#rhys montrose x reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

missgrimes · 1 year

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001 - fuck montrose

Soho — 03:45 A.M ( Catherine Steel )

The devil isn't always a little red man with horns, a long pointed tail, sometimes he can be handsome. And Rhys Montrose was the most beautiful demon Catherine had ever seen.

Blue-eyed, stocky, almost territorial in posture, and showered with all the English class, Montrose wore his elegance in a different way than London's rich men, who paraded around covered in gold and diamonds, showing off their fat wallets at Soho parties. . He had a fat wallet, but he didn't show it off. Rhys carried his bullion in an old, battered bag.

"My God, it's Montrose!" - Jess said giving me an elbow, which made me drop my drink.

“What the fuck. Why did it?"

"You did not see? Rhys is right there"

Jess's eyes almost popped out of their sockets they were so wide. She gave him that psychopath smile, teeth clenched, and waved at him. That Rhys Montrose grinned and waved back briefly as he walked down the club stairs. Down the stairs, on the last step, a small group of people gathered and pulled out their cell phones, pointing at Rhys, who just gave them a restrained smile, no teeth showing.

I didn't live in a cave, it was obvious I already knew who Rhys Montrose was. He became one of hundreds of celebrities with a bad history behind stardom who were "unassumingly" paraphrased in a few paragraphs in a booklet with an iconic cover that happened to be at the top of the Times for enough weeks to be placed on one of those lists. "Books You Must Read Before You Die" on the Internet. Yeah, I knew him, as did everyone else in that club.

“He's literally the hottest man I've ever seen in my life."

"Close your mouth before drool falls into your drink."

I laughed and Jess elbowed me again.

"He is...

" Incredible? Wonderful? Intelligent..."

"Married. I interrupted."

"In divorce proceedings, according to the Daily Mail.'

I rolled my eyes. Jesse really had a thing for married men.

She went on and on about how hot Rhys was but I was too tired to listen so I left her with a group of girls who were also talking about Rhys and walked off with my drink in the opposite direction of the fuss and whispers.

Leaving the Montrose fan club behind, I started looking at how the rich worked, and boy was it bizarre. The world of high society was more complex than I imagined. Moving between the millionaire groups I heard conversations about bitcoins, shares in the stock exchange, I took a few more steps and soon I heard about a sexual abuse case that was covered up by a supreme court judge last week, more steps forward and I heard about how the Europe was stupid to free the slaves and behead their Kings, after all, in the world there are only two types of people:

The hunt.

And the hunter.

My drunken walk took me to a secluded spot in the club. A place where loud music was nothing more than an annoying noise muffled by the walls. A kind of room, which I didn't hesitate to enter, with a spacious bed that I also didn't hesitate to throw myself on. The sensation of zigzagging between the limit of sobriety and the unconscious attracted me in a unique way, I liked the feeling of walking on a rope, where one wrong step could be fatal.

Even drunk I was acutely aware that I shouldn't be there, and the fact that I was taking off my dress and heels and rolling around in an overly comfortable bed was going to get me into trouble soon, but I just didn't care. I took a step in the opposite direction of sobriety that night.

Damn it. It was the first thing I thought of when I opened my eyes.

I got up from the bed more slowly than I would have liked, the icy wind coming from the balcony reminded me that I was still wearing my bra and panties, I snorted loudly when I touched the plush carpet in the room, I took a deep breath before I got up to get up , but my stay on two legs was brief, as I landed in a sitting position. in bed again. It was obvious that my stupid brain was still too drunk to do the simple task of keeping me on my feet. I huffed again and after the third try I just gave in to gravity and slammed my bare back into the mattress.

“You made the list of things not to do when you're drunk. Congratulations. "

I looked in the direction of the voice and there it was; Rhys Montrose, sitting in the armchair in the darkest corner of the room. Legs crossed as he slowly swirled a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“You found my secret hiding place." He smiled.

“What are you doing here?”

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

I swallowed hard. Sober or not, I was going to get out of there as soon as possible. I gathered all my strength and got to my feet. I gripped the headboard as hard as I could and grabbed my dress off the floor and put it on, grabbed the silver heels and staggered to the door. But it was clear that my knees were still sleeping and forgetting to support me.

Rhys chuckled as he landed on the floor, not caring if I was listening or not.

" What's the fun"

"Other than your dress being backwards and you being so drunk you couldn't stand up?"

“Fuck off. I don't know what you think is going to happen here, but you're wrong."

"Do you know what's going to happen here?" He set his glass on the side table and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. The thick gold ring that rested on her thumb gleamed in the moonlight. “You'll try to get up, take half a step, and fall again. Get hurt and somehow it will end up on the front page of the Daily Mail tomorrow, with my name next to the word attacked.

" What do you want?"

"To help you"

“I don't need your help. And once again, nothing will happen here-"

“If I wanted to do something to you, young lady, I would have done it in the last three hours you've spent passed out and drooling on my bed."

“Fuck you, Montrose."

I leaned against one of the bookshelves and managed to get up.

Panting and unnecessarily sweaty, but on her feet.

I sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold and took the first step, onto my back, looking directly at Rhys. With one step after another I approached the door. I leaned on the handle when I thought I was going to fall, but on impact it broke, but somehow I caught on to the coat rack and I didn't actually fall before Rhys, who jumped up from his chair, came closer. .

With some difficulty I managed to get the door open and glanced at Montrose's stout figure before walking away.

(( summary here ₊˚✧ˎ

#rhys montrose x you #rhys montrose x reader #rhys montrose #rhys montrose fanfiction #fanfiction #bad boy #wattpad #netflix #joe goldberg #love quinn #young adult #smut #drunk kink

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somewhere-to-be · 1 year

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Insatiable Pt. 2 - Rhys Montrose x Reader

Part 1

Picks up right after Part 1. Because Joe Goldberg doesn't exist in this fic and someone needs to secretly text Rhys Montrose, right? Even if might be getting you closer to breaking any rules you may have as a journalist. But who cares about ethics when you'll have a fun time?

A big part of covering the news is being at the place where things are going wrong at the right time. This is where you happened to be when Simon Soo got killed. Your unmemorable, throwaway article on another gallery show became something much, much bigger. Your first call, of course, was to your boss at The Herald, to let her know that you couldn't exactly write the article you were sent here to write because the artist was now dead.

It was a long night of typing, double-checking every single letter and punctuation, going over your notes to make sure you got the facts right, sending it over to the editor, and then hitting publish.

Soon enough, it was up before any other publication. This was bigger than anything else you had worked on. But also - and you wouldn't admit this to anyone else - it didn't feel like it mattered. Sure, a rich asshole was dead but his death now overshadowed the fact that he might have stolen another artist's work. Even before he was killed, it seemed like nobody would care about the girl, but now? Now, it didn't matter at all because everyone cared about Simon Soo's art too much to even investigate whether it was his. It had crossed your mind if she had killed him but you were sure the police would've arrested her already if that was the case.

You didn't even feel like checking tweets in response to your story like you would have otherwise because it felt so inconsequential. Instead, you thought about Rhys Montrose. Was it fucked up that you were thinking about Rhys more than you were thinking about the murder that happened so close to you? You could get into a long chat with a therapist about your desensitization to violence. At the very least, some introspection.

But who liked facing the uncomfortable truth about your true self? You chose to scroll through his Instagram where you had finally followed him at the respectable hour of 8 in the morning after looking at it all night. At least you were aware of what you should be doing instead even if you didn't do it. That had to count for something, right?

Rhys hadn't posted anything about Simon, not even on his stories. He had a social media presence but he wasn't very active. It was personal, but professionally curated. There he was looking very approachable doing a tour of his favorite lunch spot, a cheap Indian restaurant. And then, there he was looking very classy in a blue suit very likely picked by a stylist that brought out the blue of his eyes as he stood smiling backstage of a talk show. Someone who looked at home in both places.

But did he really feel like he did or was it all just an act to make him appeal to everyone for his mayor candidacy? You couldn't deny his charm, you had only spent every single free moment since you'd met him thinking about him since you saw him.

You were far enough back that when you accidentally liked a post, you quickly unliked it. You just hoped that for a verified account, it would be lost in a sea of notifications and he'd never know you had been spending hours looking at pictures he'd posted.

But then your phone chimed. Fuck. But Rhys had somehow seen your message, because there it was. A DM. From him. There was no hello. Just a word and numbers.

Evanesce. 91210.

And then, he must have deleted his message because it was gone, just like that.

You repeated the numbers back to yourself until you wrote it down. What was that?

A quick search led you to a highly encrypted messaging app with messages that disappeared when they were read. You remembered hearing about it but had never needed to use it but you knew some investigative journalists who might have needed to use it. The other person needed to have it installed too and to send the first message you needed their code. You typed in the five digits slowly. Why did Rhys Montrose want to message you on a secret app?

Rhys?

I thought you didn't get my message because you took so long. But I shouldn't have worried you had read it. You've been stalking me, haven't you?

You couldn't deny that, so you just chose to answer his question with one of your own.

Is this really you? Or are you Rhys's social media manager pranking me?

I don't have a social media manager. If I did, they wouldn't know that we met yesterday night when you were not thrilled about writing what you were assigned.

So it was him. It was a bit morbid to say that you were glad you got to write about someone getting killed, especially when you didn't care about their death at all and it happened to be someone he knew. You chose to go with a kinder message.

I'm sorry for your friend's loss, Rhys. It must be a shock.

To be honest, it was the opposite.

You waited for him to elaborate, but nothing else came. So you asked him a question instead.

Why did you want me to message you here?

Because I'm surrounded by people who wouldn't ask me that question.

You noticed that it still didn't answer your question. Why the additional secrecy if he didn't have someone else checking his DMs? It certainly wasn't because he was so well-known. Plenty of celebrities flirted in their DMs and the newspaper you worked at had itself reported on the ones that had leaked. But it certainly didn't get anyone into trouble. No crimes were being committed here.

When you didn't reply right away, he sent another message. Was he impatient or just eager?

And because we didn't get to finish our chat. I felt that you were someone I wanted to get to know better. I prefer not to linger on what-ifs.

You shook your head. Always the writer. But could you deny that you wanted to know him better too? You typed out a message and looked at it, considering whether or not to send it. He'd been the friendlier one so far and nobody would question your professionalism in anything you'd sent. Not that anyone else would read it. So, what it did matter? Besides, it was just a joke. You hit enter.

So you prefer to fuck around and find out?

His reply was quick.

When I know what I want, absolutely. And, as I said, right now, it's getting to know you. That's all there is to it.

You wanted it to be flirtatious but your journalistic insticts also pointed out that he was keeping it ambigious and refused to give a clear answer. There could be more to it but you would have to build trust to know what his true intentions were. Or, if you could meet him, you could ask him directly again and refuse to let him deflect.

Besides, it was true that you knew a lot about him from his memoir than he would know about you, even if he did look you up.

I'm an open book. You replied. Not as open as a published memoir but close enough.

Well then, I'm looking forward to exploring what your pages hold.

Cheesy, but you had started it first. A smile tugged on your lips. And he was typing more.

Meanwhile, do you mind keeping our chats between us? It's just that being in the public image put my actions under more scrutiny and I wouldn't want that to come between us.

You suspected there was more to it than he was letting on but you couldn't risk alienating him too. Whatever this was between you, you wanted to explore it too. Your personal and professional curiosity was very piqued. So you didn't even have to reconsider sending an affirmation.

And just like that, covering a surprise murder wasn't even at the back of your mind anymore. You had the mystery of Rhys Montrose to unravel.

And now, if you've made it this far, I'd love to know where you would want to see this headed!

#rhys montrose #rhys montrose x reader #you netflix #my writing #fanfiction #ed speelers #now this time i will definitely post to ao3 and not delay it until writing another part

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mrrobneto · 1 year

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Guys write more Rhys Montrose x reader Fics pls im begging

#rhys montrose #rhys montrose x reader #you season 4 #joe goldberg

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littledanette · 1 year

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I guess sometimes we all get

Just what we wanted, just what we wanted

And he never thinks of me

Except when I'm on TV

I guess sometimes we all get

Some kind of haunted, some kind of haunted

And I never think of him

Except on midnights like this

thanks for the inspo @i-find-the-beauty-in-chaos 💙💜

#so is this becoming their song or...?#joe goldberg #rhys montrose #goldrose #taylor swift #penn badgley #ed speelers #joe goldberg x reader #rhys montrose x reader #i still ship both of them x reader #they're both hot dark and broken #i can't chose #so i won't #💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻

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oph3liatlou · 7 days

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ANNOUNCEMENT AHHH

I HAVE

SOME VERY

EXCITING NEWS

an entire series, coming soon...

...just for you

#writing #request #reqs open #oneshot #headcanon #smut #joe golberg x reader #joe goldberg #love quinn #you #you netflix #penn badgley #rhys montrose #podcrushed

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happy74827 · 1 year

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The Devil's Tango

{!!SPOILERS!! SEASON 4 EPISODES 1-6}

[Rhys Montrose x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: A certain professor is not very supportive of your relationship with the mayor-in-running.

WC: 2,741

Warnings: It's You... the show is warning enough.

The amount of people I see begging for an x reader of this man, and that no one had done it yet is actually hilarious. You would think after the first reveal, the whole fandom would jump at the sight of this man.

Though, realistically speaking, it's probably because he's one of those characters that are so hard to get right. Plus the fact that Part 2 didn't help in his favor at all.

I do plan to write more of him, so this is just a little tease if you will.

『••✎••』

“Hello, you.”

You jumped out of instinct, snapping your head towards the hoarse voice behind you. The chalk that you were currently using flew right out of your hand, soaring to hit the shadow that was now in front of you. Before it could hit your mystery stalker in the head, however, swift hands caught it just before impact.

“I… think you dropped this.” The sarcastic tone of an expired New Yorker made your fears fly away as your piece of chalk had. As you turned to meet the familiar brown eyes, you couldn’t help but give a slight smile.

“Oh, Jonathan,” You raised a hand to your chest, letting out chuckles in relief. “You scared me there, I wasn’t expecting anyone to visit at this hour.”

He stood in front of you blankly for a moment, as if someone had hit him with a “time freeze” superpower. You paid no mind to this of course, as it was a typical Jonathan Moore quirk. He clearly was very into his mind.

It almost reminded you of a certain… someone.

Jonathan snapped back to the present in no time with a soft, closed smile forming on his face. Within doing so, he handed you back your murderous chalk, before shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“Oh, no… no it’s totally my fault.” He apologized profusely, nudging his elbow towards the door. ��The whole “not knocking” thing seems to be a nasty habit that only I can’t seem to get rid of.”

You nodded along to his apologies, despite already forgiving him the second you saw the familiar curls that fell down his forehead. It was pretty hard to hate the man that shared the same passion for poetry and was one of the professors that was teaching the same subject as you had.

“So, Jonathan,” you started, moving to lean your back against your desk. Your daily planner was down by your hips, along with the chalk. “What brings you to my classroom? Are you looking for some new recommendations?”

His face slightly faltered to the point where no normal, unobservant eye could witness it. The lip quiver, the slight wobbling of his left leg… they were all telltale signs of compressed emotions that an average joe wouldn’t think twice about — specifically, those who only knew the person on a surface level.

That wasn’t you, of course. You were observant to the point where it annoyed you. The constant paranoia that followed everyone’s movements practically ate you alive.

After a heap of silence, Jonathan sighed with his head facing downwards, his dark chocolate eyes refusing to look at you.

“It’s about Rhys Montrose.”

Your eyebrow raised in confusion at his words, your hands subconsciously resting on the desk, with your planner and chalk beside you. It was now you who had that blank daze.

“I…” You were absolutely speechless to the point where you could feel your jaw drop slightly. Jonathan knew Rhys? You’ve of course mentioned your relationship with Rhys to Jonathan himself, but you had no idea they had actually met. Honestly, you were still having a hard time believing that the nerd had met Lady Phoebe.

You straightened yourself, using your arms as leverage, as you looked at him with furrowed brows. “With how busy he constantly is now, I wasn’t even aware-“

“He’s not what you think he is.” Jonathan cut you off, his eyes shooting you to meet with yours. They were full of… worry?

“Jonathan, what are you—?“

His hands reached out to your shoulders, his body encasing you between himself and your desk. With every step he took closer to you, the more your eyes widened with confusion.

“You don’t know him, not like you think you do,” Jonathan whispered, “He’s a danger to society.”

You pulled his arms off of you, completely shocked by his tone. His phone buzzed as you looked at him bewildered, but he ignored his new text message. All he was focused on was you, just you.

“A danger to society? Jonathan, he’s just running for mayor.” You scoffed, turning back your attention to the chalkboard from before the librarian arrived. “You know, I didn’t take you for a man that’s into politics.”

“It’s not about fucking politics!” His hands slammed down on your desk. It caused you to jump, turning back towards the man only to find him mere inches from your face.

You tried to back away, but he pulled you right back in. “Jonathan—“

“You’re not listening!” His hands grabbed at your arms, his eyes darkened underneath the light you both stood under. “Rhys is a danger to society, he’s a danger to you.”

Jonathan continued to shake you and yell words into your ears, but everything around you went mute. The slightly muffled conversations from students down the hallways were silenced. You saw Jonathan’s lips moving, frantically, but you couldn’t hear. You didn’t want to hear.

“Jonathan, I think you need to leave.” You muttered to him coldly. It was a tone that would get anyone to stop and think, and he did just that. He paused, and it was then you gathered your strength and shoved him off of you for the final time. He stopped abruptly, his eyes questioning you.

He begged and pleaded with you to hear him out, but you refused. You refused to even glance in his direction. You were rarely an angry person, you usually kept it bottled up to come out in soft rants, but you were afraid if you said another word to Jonathan, you might just go ballistic to the point where you’d risk losing your valuable job, something you couldn’t afford to lose.

So, you told him to get out of your classroom once again and eventually he was forced to listen. He left when your familiar, upbeat students came pouring in one by one.

Despite the almost psychotic break dearest Jonathan had beforehand, class had gone rather smoothly for you. The students actually engaged with one another and focused completely on the short story at hand.

Not once had they gone off-topic. Then, of course, the devil shows up with a knock at your door, disrupting everything. It was one of the things you’ve hated the most, as you found it terribly rude, but your forgiving nature came into play when you realized it wasn’t the man you believed it to be. When you turned your head, it was Rhys who stood there with his hands crossed against his chest. He wore his signature suit and tie, which both complemented his figure and his eyes.

You gave him a slight smile in return, but the look he gave - the blue eyes devouring yours - had you following him outside the classroom rather immediately. You trusted your students enough to behave themselves.

Once outside the view of your students, Rhys gingerly wrapped his hand around your arm, guiding you to a secluded spot in the hallway that was sure not to draw attention. With Montrose's face being blasted everywhere as the mayor-in-running, it was hard finding privacy in public.

You were about to ask what it was that had him so upset to the point where he chased you down at work, but he beat you to it.

"Hello, darling," Rhys's voice sounded almost strained, tired even. It had been a while since you last saw him, not to mention that his friend Gemma had just recently become another victim of that so-called "Eat-The-Rich Killer," though Rhys had "admitted" that she wasn't his friend. If you recalled, he used the words, "Oh, piss off, you manky hypocrite" when he had last spoken with her. Still, the bags under his eyes suggested that he hadn't slept much the night before.

"Ah, nice to see you haven't changed your habits." Rhys covered his tiredness with a knowing smile as he gently leaned down to kiss the top of your head. "Maybe a psychology degree would be a better fit for you."

"Sorry," you apologized, looking slightly down. "It's just... not that I'm not glad to see that you're back, I really am, but are you okay? You look like you haven't slept for days, and you usually don't drop by the university unless there's a problem."

Rhys licked his lips, letting out a breathy laugh as he raised his hands to his hips. The tiredness in his eyes went away for a moment, resulting in him staring at you amusingly. A look that only took you a few seconds to realize you'd analyzed him once again.

You couldn't help but internally groan at yourself, but he only shot you another charming smile. It was one so enchanting that it made you swoon at the sight.

However, he eventually dropped that smile and sighed, caving into your concerns.

"I've had a long week," he confessed to you. "Oddly enough, I couldn't work my usual charm to get through to some... certain people, but I'm optimistic. Nothing a little persuasion won't fix."

"Me too, it's been a crazy morning." You agreed with a sigh. The incident with Jonathan within the previous hour was still fresh in your mind, haunting you to your core.

You never felt threatened by Jonathan, but as you recollected the scene, his body towering over yours with the desk blocking you from escaping. His arms held you, keeping you captive as he screamed about the man - the man who you loved with all your heart - wasn't the man you knew. That he was a façade, dishonest... an apparent danger to you.

Of course, you didn't believe Jonathan. You trusted Rhys with your life, but nothing about what Jonathan said sat right with you. He couldn't have known Rhys for more than six months, so why did he act as if he knew him better than you...

Rhys whispered your name, calling you back to face him. He was closer to you than he was before, with eyes that held his growing concern. As his hands gingerly reached out to caress your shoulders, you wanted to tease him about how he was now the observer, but you stayed quiet.

He didn't like that.

"Darling, what is it?" he pushed softly, his accent adding gentleness to his tone, "What happened?"

"It was… really odd," you muttered, your mind flicking back to your classroom, the way Jonathan's hands slammed down on the desk with sudden rage, how badly it made your heart skip a beat. "My coworker, Jonathan, he—"

Rhys cut you off. "You said, Jonathan?"

"Yes," you nodded.

"As in… Jonathan Moore?”

Huh, it seemed Jonathan wasn't lying to you about it after all. They really do know each other. The more you thought about it, however, made you wonder why Rhys never told you about him. He must have known you both worked in the same building.

You nodded to his question once again, lowering your eyes down toward the glassy floor beneath you. You didn't have to look at Rhys to know he was listening intently.

"Usually, Jonathan comes in to give or receive book recommendations, but today he was acting… really off," you glanced back up at him, as you began to quiver. "He was stating things about you, and shouting at me, and I… I don't know. It really threw me in for a loop."

Rhys' head snapped up at you like a lightning strike. His eyes no longer contained the concern he had held before. They darkened, as well as his voice.

"What did he say to you?"

"Something about how you were a danger to society, and apparently a danger to me," you shivered at the memory. "He shouted a lot of things really, but I canceled out the majority of them and threw him out, metaphorically of course."

Rhys mumbled under his breath. Unfortunately, it was something you couldn't quite pick up on. The only thing you could do was watch as he sucked on his tongue, making a face as though he was eating sour candy, before glancing up to meet your eyes again.

You stayed quiet, observing his newfound attitude. His jaw was clenched, with arms shifting towards the wall to encase you within them before letting his head fall and lean into you. He practically did what Jonathan did but with the wall instead of your desk, and despite the similarities, you weren't scared of Rhys. His eyes fluttered closed with his — now loosened tie — dangling out in front of you. His lips were only inches away from the base of your neck, and you couldn't help but take in his signature scent of grounded coffee grinds.

"Rhys," you whispered softly towards him, ruffling up his short hair slightly. He let out another sigh that unclenched his jaw and pushed himself closer to you. You couldn't help but notice how relieved he now seemed, letting out gentle, smooth huffs of air to take in the moment.

Unfortunately, as much as you'd like to stay like this — being you haven't had him for a week — you still had a class to teach. Regrettably, you forced yourself to peel away from his arms, whispering short apologies and promises to see him later.

You didn't look back as you retreated back to your classroom. Upon returning to your desk, you turned to see that every single one of your students either gave you a smirk or a knowing nod, and you couldn't help but threaten them with a pop quiz that you were positive they weren't prepared for. As expected, it shut them right the hell up.

Ah, the power of being a professor.

———

When Jonathan arrived home that night with his now empty red takeout bag, he couldn’t help but sense the feeling that he was being watched. His feeling turned out to be correct when he went to unlock the door of his apartment, only to find it already unlocked.

The professor froze momentarily, hesitating whether he should enter unarmed or retrieve a nearby weapon. But being in sight of absolutely nothing, he had no choice but to grudgingly step inside.

As expected, when closing the door behind him, the lights of his living room flickered on and within the light revealed the man he most desperately wanted to kill.

The unwelcome man sat on his chair like he owned the place. A martini resided in his hand as he gave a sarcastic smile. The yellow light mixed in with the fiery flames of the fireplace reflected the same unnerving expression.

“Hello, Professor Moore,” the man spoke with amusement as he turned to face the bearded killer. His accent had the falsified name rolled off in a tease.

The owner rolled his eyes as he dropped the bag he held down at his feet. His keys were put safely back into his pocket. He should’ve known this would happen.

“Despite how much I would love to carve out your marvelous attractive eyes,” the man stood up, swirling the drink in his hand as he approached the professor. “I have to admit, Joe, I underestimated your intelligence. I knew you were smart, since the very beginning mind you, but this was just… impressive.”

Joe ground his teeth. “What do you want with me, Rhys? Why are you even here?”

“Two things, really,” Rhys smacked his lips together, nodding his head as he looked down for dramatic effect. When he glanced back up at the professor, his amusing smile was gone. His hand stopped swirling the martini, keeping it eerily still, and his eyes darkened almost instantly.

“Remember what we talked about, Joe, with the replacement. I want it done within twenty-four hours. If not, as I said earlier, you’ll be going down for everything.”

Joe’s breath hitched as Rhys stalked closer to his body. The piercing blue eyes caused the professor to freeze in his thoughts, forcing him to watch for Rhys’ unpredictability.

“And if you ever come near my girl again,” his voice was ghostly, sending chills throughout Joe’s entire body. “I’ll be the one who throws your ass in the cage.”

As if he were a light switch, Rhys pulled his lips into a grin within seconds. In a calm manner, he forced his half-sipped martini into the professor’s hands before seeking himself out.

For the first time in a long time, Joe Goldberg felt uneasy.

*Rhys x reader being nonexistent on Tumblr*

Me:

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rhaenella · 1 month

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You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Part 22

Part 21 | Masterlist

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, smut

Word count: 4.7k

A/N: another Rhys pov! (to make up for the long hiatus lolol) Enjoy <3

Song: And so It Begins – Klergy

“The disappearance of Tom Lockwood, sir.”

Bloody hell.

Even in death, the bastard managed to find a way to disrupt Rhys’ life and well-crafted plans one way or another.

He felt a surge of adrenaline, but whereas most other people would succumb to the nerves, start sweating and rambling, make mistakes. Rhys didn’t. Instead, it only sharpened his focus, making him that much more dangerous.

The reporter had used the word disappearance, meaning Lockwood’s body hadn’t been found, meaning there was no physical evidence that could potentially link him to the crime, which ultimately meant that he was in the clear. At least for now. If he played it right, perhaps Rhys could even turn this little hiccup into a story that would reflect him positively in the press.

The mob of journalists and cameramen were waiting with baited breath for him to comment, silence befalling the crowd once more. The only sounds that could be heard were that of the bustling city around them—the honking of a double-decker bus, London’s never-ending construction noises, and the screeching of a police siren a mere two blocks away.

Rhys allowed a mixture of emotions to pass over his features. Initial shock—which hadn’t involved much acting—followed by a hint of grieving sadness, before he settled on a more calm, compassionate look. Because, like any good psychopath who studied the intricacies of human emotion, Rhys knew that that’s what the public needed to see in a leading figure. Someone who showed the appropriate level of feelings and compassion, but ultimately was able to offer reassurance and take action if need be.

“Mr. Lockwood…” Rhys shook his head, unfolding his clasped hands to convey a subliminal message of openness and sympathy. “I must say that I am deeply shocked by this news. Is there any more information regarding his disappearance?”

“News surfaced after an anonymous tip was made to The London Dispatch, a spokesperson for the T.R. Lockwood Corporation has just released a statement that they are and have been aware of the circumstances and are working on an internal investigation, the Met Police have also just reported they are launching their own investigation,” the same reporter summarised, reading off of his phone. “Any thoughts on what could have happened, Mr. Montrose?”

Any thoughts… Oh, he had plenty, alright.

An anonymous tip. To The London Dispatch. That could only be from one man: Jonathan.

Did he seriously have the balls to go to the press, knowing full well that Lockwood’s disappearance could be traced back to him? Rhys hadn’t thought he would raise the alarm after revealing that detail to him, but it seemed Jonathan was keen to call his bluff.

On the upside, Lockwood’s employees had tried to keep the whole thing under wraps, just like you and Rhys had predicted. But now that it had come out, the peace and quiet would come to an end, especially with the police’s involvement as well.

“I could not say at this time, I’m afraid,” Rhys stated, schooling his actual thoughts. “I think, as of now, the best course of action is to allow all parties involved to conduct their investigations without adding unnecessary speculation that could potentially hinder their job.”

That prompted an immediate response from the crowd.

“You don’t think Lockwood’s partners should’ve been upfront about their CEO going missing?”

“Lockwood was last spotted in Prague–”

“Hasn't his staff already been hindering the police?”

“–over two weeks ago, what are the chances that–”

“Considering these suspicious circumstances–”

“–could this be another murder?”

��I understand,” Rhys interrupted, raising his hands in an attempt to quiet the masses. “I understand the demand for answers. I do. But we have to let them do their jobs. The Met Police will get to the bottom of this and find Mr. Lockwood, I have every faith.”

Lukas stepped up to the press then, drawing their attention with a wave of his hand. “That will be all for today, everyone. Please, step aside to let Mr. Montrose pass.”

They did so begrudgingly, some ignoring his campaign manager as they kept shouting questions left and right. Rhys walked past them, thanking them for their time. His head of security met him halfway, guiding him the last couple of metres to the car.

“Where’s Y/N?” Rhys asked.

“She’s waiting in the car, sir,” Reggie answered.

“Mr. Montrose!”

“One final question, please!”

Rhys easily picked up on the thinly veiled exasperation in Lukas’ voice as he tried to reason with The Telegraph. “No can do, sir. Mr. Montrose is already late for his next commitment. If you have any follow-up questions, please feel free to send them to our office.”

But the seasoned reporter wouldn’t just let it go, following Rhys all the way to the kerb.

“Mr. Montrose! What about his family?”

Reggie had already opened the passenger door, but Rhys paused, turning back around. He had to give it to the guy, no politician in their right mind could ignore that type of question.

He wetted his lips, a mournful smile flickering across his face. “Ofcourse, I give my deepest sympathies to Mr. Lockwood’s family during these uncertain times. I hope he will soon return in good health, and be reunited with his loved ones.”

Rhys dipped his head, pouring all the sympathy he did not actually feel into a final smile before he slid into the back of the car, where he was greeted by you, sending him an amused but troubled look.

Reggie shut the door as Rhys leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Take us back to Primrose.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver nodded. “We might hit some traffic, though. There’s been an accident on Holborn and City Road.”

“That’s alright. Nothing we can do about it. Get us there as quickly as you’re able.”

“Straight away, sir.”

Rhys raised the soundproof, glass divider between the front and back of the car, giving you the privacy to talk about all that had just transpired without the driver being able to eavesdrop.

You turned to face each other as the car pulled into the stream of ongoing traffic.

“So. Deepest sympathies, huh?”

“Why yes, ofcourse, darling,” he grinned.

You snorted. “Liar.”

He was about to retort when his phone started ringing. Rhys checked the caller ID, and sighed. “Excuse me, this won’t take long,” he said, accepting the call.

“I don’t want to hear a word about Cynthia, Luke,” Rhys announced, wanting to move past his indisputable error in judgement quickly. “Go back to the office, coordinate from there. We need to get an official written statement out ASAP, one that is based on all the facts known at present.”

“Agreed, sir. I’ll fetch Brian to–”

“No. No, have Sam write it, she’ll need the experience. Just make sure to double check it before you post it online.”

“You don’t want to read it yourself? Are you not coming to the office?”

“No, I’ll meet you there later. There’s another pressing matter that requires my attention first. I trust you to handle the situation while I’m out.”

“Yes, Mr. Montrose.”

Rhys ended the call and pocketed his phone before resting his head against the headrest. What a day this was turning out to be. And it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

He must have involuntarily let out another sigh, for he felt the softness of your touch, your slender fingers wrapping around his hand.

“How is that patience of yours doing?”

“I won’t lie, it’s hanging by a thread.”

“Figures,” you smiled, squeezing his hand.

Your smile was quickly overshadowed by that same troubling look from before, one which you didn’t have to hide anymore.

“That anonymous tip… it must be–”

“Jonathan? Yes, I think so, too,” Rhys finished. “Unless you called The London Dispatch and failed to inform me of a new tactical move.”

You shook your head no as the car slowed to a stop, now officially stuck in the busy rerouted traffic. “Nope, it definitely wasn’t me,” you said, looking out the window to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s looming presence.

It was a cloudy day, ten a penny for London, even during the summer time. The storm front may have passed, but the uncertainty of what was coming still lingered in the air.

“Whilst you were giving your statement to the press, I kept thinking, why?” You looked back to Rhys. “Why would Jonathan do this now? He knows that we put the account that was used to bribe the pilots in his name. That was supposed to keep him quiet, at least for a little while longer. So, what’s his angle?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, the same question dominating his thoughts. “Jonathan’s calculated. But also rash, and unpredictable, as today has clearly demonstrated… We need to act quickly before he goes from being a liability to a full-blown threat.”

You chewed your lip. “You know who else can become a threat?”

His eyes flickered between yours, trying to find an answer there as he mentally went down the long list of possible enemies he made along the way. The ones that were still able to draw breath, that is.

Only one name came to mind.

“Marcus Atkinson.”

The man who conspired with Lockwood to have Rhys removed from the upcoming elections, by categorically trying to erase him from the face of the earth.

“Atkinson,” you agreed. “So far, he’s been quiet, but there’s no telling what he’ll do now that the news of Lockwood’s disappearance has been made public.”

Rhys hummed, affirmative. “You’re right. We need to prepare for every possibility.”

“Is that why we’re going home?”

“No,” he said, a little reluctant.

You frowned, not following. “Then why did you tell the driver to take us back to Primrose Hill?”

He sighed. “Because you’re going home, whilst I go and pay dear old Jonathan a visit.”

You paused, slowly letting go of his hand as the meaning of his words landed.

“You’re what?”

“You heard me.”

Rhys set his jaw, his decision already made and final, but that didn’t stop you from glaring at him.

“And you’re sidelining me because…?”

He looked away, something flicking over his expression. “It’s the only way I know how to keep you safe.”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed. “What about me and what I do for a living gives you the impression that you need to keep me safe?”

Rhys winced. He’d anticipated this reaction from you. But there was no way in hell he would allow you and Jonathan in the same room ever again. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you could fend for yourself, because, as more than one occasion had attested, you certainly knew how to throw a punch or two. And make it hurt. He himself was privy to the knowledge.

However, he didn’t trust Jonathan and what he would do… Especially now. Besides, as far as Rhys could tell, Jonathan still didn’t know anything about your true identity. And he’d very much liked to keep it that way.

“He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” Rhys stressed.

“Right,” you drawled. “Do you want me to look up the exact definition? Because I’m pretty sure it would also include present company.”

He smiled, bitter. “I’m not planning on hurting you. Jonathan might. You know the things he was mixed up in across the pond. If he figures out how important you are to me…”

His forehead creased with genuine concern, and even in your anger, your eyes softened a little at the admission.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he amended. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I want to keep you as far away from him as I possibly can.”

You nodded thoughtfully, still far from happy with his decision. But Rhys wasn’t going to change his mind, and you knew it as well.

Once again, the sound of a phone pinging interrupted your conversation. Privately, Rhys hoped it would put an end to it as well, although you quickly relieved him of that illusion. “We’re not done talking about this.”

“A man can hope,” he muttered.

You shot him a warning look as you retrieved your phone, effectively making him shut up.

He looked around, noticing they were still motionless. No. That wasn’t right. They had moved about three car lengths in the last five minutes. Progress, he thought, clocking his inner voice’s sarcasm with a wry smile. At least the extended travel time would give him a little more time to prepare for his surprise attack on Jonathan. Although, that twat was likely already waiting for Rhys to show up after the shit he pulled earlier today…

Rhys gritted his teeth as he thought of Jonathan. How he must have watched the press interview live on tele, probably thinking he’d won this game… Well, Rhys would make damn sure that his victory would be short lived.

A startled noise came from your side of the car, and his eyes shot back to you, jerking him from those thoughts.

Your wide eyes were scanning whatever message had appeared on your phone’s screen, four times over, as if making sure your eyes weren’t deceiving you. A wave of worry careened through him as he watched the colour drain from your face.

“Y/N?” he said, alarmed.

“Oh my god…”

Frantically tapping the screen, you brought the phone closer to your face. “Oh my god.”

Before Rhys even got a chance to ask what the hell was going on, you’d already pressed the device to your ear, fingers now tapping restlessly against the car’s interior door.

“Y/N,” he said, firmer this time, clasping your hand in his. You looked at him, panicked, uncertain… terrified. Rhys felt his own stomach drop. “What happened?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out.

The call went straight to voicemail, and you groaned in frustration. “Damnit, she’s not answering her phone.”

“Is it Zoe? Sadie?” Rhys tried, concern slipping into his voice.

He softly squeezed your hand to garner your attention. It worked. You refocused on him, visibly swallowing a tang of adrenaline before shoving your phone into his hands. Rhys read the ID: Zoe. He was right—there were only so many people that could pull this type of reaction from you. He could probably count them on one hand.

His eyes slid down to read the most recent incoming texts, and he sucked in a breath, immediately understanding your nervousness.

>>> mum’s back

>>> please come

Your mother…

Alarm bells went off inside of him, his concern slowly getting replaced by something sharper, harder.

You’d both known the day would come, yet the words on the screen still shocked him to silence, the only thing he could muster a feeble, “Fuck…”

“Yeah…”

Rhys closed his eyes. Another person who had completely disappeared—albeit not by your doing—resurfacing. It had been quite the mystery as to what had happened to her, and you had spent many a night trying to figure out where she could have possibly gone. Without much success. But now she had seemingly returned.

The timing could also not have been better. Apparently Murphy’s Law always lurked around the corner somewhere.

“Where did she come from all of a sudden?”

“From hell, likely.”

He huffed a strained laugh. That was certainly one possibility. Rhys met your gaze, then. The initial shock had lifted, and now the fire he’d grown to love glowed bright in your eyes.

“I’ll kill her,” you whispered, unyielding. “I swear to god, if she’s hurt them… I will kill her.”

You snatched your phone from his hands, your thumbs flying over the keyboard as you typed out a series of messages in quick succession.

“Hey,” Rhys said, pitching his voice into a soothing range. “They’re gonna be okay. Just like their big sister, they can fend for themselves.”

“I know they can,” you said, still holding your phone in an iron grip. “But after what happened last time, I can’t help but worry.”

He couldn’t stop himself. “I know the feeling...”

You dropped your phone, turning to him with a look that made it abundantly clear that now was not the time to test you.

“Rhys,” you warned.

“Sorry…” he muttered, squeezing your hand again. “How do you wanna tackle this?”

“I’m going over there.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Right now. I have to make sure they’re okay. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” you shot back, eyes narrowing.

Rhys pursed his lips. Yep. He deserved that.

You looked outside to find that you were, still, stuck near St. Paul’s. And it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. Sighing, you clasped the door handle, but before you could sprint out, Rhys tugged you back to him.

“Whoa, wait a second,” he said, worry seeping back into his voice. He didn’t want to part like this. “Are you sure you want to do this by yourself? I can help.”

You looked at him evenly. “This can’t wait. And neither can the Jonathan situation.”

Damnit.

No, it couldn’t.

“I’ll take care of my mother while you take care of our professor,” you offered, running your thumb over his hand in an attempt to persuade him. However the grim look on your face wasn’t helping.

He held your gaze for a long moment, equally grim, before nodding once. There was no other way.

“Be careful, and call me when you need me,” Rhys implored, already cursing himself for agreeing to this plan. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” you said, purposeful, determined.

And with that, you were off, shutting the car door with force.

Rhys watched you go, worry now mixing with guilt. By trying to protect you from one situation, he was now the sole reason you were diving head-first into unknown danger all by yourself.

Although, you would have gone either way. No matter the circumstances. You were just like him in that respect. Once you’d made up your mind, there was nothing anyone could do to dissuade you. Rhys had to let you go. Leaving you the space to deal with problems the way you saw fit. He didn’t like it, but if he wanted to keep you by his side, there was no other choice.

As far as he was aware, your mother wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. But even so, she’d come pretty close to manslaughter with the Hackney house fire. Rhys also knew for a fact that you hadn’t yet told him about all of the harrowing things you’d endured during your childhood. Some details, yes. But definitely not all. He hadn’t wanted to push you too hard, you would tell him when you were ready. Just like with everything else.

Rhys shook himself. Dwelling on this wasn’t going to do him much good either. He had his own headache to deal with. After that, he would work to make things right with you.

He pressed a button, lowering the glass divider. “Change of plans. I need you to take me to South Kensington.”

—

An hour later, after trudging through London’s busy traffic, the car parked in front of Kynance Mews. The driver hastened to open his door, and Rhys slid out, glancing left and right.

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said, adjusting his suit.

“Yes, sir.”

The ride over had given him plenty of time to consider his options, which in the end boiled down to two simple objectives: kill Jonathan, or not.

As tempting as the first option was, Rhys had to accept that it wasn’t the most prudent one. Now that Lockwood’s disappearance had become a public affair, and the police were conducting their own investigation, there would be a lot of heat bearing down on the case. Sooner or later, the police would find out about the bribe money, and once they’d successfully trace the money and start making connections, ‘Professor Jonathan Moore’ would be the subject of a lot of scrutiny.

Like with Atkinson, the risk would be too great. If either of those two were killed right now, people would surely start asking questions. Questions Rhys didn’t want to be asked.

Therefore, with a tinge of annoyance, he opted that the best course of action was to keep the professor alive a little longer.

However, Jonathan couldn’t continue on like this. He had to be reined in—reminded of who was in control here. Good thing Rhys had one more trick up his sleeve, and now was the time to use it.

He made his way inside the building, taking the stairs two at a time, determination edged in his pace. Once he made it to number ten, he lifted his fist, landing a series of powerful knocks on Jonathan’s front door. He didn’t have to wait long before it swung open.

Rhys bursted into the flat, the door nearly hitting Jonathan in the face.

“You’ve been busy, mate.”

Jonathan recovered quickly. “So have you.”

His dark eyes tracked Rhys as he strode around the flat, making sure there were no unwanted third parties present. Once he made sure there wasn’t, he stopped in front of Jonathan, meeting his gaze.

Rhys took a breath and nodded. “Tell me about it. It’s hard work, winning these elections—making sure all possible threats are dealt with accordingly.”

Jonathan looked him up and down, measured. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Among other things... I was starting to miss our fun little chats.”

“I wasn’t,” the professor sneered.

“Oh, pray tell,” Rhys said, light.

Jonathan appeared calm, but the tightness around his eyes told Rhys all he needed to know. A single, disdainful head-tilt cinched it.

So, this would be fun.

“You’re a cold-blooded psycho.”

His mouth twitched. “Ah, one that needs to be taken down? Is that why you tipped the press?”

“I’m done with your bullshit and your fucking mindgames,” he hissed. “And I’m not going down for your sins whilst you become mayor of this godforsaken town.”

“And yet here you are,” Rhys snickered, waving a hand at him. “Digging your own grave. Or did you forget that Joe Goldberg helped cover-up Lockwood’s murder?”

“I’ll tell them the truth about you,” Jonathan promised. “You’re not getting away with this.”

“And who do you think they’ll believe?” Rhys returned, tilting his head, a challenge. “A suspected murderer who faked his own death, or the man that’s working tirelessly to strengthen their police force—making sure their kids will have access to a higher education, someone who’s battling corruption and fighting for what’s right. You tell me.”

Jonathan shook his head. “No… No, you will go down for your crimes.”

Rhys couldn’t help but laugh. “And what crimes are those? Do you have any proof? Or will this be another case of your word against mine?” he taunted, stepping up to the fuming American.

Jonathan stood rigid, frowning in contemplation. He took a moment to mull over whatever thoughts held him before he looked at Rhys askance.

“There has to be proof. People always seem to mysteriously disappear or die around you. Like last night.”

Rhys remained entirely unfazed. “That Fernsby bloke, you mean? Well, if you’d listened to the news, you would know he died of natural causes. Very unfortunate but it happens,” he said, inscrutable, picking a piece of lint off of his suit. “Besides, I have an alibi.”

“Of course you do,” Jonathan mumbled, more to himself. “Your girlfriend?”

Anger simmered under Rhys’ cool facade at the mention. But he couldn’t let Jonathan see it.

“She serves many purposes,” he smirked, lewd.

Jonathan’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re using her.”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s all she’s good for anyway. A pretty face for the cameras, and an excellent shag at night.”

Jonathan looked away, uncomfortable despite his own nature. He took a beat, his eyes locked in an endless stare, seeing seemingly nothing. Then he blinked, once, and looked up to Rhys again.

Something in his eyes had changed. Like he’d made up his mind about something. Rhys couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t sit well with him, at all. That much was clear.

His smile faded, it was time to get down to business.

“Alright,” he exclaimed, delightfully startling Jonathan in the process. “Enough chit-chat. I think it’s about time I remind you of a few things…”

Jonathan stiffened, but didn’t respond. Rhys sauntered over to the window, the one providing a perfect view into the flat of one Miss Kate Galvin. The flat was dark, and it didn’t look like anyone was home.

“Do you know where she is?” Rhys asked, peering through the window.

He didn’t need to specify who he was referring to. Not to a seasoned stalker like him.

“At work,” Jonathan said, clipped.

Rhys glanced back over his shoulder, clocking Jonathan still standing in the exact same spot, shooting daggers at his back. Rhys’ lips curled.

“Remember this feeling, Jonathan,” he said as he zeroed in on the fireplace, bending to pick up the fire iron. “Remember how it feels to know where she is. To know she’s safe…”

He twisted the metal object leisurely, feeling the weight of it in his palms. “But above all, remember how I can take all of that away, in the blink of an eye.”

If possible, Jonathan stiffened even more, nails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists.

Rhys’ eyes sparked with amusement. Jonathan hadn’t wanted to play any more of his ‘mindgames’, but unfortunately for the professor, he was only just getting started.

“Now, we wouldn’t want her to meet the same fate as her father, would we?” Rhys mused, using the metal tool to prod at some charcoal remains. “Because speaking of unfortunate things, I’d say that would definitely qualify as such.”

Jonathan glared at him, not even attempting to cover the hatred he felt for the man daring to enter his home like he owned the place—and threaten him, his girlfriend, and everything he had tried to rebuild for himself.

“Stay away from her,” he said, voice as cold as ice.

“Come now, Jonathan. There’s no need to get snippy,” Rhys tutted, eyes flicking to him. “You and I both know that whatever happens to her, it’s entirely up to you.”

The sound of metal scraping against the fireplace's stone surface caught Jonathan’s attention, his eyes flying to where Rhys was still playing around with the rod. He relished the look on Jonathan’s face, a sweet mixture of trepidation and rage. It meant he was listening carefully.

“Fun fact about fire,” Rhys went on, off-kilter. “Which, correct me if I’m wrong, I believe you may be familiar with,” he added jokingly, stabbing at a larger fragment of unburned wood.

“Nothing ever truly vanishes. There’s always something that remains. And what’s so amusing about this fact is that you never know which pieces are left behind… or when they might resurface.”

This was it. The last card Rhys could play to keep Jonathan silent—short from killing him, ofcourse.

To threaten him to complete the framejob by planting Lockwood’s other hand that you and Rhys had kept as a backup, and call in the cavalry. Physical evidence tying Jonathan to the crime, in combination with the paper trail already set up in his name, would ensure Jonathan’s arrest and indictment. And he knew it.

Jonathan swallowed. “Lockwood?”

Rhys walked up to him, eyeing him steadily. “You better stick to our first agreement, and keep quiet,” he warned, tapping the fire iron against Jonathan’s chest. “Otherwise, I’ll make sure you’re going down for all of it.”

Defeat flashed over Jonathan’s face. He was still angry, no, livid would be the better term… But the growing apprehension and doubt was unmistakable.

Satisfied that his message was received loud and clear, Rhys dropped the metal rod to the floor. The loud clang of the object hitting the wooden floor caused Jonathan to flinch back, much to Rhys’ pleasure.

He turned his back on the American, gleefully making his way towards the front door where he paused, resting one hand on the handle, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“It’s all about who holds the power, mate,” Rhys smirked, looking back to Jonathan, whose jaw was clenched tight. “And at present, that isn’t you.”

––––

A/N: FINALLY a Joe and Rhys meet… I know it’s been a long time coming 🙈 I had a lot of fun writing this particular scene, I hope you enjoyed it as well. Now let’s see if Jonathan will heed Rhys’ warning or… not. hehe

––

Tags: @artaxerxesthegreat

#rhys montrose x reader #rhys montrose x female reader #rhys montrose fanfic #rhys montrose fic #rhys montrose #you netflix #you season 4 #you season 4 canon divergence #jonathan moore #joe goldberg #goldrose #ed speleers #rhys montrose x original female character #on ao3 #you and me

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nesshartwipe · 1 year

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Update on fic

So….I won’t be able to release a chapter of my new rhys montrose fanfic because of school. IM SORRY AHHH

Plus I’m currently writing a book for a final in my writing class which I’m really excited about and the only thing on my mind. Also I have no motivation to write the rest of the chapter 1 of Rhys 🙄☝️

I can try to edit it some of it to make it longer and possibly release it tomorrow or later today.

AND I just watch the first season of Shadow and Bone and can’t stop thinking of Nikolai Lansov (idk how u spell the last name) and Kaz Brekker so that’s particularly hindering my mind of Rhys (whom I still love but not as much recently 😢)

AHHH SORRY ABOUT THE SUDDEN ANNOUNCEMENT

#rhys montrose x reader #you netflix #fanfic #writing

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impossibleheartflower · 1 year

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I was able to find a good Rhys fic in the works for those interested. They only have 7 chapters written so far but I definitely recommend seeing as it’s slim pickings rn. Anyways it’s called Watercolor Eyes by -illicitaffairss- over on Wattpad. Blessed be friends ✨❤️

I didn't see this before but omg imma go back to Wattpad after 3 years just for this

I love my Imaginary white boy <3

#yes i am that desperate for rhys fics #ps sorry for not seeing this earlier lovely #rhys montrose x reader

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missgrimes · 1 year

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•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•* eat the rich; • rhys montrose

this story is also available on wattpad (in portuguese) click here English is not my first language, so sorry for any grammatical errors :)

chapters:

001 - fuck montrose

#fanfic #rhys montrose #you #rhys montrose x reader #rhys montrose x you #imagine #smut #hot #crime #young adult #book #romance

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somewhere-to-be · 1 year

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Insatiable - Rhys Montrose x Reader

You're a journalist covering Simon Soo's gallery opening when you meet Rhys Montrose and get a bigger story than you bargained for.

Joe Goldberg is replaced with a reader insert - I'm sorry Joe, I wanted to write Rhys working with a more willing companion. Reader also has questionable ethics because finding out the killer's identity will not be a turnoff or a red flag (later - this is just part 1).

Covering a gallery opening by the rich, for the rich was not a part of your career checklist. But Kate Galvin's galleries were too 'important' to London's snobby elite circle that it just had to be covered. Since the paper's resident art critic was out of town, someone had to attend it. That someone just happened to be you just because you had made the mistake of debating with him about how critics didn't know shit because when impressionism started as a movement, the artists were criticized as being too lazy to complete their paintings. Somehow, he thought it made you qualified enough to cover anything important in his absence. So, here you were, attending this party and seeing art that you actually didn't care enough about so you could make sure it appeared in prominently in the Culture section, letting all the plebians know what they were missing out on. In other words, a snoozefest.

You tried not to feel underdressed in your version of a black-tie attire but it was hard when you knew everyone here had outfits that probably cost more than what you would make in a year. At least there was an open bar and hey - free champagne! You picked up the flute of bubbly wine in front of you, downed it in a go, and picked up another glass. Yet another thing that was probably more expensive than anything you'll ever own.

The paintings themselves were fine but Simon Soo came across as too much of a try hard. You had even got in touch with Kate to ask if he'd want to do an interview - you were going to try to make it a good piece even if you didn't care about it - but he'd declined. Kate had been apologetic enough, she was a professional. She took down your email to send you the pictures of the art to accompany what you were writing, but even she knew it wasn't a big deal if Simon turned down interviews. He got enough publicity anyway and all of his art was going to be sold. After getting done with your 'job' quickly, jotting down a few notes in your phone of the cat paintings hanging on the walls, you looked around at who was in attendance.

You saw the usual celebrities in the crowd - Lady Phoebe with his boyfriend - the American who had opened up the knockofof SoHo House the Entertainment & Celebrity Gossip section spent way too much time talking about. But you spotted another familiar face that you hadn't expected to see here - London's favorite boy, Rhys Montrose.

You'd read his memoir, of course. Everyone had. He was too good of a writer. You'd then also listened to the audiobook with his narration and the way he told his story had mesmerized you. If he decided not to run for mayor like everyone wanted him to and never wanted to write another word again, he would make a killing as a voice actor. But you would still judge him for the name of his book. Good Man in a Cruel World. Come on. Self-important much?

"You're - " "Yes, I am." he said. He greeted you with a smile. "Enjoying the exhibit?"

Two seconds into a conversation with him where you had said one word and you knew why everyone liked him so much. It wasn't just how hot he was - and he did look better in person - but he just had an effortless charm in the way he carried himself. The way he made you think he did actually want to talk to you even though you were sure he must have been tired of meeting his fans at this point.

But when would you get this chance again? You introduced yourself and mentioned you were covering the show.

"Just a stupid fluff piece. As if the internet doesn't have enough cats, real or painted, and for free, without paying the millions for the privilege of a name attached," you finished talking and then immediately regretted everything you had just said. It wasn't a great look to talk shit about the event you were supposed to cover while you were there. Maybe you shouldn't have had that third glass of champagne. You tried to save it with an awkward laugh. "All off the record, of course."

Surprisingly enough, he chuckled. He leaned in and whispered with a conspiratorial smile, "Off the record, I agree with you. But you'll keep my name out of it, won't you? I'm just here as a friend."

"Of course," you said. People would be more interested in reading about what Lady Phoebe had worn anyway. You were relieved that your little slip-up hadn't gone wrong. If anything, he seemed to like you more because of it. Finishing the rest of the drink and very knowingly making the choice to say it that had nothing to do with the buzz you felt from being near him and not just the alcohol, you added,"Besides, you haven't done anything I'd want to write about."

"Is that a challenge?" he said, his eyes twinkling. "Nothing at all?"

You were extremely aware of his complete attention - on you, on the conversation. But you weren't sure if you were imagining it or if he really was flirting with you or if he was just indulging you. You decided to go with option one and play along.

"It's been what? Months? Almost a year? Since you published your book? You've received enough praise for it already. You can't expect it to last forever. What did The Times call your book again? Unflinching, gut-wrenching, and painful?"

"It was unflinching, painful, and humorous, actually," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets.

You smiled at him. It wasn't fair that he got to be handsome, smart, funny, and be not able to take things seriously.

"Well, there you go. You don't need any compliments from me then, do you?"

The way he looked at you, just you, it made you feel like you were the only person in the room there with him. You hated how much it made your heart speed up. You hated how well this worked.

He leaned in to add in a low voice, "I have a terribly insatiable appetite for praise."

Before you could figure out how to react to that, you spotted Gemma coming your way with the Nigerian princess in tow, presumably to talk to Rhys. "Time for me to go," you said, looking over in their direction.

Rhys followed your gaze. His smile didn't go away but it didn't reach his eyes anymore either. He didn't like them but he didn't want them to know it. "Sure you can't stay?"

"I'm sure you can fend for yourself. Unless you wanted to tell me you're running for mayor."

"Ah, I'd love to but I can't."

"You can't blame me for trying. Here's my card," you said, tucking it into the pocket of his suit. "I'd love to hear from you when you do want to tell me that. Or anything."

You slipped away quickly before you could see how that went over. You had flirted with Rhys Montrose and gave him your card. It was entirely unprofessional and it was the most exciting thing you'd ever done.

All that was left to do was eat more bite-sized appetizers until you didn't need dinner and then go back and type up the article.

Until there was a commotion. A girl - couldn't be older than early 20s - in a fur-lined jacket. She splashed red paint. And ran away as security chased after her. There was silence - a general wave of shock - followed by a few murmurs. Was this real? Was this a part of 'the act'? until Simon strode forward and picked up the paint and splashed it on the painting again.

People clapped - they were all too willing to believe this had been an orchestrated performance communicating a message. You knew Soo wasn't that deep. Across the room, you locked eyes with Rhys, who wasn't clapping along.

The crowd dispersed and you hung around, trying to see if you could find Kate for a quote on this surprising new development. There was no point even trying to get to Simon. But she seemed to have disappeared and so did the girl after having been dragged away by security in what definitely did not look like a performance.

Very curious indeed. You couldn't see Rhys either, it was disappointing that he'd left. Not that you thought anything might happen between you, it was ridiculous to think that, right? He hadn't struck you as a flirt from his memoir but there was no way there was anything more there. It was just him having a cheeky little chat. But still, who whispered things like I have a terribly insatiable appetite for praise with that look on his face and not mean something by it?

You were jolted out of your thoughts of Rhys by someone's scream. Was there more to this performance that you'd have to add to your article? As you made your way towards the direction with the others, you saw security hurry past. The doors to the exit were blocked off and soon, you discovered that there was another headline that would be about Simon Soo that would now be on the front page - the one about his murder.

#rhys montrose #rhys montrose x reader #you netflix #sorry there's no goldrose #and no joe goldberg #but i wanted to write this for myself #will post to ao3 later sometime #my writing

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