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superblysubpar · 2 months ago

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You’ve always liked taking pictures.

Liked the concept of quite literally capturing a moment in time.

You’ve always liked the way people look when they think no one sees them.

Liked the concept of an image telling you a story that maybe the person or people in it can’t say with words.

You’ve always liked that despite time always ticking past, the image stays frozen, seemingly forever.

Liked how the snapshot can’t be altered like the memory in your brain can be.

How your youth could be preserved. Every inch of child-like wonder could be saved in pursed lips about to blow on a dandelion and make a wish. Innocence never lost because it’s there, in your cherry smile and his grape tongue. Teenage defiance literally still digging her heels in - to the earth beneath them as he tried to pull you towards a pool fully clothed just to get you to laugh instead of cry.

In the pictures, these things remain intact, somehow. These moments, these feelings, this time of our lives that we don’t know we’re going to miss until it’s too late.

And it’s always too late - we never learn, we never listen.

They try, these older and wiser people around us, to get us to.

Slow down. Enjoy it. When you’re older…

You are going to miss this.

But we seem destined to learn it the hard way, no matter what’s done to prepare us for it. A lesson brutally and swiftly delivered as we take an unaware turn down a street that’s a one way with a dead end.

We aren’t a kid anymore, and it’s time to grow up.

But in those pictures?

We don’t have to.

There, fear and doubt and grief and so much more that seems to fall heavier on your shoulders with each step further from adolescence, don’t exist yet.

In the pictures, you don’t have to wonder if he smiled at you like that because the proof is right there. The chlorine and lemonade wafts up from the splash of turquoise water stark against bright red trunks. And sometimes, if you focus hard enough, it’s like his hand is in yours as you look at the indigo and tangerine and blush swirling together in a beautiful sunrise, can still feel the roof shingles digging into your back and staining your favorite shirt, but you don’t care, ‘cause you’re with him.

Your fingers glide over the polaroid square, next to an opened envelope with it’s document still sitting inside - taped to the page. A dried lilac between both.

But not everything can be so well preserved, not everything can last. It’s easy for fear and doubt to wrap around you, to take deep roots. Soon they’ll take over until there’s nothing left, and then they’ll constrict the life out of what they’ve taken, forcing you to doubt - to wonder over and over again if you remember it differently than him. If he’ll forget you.

If he already has.

You will it to never be so as you close your sketchbook once more and carefully return it to the inside of your backpack.

You’re told you lose yourself when you look at pictures, or when you’re in the process of taking them yourself. Like you’ve stepped into another world, a quieter, softer one, that acts like time isn’t real. No matter how many times it happens it’s always a rude wake up call when that isn’t the truth when you return.

The conversation of the woman behind the metal counter is still going on. Her nails click against the sleek silver as the fingers of her other hand twirl the phone cord around three times, release, then start over. Her strawberry bubblegum snaps between her lips as smoke from the more ash than glow end of her cigarette dissipates in front of her. She doesn’t seem to care, more focused on telling Beth that Ava told Margaret swear on her mother’s life that Grant was having an affair.

Your camera clicks loudly as you wonder if Beth already knew.

A woman’s needles click together across from your seat, a harmony formed with the loud clock above the pair of you, as a pale yellow hat forms slowly against her thighs.

“To or from?” She squints her eyes at you, like she’s just caught you grabbing a cookie before dinner.

“I’m sorry?”

Click, tick, click, tock.

“Are you…” she frowns at the hat and sighs, then looks up at you with the shake of her head, “Swear to god, my brother’s baby better be cute, and they told me hats were easy…”

Your pointer finger twitches against the shutter, the familiar soothe and ache in the same breath settles over your muscles and stomach as you fight the urge to capture a moment you’re sure you’re going to want to look back on before it’s even happened.

The woman shakes the needles like they’re just not getting it as her frown turns to a deeper scowl. But when she looks up at you, she’s nothing but kind. Pink smile stained with red lipstick, laugh crinkling skin next to blue eyes. The needles drop to her lap as she waves green polished fingers in the air in your direction.

“You’ve got that look about you. You’re a runner. I was just curious if you were running to or from.”

The observation catches you off guard, goosebumps shooting to the surface of the skin on your neck much like when you feel you’re being followed or watched.

“Oh…um-”

A loud bell rings, then the woman behind the counter’s voice calls out over a speaker, far less crisp than her phone conversation and much more static filled.

“Chicago to Indianapolis with connections to Bloomington, Carmel, Hawkins, Lafayette, and Terre Haute departs in five minutes. Chicago to Indianapolis with connections to Bloomington, Carmel, Hawkins, Lafayette, and Terre Haute departs in five minutes.”

Your knees crack when your spine stretches, uncurling from the seat you’ve been in since this morning. Your hands fiddle with the camera around your neck and the backpack straps digging into your shoulders. When you turn towards the woman again, her needles are back to clicking as the buzz of the intercom fades.

“I’m honestly not sure anymore,” you admit to her in a whisper, looking over your shoulder at the double glass doors you’re about to walk through swinging open, bringing in new travelers and fumes of exhaust with each swoosh.

“He good? This guy you’re running to?”

You’re stunned into a silence you’ve never found yourself in. Is it similar to how it feels to have an explosion go off too close and unexpectedly? The kind of silence that presents itself because the reality and severity of the situation are too loud to bear, so your body has to protect itself, only hearing what it can handle. It’s impact can’t be denied though - it’s loud, it demands to be heard and fast, only giving you seconds to wrap your head around what just happened. It buzzes in your ears before it rings, it hangs in the air, tangible and thick like smoke left over after everything was just wiped away in a second.

“The best,” truest words you’ve ever said stick in your throat, like they’re dragging your guts and heart right out with them and you’re not sure why you just offered them up like that.

She hums, her gaze flits up to meet yours before it returns to her gift. “The girl? Doing the running?”

You don’t know what makes you say it, what makes you tell this absolute stranger the truth you’ve never wanted to admit.

“A failure. Lonely. Scared. Her life a big red stamp that just reads: Error.”

Her shoulders shrug as if to say she’s heard worse. Her lips twitch in a smile. “You don’t need to listen to it, but some advice from someone who’s a little older, emphasis on a little,” she smiles when she looks up to wink at you, before she says:

“Whatever you’re running from, when you get to your to - make sure not to let go of his hand this time, okay?”

A man coughs as he passes, a heel clicks opposite a knitting needle, both patiently pausing for a tick of the clock before resuming. A newspaper page turns, strawberry gum snaps against teeth as a cigarette’s light completely dims and you look down to see your camera has no more film left.

The woman doesn’t look at you as she smiles wider, freckles scrunching over a nose.

“Guess you’ll just have to remember it all, huh?” She nods her head towards the door, “Think your ride’s leaving, hon.”

Brakes hiss, a door creaks closed just beyond the double doors still swooshing and your heart thuds in your ears as you run towards it. Clammy hands smack the cool glass as a driver rolls his eyes at you, but opens it once more.

“Ya know, last bus of the night and that station isn’t no fun over night. One more second and you’d have been shit outta luck getting to…” He holds his hand out for your ticket. You’re breathless as you pass it over. He clips off the end and whistles, low, then chuckles like it really isn’t that funny. “Well guess you’re still shit outta luck if you’re going to Hawkins, Indiana.”

He closes the door behind you, message clear:

No more running.

series masterlist | part one ->

#superbly subpar's writing #STB #Simply The Best AU #steve harrington #spiderman!steve harrington #spiderman!steve #spider man steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington series #steve harrington fic

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starfall-spirit · 1 year ago

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@officialfeysandweek2023

🎨: @sarahsoba

Read on Ao3

Summary: Feyre trusted Azriel and Cassian to keep her work as a Wraith secret. Perhaps they had, but it doesn't change the fact their High Lord knew what secrets were hidden in the shadows they share. Angered by her deception, Rhys sends Feyre home, freeing her from their marriage and bargain made Under the Mountain, all too soon finding that to be the worst mistake he's made in five centuries.

AN: The Silver-Tongued Bride, a Feysand fic based on 1,001 Nights/Arabian Nights, has been discontinued so I can write a book with a similar plot in the future, but UBC brought up the fic and I was struggling with my original project for Mates. So I'm closing this AU with a bang. As I said in a previous post there is a major time skip between Wife or Weapon? and Would You Like Me On My Knees? so reading/rereading STB is not vital, but the link is there if you want to see what the original story idea was and get a better idea of Feysand's history in this AU.

For those unfamiliar with 1,001 Nights, you can read the basic plot here.

CW: Dark!Rhys, Smut

“Feyre, you’ve told me a story every night for months now.”

“I have,” she murmured. “Would you like to hear another this evening?”

He gave her a slight smirk from across the oversized table between them, fiddling with one of the strategy pieces. “No, darling. Eager as I am to hear the ending of this last story, I have one to tell you tonight.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “One about a village girl brave enough to save her people.” She narrowed her eyes, accepting the chair. “Once upon a time a wicked foreign commander took control of seven High Lords’ power, trapping all but one in her perversion of a court.”

“Why are you telling me—”

“Be quiet and listen,” he hissed. There was something in his eyes tonight that for the first time stirred something like fear in Feyre. “For forty-nine years those faeries hoped and prayed for some salvation that never came. Until one day a village girl was just desperate enough to go Under the Mountain to save her sisters, and in her dealings with Amarantha, Prythian.”

Though he’d given her nothing but facts she recognized from her own story, something close to dread was coiling in her gut. “She succeeded, at the cost of her life, but was revived by the seven High Lords when their magic was returned to them. One would think after dying, our heroine would be content enough to keep a low profile and stay tucked away with her sisters.”

“You kept me from that, I’ll remind you.”

“Did I? Or did all of this start when you decided to play spy, Wraith?”

She ground her teeth, holding his burning stare. “You live in such wealth and privilege. Tell me, when was the last time you went days or weeks without more than bread and water? I did what I needed to to make sure there was food on the table and clothes on our backs, as I always have. Just because it took you three years to look at who you employ doesn’t mean I did anything wrong.”

He stood from his own seat. “You're right.” It took a moment for the words to register. That he had actually surrendered that small victory to her. “You haven’t actually done anything, beyond failing to mention your other duties to the Night Court. Which is why you will continue those duties, unrestrained.”

That dread began to seep back in, coiled and curdling deep inside of her. “Unrestrained? What do you mean unrestrained?”

“You are vital to Azriel’s network. I will not kill you, but you can not fully commit to your duties as my bride.”

Bride. Never wife, though she wasn’t quite sure why she cared about that little technicality during such a serious conversation. Because what his words implied…

She lurched from her chair.“Rhys, you can’t.”

“It is not your place to tell me what I can and can’t do, Feyre.”

“Rhys, please.” She was begging. Something she vowed she’d never do when it came to him. “Please don’t do this.” Her hand was fisted in the soft fabric of his shirt as if she could keep him there and hold his attention so simply. “They don’t deserve this.”

He cocked his head. “What would you give me, darling, to keep me from looking at another female?”

“Anything.” Dangerous words to offer the fae, especially one so powerful. “I will give you anything so long as these bride killings stop. Name your price.”

“Feyre, did you really think you could stop this, single-handedly? You never had a—”

He grunted as she pulled him down closer, one hand still holding his shirt while the other threaded through his silky hair. Though she initiated the kiss, he quickly took control, lifting her onto the table and disregarding the scattering of figures and marking pins so carefully arranged on the broad map atop it. He cupped the back of her neck, his thumb just brushing across her jaw. “Cauldron, Feyre,” he groaned, holding her in place to deepen the kiss.

She could say the same. Their kiss was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. His scent, his touch, and that cruel mouth working down over her neck, his tongue flicking that little sweet spot just higher that nearly had her whimpering. Apparently he remembered a few tricks from their time Under the Mountain. Each one left something inside her singing. And aching for more.

And then he was off of her, around the other side of the table before she could even open her eyes or try to assess what was threaded between them.

“No,” he growled, gripping the wood of the table hard enough his skin lightened. “You—we needed that distraction back then. I am not about to let you bargain with your body now, Feyre. You’ll leave in the morning, as usual. This time—” He waved a hand and a fresh horror filled her as the ink on her right arm vanished. “—free of our marriage.” Another wave and her left arm was bare. “Free of our bargain.”

She stumbled around the table. If Rhys was letting her go… “Rhys, wait.”

“It’s done. You’re free. You never have to see me again. What more do you want?” he snapped. She stopped in front of him, nearly close enough to share breath. Even wide and wild, those eyes drew her in. “What?” he growled.

“Promise me it will end.” His brow furrowed. “You’re a better male than this. I can see it. Your brothers can see it. I don’t know the others, but—”

“That’s enough.” He tilted his head as he assessed her, looking every bit the predator he proved himself to the world, any trace of the goodness she’d thought she’d seen just as absent as she ink on her arms. Her heart sank as he tutted, stroking his thumb down her jawline, this time almost condescendingly. “So that’s what you’ve been, little temptress. The martyr bride. One day my lover? My High Lady?”

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be if it saves others who are meant to follow me here.”

Reckless, stupid words, and yet she meant every one of them. She refused to release him until he listened.

Or winnowed.

Or layed her down on that war table and reminded her how easy it was to break a male.

Any other male, it seemed.

His hand dropped to wrap around her throat. One last security blanket, a means of control, even as she watched his resistance fracture. “Gods. Feyre, you don’t know how you tempt me to break the one code I can keep.” At this point she didn’t know how else to express she wouldn’t be as unwilling as he believed. Again, he tore away from her, leaving her cold and aching. What had gotten into her? “Your village and family will be pardoned in the future. If you’d like to take anything I’ve given you home then you’re welcome to pack tonight. As a Wraith, you can leave at your leisure. I trust you’ll be gone before breakfast?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, turning his back to her to repair the map she’d unknowingly torn. She should have felt relieved at the dismissal, but all she could currently think was that this was so wrong. On a scale larger than this sexual chemistry.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

It rang in her head loudly enough she double checked her shields. Still impenetrable. Body and mind steeled, she gave him five parting words meant to sting after all this time in each other's company. “As you wish, High Lord.”

And she walked away, gaining her freedom, and losing so much more.

But what was still the question.

~~~~~

Her sisters were elated. At least, Elain was elated. Nesta only felt the need to interrogate Feyre about what she had done to earn her freedom. “I wanted out,” she lied. “I told him I was a Wraith and he decided that was important enough to the war to release me.”

Neither of them seemed to believe her, especially with her vow to keep telling stories to maintain her position as a Night Bride and save the girls he’d yet to draw into his cruel game. Half of the town had started to treat her like a plague. The other was in awe when they saw her arms were bare of ink and her head was attached to her neck.

Feyre didn’t have enough energy to care.

That was more frustrating than anything else. That empty feeling that grated against the anger and hurt she couldn’t find a way to justify. The dangerous tumble of thoughts that kept her awake in her bed until she was watching the sunrise. Because Cauldron damn her, she missed it. Missed him. The smirk on his face and the light in his eyes when she encouraged his flirtation. The glide of his hands over her body before that brutal dismissal. The taste of him, endless and all-consuming. The abyss she was too ready to leap into if she’d find him at the bottom.

That desperation scared her more than anything, and opened up a very unwelcome thought when the evenings went quiet. So she locked it away in a little mental box, shoving it behind that wall of steel and stone, down, and down, and down where she couldn’t feel even a flicker of want or worry.

But then, she had never been very good at compartmentalizing. And too many things in the home and village around her brought those feelings back to the surface. What they meant. But if she didn’t give it a name it didn’t have to mean anything. Not after he freed her. And with that mindset, she kept going, day by day.

She kept moving though life, waiting to hear the Bride Killer had returned to find his next target. But he never did. Not for weeks. She didn’t think it was possible for a town or village to simply freeze, but there was a feeling in the air all the same. As if the villagers around her, the birds and bugs and cattle, the very land around them was holding its breath.

It was excruciating to endure.

Still, she made herself go about town. To the market each morning and social functions in the evening. Nodding along as other females tittered about the latest gossip and just how lucky she was to be alive and marriageable again. It was positively disgusting. But she’d endure that too, for Elain and Nesta. It was where they thrived and she could tolerate being labeled the odd ball a while longer. It’s what she’d been her whole life, after all.

She should have known things wouldn’t be left there. That she wouldn’t be given time to heal and pass this strange emotional lull without some grand interruption. And grand it was.

In typical fashion, Rhys arrived at the height of the evening, his announcement by rolling thunder. “What a pretty little party.”

~~~~~

The house cleared remarkably quickly between the families scurrying for the door or flat out winnowing as he commanded them to leave. The only people to disobey were her sisters, frightened as they were by the intrusion. There was something to be said for their improving loyalty, she supposed.

He didn’t speak again until the door snicked shut behind their last guest. “Good evening, Feyre darling.”

“Rhys.” His name was hardly higher than a breath, but its weight did enough to heighten the already unbearable tension. “What do you want?” she asked a bit more confidently, pushing off the wall and shoving the flare between them down as deep as she could. If he wanted the… connection… between them, he wouldn’t have sent her away like he did. “You said you wouldn’t return to this village. Especially not this house.”

“It’s not your sisters I’m here for, Feyre.” The promise in his voice paired with the heat in his eyes sent a fresh bolt of want through her. “The last time we spoke—”

“The last time we spoke, you promised me my freedom, Rhysand. Peace from your games.”

“I think you like my games more than you’re willing to admit, darling.”

She scoffed, putting more distance between them as she moved behind the couch. “What do you want, Rhys? Say it and leave.” Her father coughed pointedly from where he had joined them just seconds ago, some small effort as the technical head of the house. It was a reminder to check her tone, speaking to a High Lord. She snorted. “He won’t touch me.”

Rhys winnowed across the room, his broad figure a mass of warmth against her, his scent flooding her senses. She pressed forward, hips digging into the back of the couch as she focused on taking shallow breaths, pointedly ignoring everything her body was demanding she do. “The last time we were this close—”

“You sent me away. I didn’t beg and plead for you to erase the bargain and wedding vows. I said I’d stay there for good. I’d be whatever the hell you needed me to be and you sent me away.”

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

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

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

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

She stiffened. “I don’t know a thing about leading a court.”

“You’ll learn.” Before she could say another word about it or explain anything to her family, she felt him start to winnow.

“Rhys, wait! Don’t—” Her protest was cut off with her air, as they were folded in shadow, surfacing in the dining room of the town house in Velaris, his family already occupying the table. She jerked free of his hold. “You can’t just abduct me from my home,” she growled, ready to send herself right back.

“Just wait. Please.” The house was dead silent. She froze, watching with wide eyes as he sank to his knees. “Feyre.” The vulnerability between his actions and that one word was enough to clear the house, leaving the two of them alone, save each other. “Feyre. I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his face. “But this is a discussion we need to have… unmonitored.”

“Tell me it's over.”

“It’s over.”

“Tell me that even if I turn around and go home, no more innocents will die at your hands. By your orders,” she clarified.

“I will never kill an innocent again. I will not call a priestess to an altar unless it is you by my side. You being pronounced my mate. My wife. My High Lady. My Forever. Feyre, my name is a stain on the history of this court. That will not change.” She shuddered as he wrapped his hands around the backs of her knees. “Help me do what I can to pave a better future.”

Because what would the world think when their Cursebreaker willingly married the Bride Killer? When she bore the ink of his court again? What would the world think of her when they realized she’d fallen in love with their greatest evil?

She sank down to the ground, knee to knee with her mate. “I’ll be your equal? Respected in this court and the others.”

“The other High Lords will favor traditions. Especially those of the seasons. I can't promise you their respect. But no citizen of Night will question your authority and keep their life.”

“And… the other expectations of a High Lord’s wife?”

“One day, with this war behind us I would want to build a family with you. Raise children beside you. But not yet, Feyre. Not with this war upon us. I don’t—”

She kissed him, throwing her weight enough that he twisted his legs, settling on his back to let her set the pace. Though he didn’t object to her straddling him she didn’t think the privilege of control would last long, considering his grip on her waist was already beginning to tighten. She reached for the buttons on his shirt, working them open with an impressive dexterity, considering her mind felt like a muddled mess.

“Wait.” Feyre paused, confused. Then they were winnowing again, this time to a cabin in the mountains. “We won’t be disturbed any time soon,” he promised, walking her backwards through the cabin until she stumbled, only to be lifted upright in his arms before she could hit the floor. She locked her legs around his waist, gasping against his mouth as he pushed her up against the wall, her hands pinned over her head. “I’ve been aching for you,” Rhys confessed, “from the moment you left my bed three years ago, I’ve wanted you back in my arms.”

Years. Not just the weeks they were apart, but since they found freedom from Amarantha. Feyre tried to look back on those days, recalling the vulnerability between the pleasure they shared. Where they had let those careful masks crumble to dust. A single brief moment where she had let herself wonder if Rhys was more broken than he let on.

She pushed those thoughts down. “You sent me away.”

“Love is a dangerous thing,” he told her, letting her stand on her own feet again, his arms braced on either side of her. “And you were offering yourself to protect others, not for your own happiness. You would have come to hate me if I tried to act on our bond. I couldn’t see you reliving my mother’s story.”

“It may have seemed impulsive then, but I wanted it. Even without the mating bond established I wanted you.”

Now that they’d both said it aloud it felt a thousand times more real. They were mates. A perfect match by nature or fate depending on who you asked. “Oh, and if we’re to do this in some sort of reasonable order.” She parted the panels of her gown. “It has pockets, see!” He was clearly confused about the relevance of her dress having pockets but stayed quiet to humor her. “I was keeping this for myself since they were just about the only enjoyable thing at that party, but here,” she told him almost conspiratorially, unwrapping the small linen napkin holding the cookies she was saving for a snack. “I didn’t technically make it myself, but… Food. Eat. Now.”

Confusion softened to something like awe and she realized for as cruel as he’d been in his time as High Lord, he had grieved the simple pleasures he thought he’d ruined his chance of finding. Like a female offering him food and truly accepting an eternity with him. He had a better future to look forward to, starting with half-crumbled cookies. “You’re exquisite,” he breathed, his thumb sweeping tenderly across her cheekbone. “I don’t deserve you, Feyre.”

She just smiled, nodding to the meager offering again. They were gone in seconds, the napkin so clean she wouldn’t have believed there were crumbs at all if she hadn’t seen the mess of crushed dessert herself. There was something to be said for a newly mated male’s dedication.

“Delicious,” he purred against her ear, tossing the pristine cloth over his shoulder. “But I can think of something else I’d rather taste at the moment.”

~~~~~

Rhys had never gotten a female out of a dress so quickly. He had never felt so close to losing control of himself. Not just that spiral of desire and the need to please his mate and satisfy their bond, but something more. Ancient and dark and primal. The need to claim in every respect.

He hadn’t felt the cage swing open. Not until the thing within him was stalking out, his skin itching and tight as onyx scales rippled over it in patches. He groaned against Feyre, the taste of her on his tongue was doing nothing to help his attempt at suppressing the creature he worked so hard to hide. He knew it was only a matter of time before his talons would make themselves known and draw his mate’s attention to the steady shift claiming his body. She gasped as one of those obsidian claws nicked her tender flesh and an ugly guilt began twisting inside him at the single drop of blood that bloomed. He released her instantly.

“Rhys…” He had been bracing himself for horror or disgust, not this quiet curiosity.

“I normally have better control than this,” he said, jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t lost control of his beast form since he was a youngling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It's…” Her eyes shared the words her tongue couldn't find. She wanted this. Was hungry for it, even if it would temporarily cost him his sanity.

He growled as she tried to guide him back between her legs. “As you wish, darling.”

She shivered at the next slow stroke of his tongue, her legs tightening around his head. “Stop teasing me,” she ordered.

A chuckle rasped out of him, even as he felt his control slipping little by little. “So my bossy little mate thinks she knows what she wants, hm? We’ll see about that.” While his body was only half-his own at the moment, he managed to retract the talons that had scratched her a moment before. Beast or not, he promised his mate his mouth, fingers, and cock tonight and he had no intention of disappointing her again.

He didn’t quicken his pace, not when he had the absolute pleasure of drawing her steadily higher and higher until she was on the precipice of falling, flushed from head to toe and clenching around his fingers. He grinned as he heard her let out another frustrated whimper, her short nails dragging down from his scalp to scratch the back of his neck, bringing about as much pain as a kitten might.

Do you need something, love? he teased, withdrawing entirely.

She gave a hard shove and he let her flip their positions, folding an arm beneath his head as he watched her straddle him. Seeing as her patience has been rather unremarkable thus far, he had ultimately expected her to take advantage of her position over him and claim the pleasure they were both aching for. It appeared she would once again surprise him.

“You take far too much pleasure in keeping me from mine,” she told him, almost in reprimand. “It’s high time the roles were reversed—” She slid back, wrapping her slender hand around the base of his swollen, scaled length. “—don’t you think?”

“I think, Feyre, that you should be very careful,” he warned her. Both of them knew she had no physical leverage over him. That he had let her turn the tables and could reclaim control the moment he decided he was done with this game. But for now he’d pretend he was a decent male, if only so his mate could feel proud of herself for this momentary victory. “Go on, darling. Do your worst.”

She grinned, sinking down to take the first inch of him in her mouth. Rhys could feel her smugness rippling down the bond, multiplying when his free hand flew to her nape. “Look at you,” he praised her, his fingers carding though her hair as a means of comfort as she took him deeper at her own pace. “So pretty, taking my cock down your throat.”

She wouldn’t be able to take all of him like this, not with him half-shifted this way. But she was trying her best and it wasn’t a sight he would forget anytime soon. She dragged her teeth against him and he jerked forward on instinct, choking her slightly. “Careful, pet,” he warned, the tension in his voice betraying his own state of mind. Her little hum told him she knew he was close to spilling down her throat and he had no intention of letting things end so soon.

He twisted her hair around his hand, pulling her up to face him, “As pretty as you’d look drooling on my cock, I think I’d rather watch you ride me, Feyre.”

She wasted no time, letting him guide her down onto him. “Look at you,” Rhys murmured again, his breath fluttering against her hair. She whimpered. “Slow down, darling. Almost there.” He hissed as she clenched around the full length of him, a new instinct roaring to life within him. Claim, claim, claim.

For the millionth time that night he found himself grieving the absence of the ink that clearly tied her to him before he granted her her freedom. He’d remedy that problem after they dealt with the frenzy.

He watched Feyre for a moment, taking in the glaze of lust in her eyes and the love beneath it, And deep down, even under that, the instinct that mirrored his own. He shifted on the bed slightly, preparing to flip them again. “Do you know what it wants, Feyre? Hm?”

She blinked down at him, trying to piece together what he was asking. “Do you know what the beast beneath my skin wants to do to you when you’re taking this cock like such a good girl?” She moaned again, hips jerking against his unyielding hold. “Needy little mate,” he admonished softly. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“I’ve been waiting. Now fuck me.”

She yelped as he flipped her onto her back, pinning her hands to the mattress. “I told you to be careful, little mate.”

“Rhys—”

“I warned you to be careful, Feyre. That I was close to losing control. That there was only one thing the beast in me wanted from you.” She shuddered as he shifted both of her hands under one of his, bringing his free hand down to stroke her clit. She keened. “But maybe that’s what my little mate wants too.”

“Rhys.” A foreign, desperate sound left her as her release rattled through her. Rhys didn’t let her come down from it, refusing to acknowledge how she felt clenching around him as he aimed to bring her to her second orgasm. “Rhys, wait. I need—”

“Darling, I thought you needed to come,” he teased. He had almost forgotten how easy it was to overstimulate her, scrambling her senses and bringing her pleasure over and over. It had been his greatest joy in those moments they stole when they were stuck Under the Mountain. His only joy, actually. But that time was behind them. “So, so pretty like this, filled up with my cock,” he praised her, tensing slightly as the dark scaled patches rippled and spread over his skin. “Just imagine how pretty you’ll look when you’re carrying my baby.”

She let out a low groan that had new pride blooming, a jerk of his hips sending her over the edge once again. “Rhys, need you to fill me up.”

“I know, baby. That’s a good girl.” He sighed, pressing his lips to her neck as his slow drag turned more deliberate, bringing them to the next high together. He ducked his head again, slanting his mouth over hers as they came together. “I love watching you come undone for me,” he murmured. “I’ve missed it more than anything.”

She hissed as he pulled out of her slowly, watching onyx scales revert to brown skin, the possessive glint in his eyes fading to something softer. “What took you so long? The ward on the house was pathetic. Why did you wait so long to come for me?”

“Because I never deserved you. And one day I stopped caring about what was deserved and decided to be purely selfish. So I made you a Night Bride.”

“And then you sent me away.”

“I didn’t deserve a mate either. And I knew you would begin to recognize the bond for what it was. But the weeks apart, knowing it would be final, I couldn’t stand it. So I swallowed my pride and came to grovel.”

Feyre sighed, laying her head on his chest. “I’m very glad you did, Rhys.”

He smiled against her hair, holding her a little tighter. “So am I, darling. So am I.”

~~~~~

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#acotar #feysand #feysandweek2023 #day 6 #prompt: mates #fanfiction #feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand fic #scheherazade!feyre #sultan!rhys #1001 nights #arabian nights #the silver-tongued bride #STB #this is officially my longest oneshot at 4878 words

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