goads, and your mouth parts without having to be asked twice. The taste blooms across your tongue, stark arousal that sparks heat in your lower body as he presses his fingers down, causing you to choke, gagging lightly as your throat contracts. His hips roll into yours at the sound, and you’re reminded of what other horrors he has yet to inflict upon you tonight.

“Aren’t you being good,” he whispers beside your ear, soft as silk, warm as freshly baked bread. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this docile. Feeling tired?” The remark should have been a warning to stay aware, you know firsthand that he’ll pounce at the first sign of lethargy. “Answer me,” he orders, but it’s with an ineffable lilt you’re unable to put your finger on. Like he’s finding something amusing, taking pleasure in being able to understand the bigger picture while you’re left to dumbly stumble to and fro, seeking the right path that he can see from high above and chooses to keep secret from you.

The words form in your mind, yes. I am tired. yet they come out softened and muffled, contorted as you babble them onto his long, elegant fingers that are lightly massaging your flavour into the hot, wet muscle. Fatigue weighs atop your lids, and you try again, I am tired, and I wish I could sleep myself away from you, but again, your words are scrambled, garbled into a slushy mess of syllables that feel like froth. Like trying to bite down on sea foam.

He laughs lowly, hips grinding into your backside, pulling his digits away, revealing the wetness that’s now soaking them, slathered in saliva, dripping with silvery weight and you watch distantly as they make the pathway back down your body, sliding effortlessly back into your heat. They push in softly, easing in their return, curling against spots that have you pulling against the urge to widen the stance of your legs.

The fight is often on both sides: why he’s so draining to be at the mercy of. On one hand there is your despair, the visceral hatred and frustration, the betrayal that could splinter your bones with its ferocity; on the other there is the overwhelming pleasure, coming with an intensity that regularly and repeatedly threatens to upend you entirely, to buck you off your wobbly standing and throw you to the floor with the sheer pleasure he knows how to deal you.

Shallow pants reach your ears, and you realise they are coming from your own mouth, pouring like a babbling stream as the unwilling sounds of pleasure crest on your tongue, skin heating as he presses tighter to your naked body, skin flush to skin, sharing heat in what should be an intimate display of affection, not such a gross abuse of power. Humiliation burns across your cheeks as you move your leg further over his hip, leaning more heavily into the supportive expanse of his chest, hands clutching the silky fur of your pallet.

His laugh whispers against your neck, breath fanning erotically across your throat and you shiver, inhaling softly as his long fingers continue to curl inside of you, beckoning you forward to the high he’s pulling up to blossom and bloom across your skin. “Does that feel good?” He asks softly, mischief prominent in his tone. “Knowing you’re going to be coming on my fingers? That I’m taking this from you, too?” A garbled sound floats from your mouth as the heel of his palm rolls across your clit, digits playing with you lazily, drawing pleasure up from the depths of your body as if his fingers possess the powers of dowsing rods, actively seeking out the spots that will swell with heat, flood your body with mind numbing goodness to have you melting into him.

The ridges of your nails scrape against the bedding, breaths stuttering out as he licks up your neck, gleaming white teeth grazing across the well-bitten skin, having been nipped at and had his mark stamped into you endlessly the night before. He hums absently, hand releasing your throat to drop lower, trailing between your breasts, and a drop of dread is dispersed across your conscious, like ink into water. “No…” you breathe weakly, heat building behind your eyes as he thumbs across your breast. “Rhys, please,” you mumble desperately, anxious to spare yourself from the sensitivity, the pain you’ll be exposed to should he choose to continue with his recent fixation on your breasts.

He groans at your back, palming at your chest, arousal concentrating in his veins as your body arches against him, bowing from his torso as pleasure and pain twine together. “Stop it,” you breathe, flinching as he pinches lightly at your nipple, rolling the abused peak between his fingers, tugging to call up more of your sweet pleas, the words that fuel his sadism, stoking the embers of his hunger, whetting his appetite for your reactions. “No? You don’t like this?” He croons beside your ear, talking down to you as if his words need to be dumbed down to be digestible. “Want me to touch you somewhere else?”

The High Lord grazes the ridge of his nail over the peak of your breast, and you gasp, body recoiling into his chest, scent wrapping more firmly around you, infiltrating your lungs, short circuiting your mind as your lids flutter. Your breaths shallow, mindlessly trying to seek out the source of your pain as pleasure pools between your legs, his fingers summoning heat. Weakly, your hand fumbles across the bedding, blindly searching for an end to the soreness. Nails scratch at his knuckles unintentionally, but his hips buck nonetheless, biting gently at your neck. Clumsily you grip at his wrist, muscles weak from his ministrations as you try to pull him away, breathing heavily as you paw at his hand, desperate to find reprieve. Fingers slide between his, curling over into the top of his palm, weakly trying to pry him from your breasts.

“Please…” you pant, hips rolling down onto his fingers, tingling pleasure becoming more and more difficult to ignore, grabbing for your attention as slick drips across your thighs, Rhys creating a sloppy mess with his hand, palm wet as the heel glides across your clit. “Rhys…” you pant, fingers trembling, unable to release him, hands entwined but at least you’re being spared from his pain-soaked touch.

He inhales softly, nosing at your throat, groaning as he feels you tighten once around his fingers, and he knows you’re close, that once again he’s going to pull yet another piece from you, like separating raw cotton, the pieces weakly grasping onto one another, as strong as water-soaked paper beneath his hold. “Ready?” He asks, and you gasp, trying to shake your head, nails digging into his skin as you press his hand to your sternum, as if in doing so you have some sort of control over what he does to you. “No,” you cry softly, “not again. Please, I can’t. Please no.”

A rough groan grazes your skin, and goosebumps rise in its wake. “You don’t want to come?” He murmurs, his breathing pattern shifting, hand pulling away from yours with despairing ease, sliding back up to your throat, hand gripping your jaw and the tingling pleasure begins its countdown, the slow ticking until you shatter, unable to do anything save for squeeze your eyes shut, hands scrambling to try and pull away from him, writhing weakly in his dominating hold. “Rhys…Rhys, please…no…!”

He roughly tips your jaw, flinching beneath his touch, gasping from shock before he puts his mouth over yours, tongue dipping in as he angles you correctly. A shocked whimper spills into his mouth that he drinks down hungrily, caught off guard as his body shifts, sliding slightly out from beneath you while his fingers continue working you. Fear pounds through your body, heightening the acuteness of pleasure and you writhe in his hold, struggling violently but somehow it only results in your legs spreading wider, hips bucking fervently onto his hand, grinding against his palm as you moan into his mouth, jaw opening wider as he takes you for his own.

The piercing edge of of terror sharpens your pleasure, and you cry out into his mouth, sounds the High Lord steals away, satiating himself as teeth nip at your lips, hand squeezing your throat, reminding you of his dominion over your body, his touch demanding utter submission as you flutter wildly around his fingers, hips stuttering against his palm. The pleasure explodes across your skin, body arcing off him, grinding against him in a way you know you’ll hate yourself for once the buzzing sensations subside.

He laughs lowly once your high fades, fingers pressing back in fully as he detaches himself from your mouth, partially atop your body as he gazes down at you intently, attention pinning you to the pallet as he curls his digits gently but firmly, taking in the rise and fall of your chest; the way your breath hitches; your brows curve, eyes gleaming with wetness he’s anxious to have spill over. “Such a whore,” he whispers onto your mouth, more tenderly than he’s ever spoken to you. His hand finally retracts, dragging up over your clit, puffy and sore from attention, and you feel yourself fracture a little more from the humiliation.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe out, forcing venom into your tone, his hellish mouth parting into a feline curve. “You’re the one who just came on my fingers,” he says with silky smoothness, “should I remind you?” Before you can protest he’s rolled on top of you, keeping you pinned to the pallet as his fingers again slide between your lips. You struggle weakly, but he presses his hips against your own, keeping you incapacitated with frustrating ease, feeling the evidence of his own arousal poking obtrusively into your lower body.

“Can you taste that?” He laughs, watching as you struggle pointlessly, his hunger becoming harder and harder to resist, grinding against the alluring wetness of your heat. “Taste how much you liked it? See how wet you got?” He groans as he glides through the slick between your thighs, coating himself, bucking his hips as his fingers press down on your tongue. “Gods I’m going to fuck you so well,” he says lowly, mirth clear as he taunts you. “You’re practically dripping onto your bed, getting it all wet and dirty,” he muses breathlessly. “Such a whore.”

Your hands grip his wrist, both of them desperately trying to pull him out of your mouth, making his lips curve with amusement, enjoying your struggle. “Don’t be so ungrateful,” he drawls, pushing his fingers in further until you gag, throat constricting around his digits as tears gather at the edge of your lashes. He curses lowly, colour tinting his tan skin as saliva gleams on your lips, spilling over like how your cunt does when he stuffs you full, dripping down your thighs and creating a slippery mess. “So pretty,” he murmurs breathlessly, rubbing his fingers over your tongue, feeling it’s velvety heat. Your breath catches at the murmured praise, so rarely compensated for the harsh treatment he forces on you.

His own breathing patterns have turned irregular, arousal piercing his mind as his gaze remains locked with your own, and that starving hunger returns in full force, eyes rolling briefly as he settles on what he’s going to use you for tonight.

The High Lord pulls away from you, allowing you not even a second’s reprieve before his hands are pushing your legs apart, raising them up as he rolls his hips forward, gliding through your wetness. “So wet,” he groans, fingers biting into the soft flesh of your thighs, slick somehow having made its way even there, and he can’t bring himself to wait any longer.

You try to brace yourself for the intrusion, a mix of disgust and hatred building in your stomach with equal parts arousal, knowing from experience how sickeningly right it feels, how he fills you up so completely you’re rendered temporarily mute. “Don’t,” you beg, heart pounding as he lines himself up, tip pressing to the soft indentation between your legs. You close your eyes briefly, hands still weakly trying to push him off you despite his overwhelming strength. “You can’t do this,” you cry out, knowing how sensitive you are, how he’ll no doubt take full advantage of that and not in a pleasant way.

“Shut up,” he grits out, violet flicking sharply as it pierces into you. “Don’t you ever get tired of protesting so much? Whining and complaining at every moment no matter how well I treat you. Such a selfish brat.” He practically spits the words, and humiliation burns through your lower body, opening your mouth to spew back vitriol but he pushes in, hips flushing tight to your own, feeling the bump he’s put into your stomach. He groans lowly, panting as he grinds against your cunt, abdomen rubbing over your clit and your toes curl, back arching at the fullness, having his teeth flash in a vindictive grin.

“You fucking like this, don’t you?” He accuses, pushing your thighs wider, raising your hips, allowing him to settle deeper, feeling as he presses further, stealing the breath from your lungs. Lips part as you try to form words but you’re unable to do anything, grasping for thoughts but it’s as though he’s shoved everything out of you. “Such a liar,” he groans out, hands leaving your thighs to settle further up your body, caging you in as he draws his hips back. “Is the reluctance part of your act? Pretending to resist so you can feel how helpless you are? How easy it is to shove you down? Fuck I could take you whenever, wherever I liked.”

You tighten around him as he sinks back in, pressing flush to your heat, adding a roll to his hips so he rubs against those spots he’d abused with his fingers, having you gasp sharply, nipples peaking as your back arches. “You’re a monster,” you pant, unable to focus on his hazy figure as pleasure sizzles in the pit of your stomach. “You’re…you…I hate you.”

“Say that again,” he breathes, picking up the pace, hitting those overstimulated spots and your press your lips together, trying to keep your cries to yourself. “I fucking hate you,” you hiss out, feeling him twitch inside you, and you realise the protests are turning him on more. Disgust crawls across your skin, realising you’ve been complicit in his pleasure. But the words have already started, and you’re suddenly unable to control it as your thoughts begin spilling from your lips. “I hate you so fucking much,” you cry, “so fucking much. I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re a fucking psycho, sadistic bastard. I hope you fucking burn.”

His hips stutter, panting as he pulls away from your body, fingers biting into your hips as he begins slamming in, making you bump up the pallet as he fucks you into the bed. “Gods you’re so perfect,” he growls, brows furrowed; pupils fully dilated with hunger. “And you’re all mine. All mine, every hour of every day. Do you like that? I can do this whenever I want. Make you scream. Scream until your throat is raw and your legs are shaking.” His hips buck roughly and you bite back a cry at the sharp pleasure, the overwhelming fullness. “I’m going to fuck you so full,” he groans, and for some sick reason, arousal blossoms across your abdomen, a fresh wave of wetness slicking your thighs, squelching noises spilling from your cunt as he drives into you with a conviction that’s both terrifying and obsessive.

“Yes…!” The word is out before you can censor it, and he laughs darkly, pouncing on the lapse greedily. “I knew it,” he growls, “fucking liar. You like this. Can you feel that?” Before you can get a handle on your thoughts again, a moan flutters from your tongue, hands grappling wildly for purchase, seeking stability as his hips drive roughly into you, bucking with a fervour that has you arching from the bedding, scratching at his forearms. His hand splays across your abdomen and you cry out as he presses down, the orgasm building much faster, pleasure ringing in your ears as a heat like sunlight blossoms across your body.

“Rhys,” you moan, brows pulled tight and it’s as though that one cry urges him on, pounding harder, pace increasing as magic flares, the ghostly outline of wings emerging at his back. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your head so you’re forced to look at him as he pounds into you. “Gods you’re such a slut. You should see how you’re taking me, practically swallowing me whole, such a greedy cunt, isn’t that right?” He pulls back, landing a hard smack to your cheek before gripping your throat again, dragging you up from the pallet as your thighs are forced apart from how he’s pressing against you. “I’m going to fuck you so full you won’t be able to move without my cum spilling out. So full you won’t be able to think straight, that you’re going to be able to feel how much is inside you, tucked away where it belongs.”

Your mouth parts in a moan, hands being forced to lock over his shoulders to relieve the pressure on your spine. “Would you like that? Do you like that idea? Knowing you’ll have part of me so deep inside of you at all times? Gods you’re going to swell up from how full I’m going to fuck you.” His words splash across your skin and pleasure spills between your legs, heat coiling in on itself before breaking across your skin, fluttering around him.

Rhys watches as you come, body writhing as he keeps you trapped on your pallet, cock driving in repeatedly as the overwhelming pleasure has your eyes rolling back, muscles seizing, butterflies fluttering as you jerk from the force of the orgasm. “Please, Rhys stop! I— I can’t—” you gasp, body going taut from the sheer intensity. “What was that?” He pants, lips curving as he fucks you through it. “You want more? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think? What a good girl.”

In one movement he’s flipped you over, roughly handling your body so you’re forced onto your hands and knees, arms shaking, mouth parting to scream for him to stop but then he’s slamming in again, picking up the pace from before but now you’re so much more sensitive and tears spill down your cheeks, utterly undone. A soundless scream parts your lips, his hands putting bruises into your hips as he slams you back onto his cock, slick spilling down your thighs as overstimulation fries your brain.

“Fuck that’s it. Finally learning to take what I give you. You like that?” Your eyes blink wildly as the pleasure becomes too much, tears dripping down your cheeks. “Say it,” he snarls, “come on, admit how fucking high I can take you. How you love the way I fuck you.” You babble messily, words fluttering nonsensically, crying, screaming, panting as saliva spills from your open mouth, unable to shut it and your lungs can’t take the intensity. “I-I love it,” you cry, “please, R-Rhys…!”

His hips buck sharply against a spot, breath hitching from your obedience and it triggers something in you, pleasure unlatching as you gush around him. Rhys curses, low and viciously as you squirt, arms shaking as his magic presses up against your abdomen, the pressure making you dumb. “So fucking perfect,” he moans, “say it. Say you’re my perfect little toy, tell me how much you fucking love what I do to you.” His hand drops to your thigh and you scream when he cocks your leg, the angle turning you into a sloppy mess, arms giving out as your face buries into the bedding, back arching deliciously as you soak him.

Rhys snarls, power wrapping around your hips to keep slamming you back on him as his fist tangles in your hair, pulling you up. “Say it,” he snarls, “fucking say it.”

“I love it!” You scream, voice breaking as your thighs are spread wider, his hips bucking to target the spots and terror burns across your skin as overstimulation turns into fresh pleasure. “I’m— I’m your perfect…your perfect little toy!” You scream again, another orgasm bursting across your skin and your world is spotted through with white dots, body trembling as his hips smack against the backs of your thighs, feeling at last as he twitches once before releasing deep inside of you.

Even in your daze you can feel how it’s more than usual, much more. Feel how he fills you up, spilling out, stomach inflating with how much he’s pumping into you. He releases your hair, returning to grip your hips, pounding into your puffy, swollen cunt, allowing you to flop forward into the bedding, head down ass up as the shockwaves of his thrusts pass through you, dumb moans babbling softly from your mouth, muffled by the soft but damp fur of your bed.

His thrusts turn sloppy, hips grinding against you as his breathing stutters, cum spurting from his tip, continuing to fill you up over and over, panting heavily, sweat glistening on tan skin. “Fuck,” he pants breathlessly, “you still there?” He asks, pulling back a little.

A muffled whimper floats up to him, and he sighs contentedly, gaze dropping to the smooth curve of your spine. He gathers his energy, body curving over yours as he roughly pushes his hips back to your own, tight to flushed skin and you cry out weakly. His hand presses across your abdomen, the other curving round your throat, pulling you from the bedding. Tears have dampened your gleaming cheeks, lips swollen from having teeth pulled over them and he grinds against you to spark a reaction. You sob weakly, body trembling beneath his as the pleasure continues to overwhelm you.

Rhysand pulls back, broad palm splaying across the slope of your spine, keeping you pinned down as he rolls his hips firmly to yours, making sure his release is being kept nice and deep. “Want another one?” He asks lowly, and you shudder, sobbing softly with exhaustion, shaking your head numbly, tears long since dampened the fur beneath you. “No?” He smiles faintly, reaching between your legs, “can’t take it?”

He swipes across your clit, and you can’t even muster the energy to jolt away, forced to take the sharp beats of pleasure as he gently oscillates his finger. You babble mindlessly, and his lips curve, pleasure gleaming in his gaze. “I thought you liked it,” he taunts quietly, “thought you loved being a toy for my cock. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Shame crawls across your skin and you try to weakly squirm away, but it just has him touching more spots inside of you, a fresh wave of tears saturating the bedding. He laughs lowly, his arm banding beneath your front to pull you up against his chest. “Want me to stop?” He taunts softly, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t know if you don’t tell me.”

You scramble for words, struggling to function. “I don’t… Can’t,” you manage weakly, body trembling from pleasure.

He drops a kiss to your hair, and relief has your muscles utterly giving out, turning soft and pliable beneath his touch.

“Good girl,” he soothes, hips dragging back from your dripping cunt, pulling out until it’s just his tip inside.

“But when have I ever listened to you?” He muses, pushing you back into the pallet, muffling your cries.

Silencing your pleas.

Aftercare fic

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