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thesistersarcheron · 1 year

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Pairing: Feysand Rating: E Word Count: ~6.8k Summary: Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him. He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him. ———Check out Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3 on tumblr, go to my masterlist for more, or read this fic on AO3 here.

A little visual aid, just in case you need it.

“You.”

The altar might as well have been a monument to Feyre’s humiliation. It loomed large at her back, its very presence taunting her as hot, mortifying tears slipped down her burning cheeks.

Her flight from the mouth of the cave may have been prompted by no small amount of embarrassment, but once she realized Rhys had given chase, once she’d felt those tendrils of night-kissed power snapping at her heels like hellhounds set loose… Damn her, the dull ache between her legs had strengthened to an insistent throb, and her feet had put on a burst of speed without any input from her furious mind. She had glanced back just once to see if she’d shaken him, and instead found a swath of darkness gaining on her with a grin that said, I’m coming for you.

The chase devolved into something primal then, driven by an instinct woven into her very being.

It was as if threads of the same magic that compelled her to go to the mouth of the mines tied themselves around her wrists, her ankles, her waist, some grand, unseen puppeteer guiding her forward. Try as she might, she had not been able to stop running; the thrill of the chase, the fresh heat between her pumping legs, and the last of her lingering anger pushed her on, through sharp corners and up near-vertical climbs.

If he wanted her, truly wanted her, the bastard would have to prove it.

So Feyre let herself drown in instinct and left the beaten path behind. She pushed and climbed and ran until the muscles in her legs screamed with the effort to keep upright and every breath shredded down her throat and into her aching lungs. She was so wet it was distracting, her own arousal slicking her thighs and making her skirts cling to her skin, but she ignored everything and ran.

She ran until she stumbled into a grotto and nearly dove headfirst into the glassy, mist-veiled lake before skidding to a stop in front of a large slab of smooth obsidian at its center. The sight of it made her pounding heartbeat falter, and she’d been reduced to gaping at it as she gasped for breath.

Although she had never laid eyes on it before, she recognized it all the same.

It was a carved altar housed in the sacred cavern that even she, reckless as she could be, had never dared to track down in the endless labyrinth of the mines.

And the damn thing had called her here.

Had called them both here.

A soft thrum of energy from it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, as if in answer to her suspicion.

Damn it all. Damn the High Lord, damn the altar, and damn Fire Night.

Because in front of her stood Rhysand, stretching out his arms as if he meant to hold her.

Well, some form of Rhysand, at least.

For her High Lord… The High Lord, she thought stubbornly as she swiped at her tears, had been transformed. Entire swaths of his golden-brown skin were covered in rippling scales. His tattooed chest, his muscled shoulders, his thick forearms—all were broader than they had been minutes before, all plated in fine, ebony scales that gleamed in the low light and formed a terrifying, impenetrable layer of armor. Even his feet, if the deadly, clawed things on which he stood could still be called that, were bared and scaled. His violet eyes bore slitted pupils now, too, like some ferocious mountain cat, and they reflected every bit of dim light in the cavern back at her, glowing with an otherworldly light that undoubtedly helped him see with crystal clarity.

In this new skin, he was more than simply a charming prince of the night; he was formed of it. He belonged to it, and it to him. He was the creature that lurked in the shadowy edges of nightmares, waiting in the darkness to devour innocents.

But he made no move to attack her. No, his glowing eyes were soft and glazed with desire as they locked on hers.

As if in response to her silent scrutiny, he rolled his shoulders, showing off the dark licks of tattoos visible beyond the edges of his scales, curling up his neck and over his biceps. Feyre knew what that ink meant, too: this was a male capable of incredible violence, one who’d done more than survive his Blood Rite. He must have won it to be so heavily marked.

He was no ordinary male, no ordinary High Lord, no ordinary nightmare.

This was a male to be feared.

As if he read her mind, he raised the arms he had already held out to her and lifted his hands upright, palms out. They, too, were now tipped in long talons. Even at a distance Feyre could tell each was sharp and strong as any dagger. All the same, he was making a conciliatory gesture with them, as if she were some creature who might spook if he moved too quickly.

Because, yes, he was a beast crafted to devour… but also to protect.

Indeed, the same massive, batlike wings the males who’d led Rhys into the cave bore now protruded from his back. The vicious claws at the tips of those towering limbs nearly scraped the ceiling of the cavern, but instinct pulled at Feyre’s fear of them, tucking it away. It may have been millennia since their people coexisted, but some small voice in the back of her mind recognized that those wings meant safety and protection for her kind.

Another feline smile curved his mouth. Dangerously sharp, elongated canines glinted behind his lips.

He sketched a bow. “Me.”

“You…” Feyre rasped, her throat sore.

She swallowed hard, and trying to remember the outraged tirade she’d been preparing before she saw him.

She couldn’t.

Behind her, the altar’s pull was insistent, growing stronger, wiping away everything else. He must have been able to sense it too, because his grin grew, and he prowled closer, predatory intent carved into every perfect line of his body. Each footfall made the surface of the lake, glowing like a sea of stars beneath the glittering glowworms and jewels, shiver and ripple outward.

Feyre edged away. “You’re Illyrian?”

Rhys didn’t deign to respond. He only lifted an inky brow and stretched his wings wider for her perusal, his eyes promising filthy things as they raked down her body once more.

It was a stupid question anyway. Even without the tattoos, without the wings, the entire Night Court knew his mother had been full-blooded Illyrian. She knew he’d commanded a legion of them during the war. Hell, a few of the miners had served alongside the Darkbringers, and she had pressed and pressed them to tell her everything they knew about their prince after the first time she’d ventured high enough to spot him preparing the mines for Fire Night.

So Feyre grit her teeth and pushed on, despite his silence and the magic pulling at her resolve. The look on his face was too smug, too self-assured, as if he’d already won this battle of wills. “Say something.”

“I am Illyrian.” Three short, simple words, spoken in a growling rumble a full register lower than it had been before. All three seemed to take immense effort from him; all three were laced with such hunger that her useless knees weakened again. His outstretched arms flexed, and she thought she caught his quick glance at the scales plating his arm from wrist to elbow before he asked, cocking his head to one side, “Does that change things for you?”

Feyre’s head was shaking before she realized what she was doing. No, no, it didn’t change anything for her. She was still furious at him, at herself. She didn’t want anything to do with him, no matter what sort of faerie blood ran in his veins.

But, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.

But… if anything, it did feel better to be here with him, knowing that he was one of the ancient protectors of her kind, the High Lord that had drawn such sweet sensations from between her legs before her heart had split in two. She wanted those fingers back inside her, wanted to ride them to completion the way she should have at the mouth of the mines, wanted to trace her fingers along the insides of those wings and see how the silken membranes reflected her glittering skin…

A low groan issued from Rhys’s throat, and he tipped back his head, and Feyre’s eyes followed the tense line of his jaw down his throat. Over the tattoos, over the scales, over the ridged plane of his stomach. Down, down, down she went, daring to follow the arrow carved by the lines of his hips to…

Gods.

She nearly moaned the word aloud.

The outline of his cock was entirely visible through the thin fabric of his pants. The length she’d felt pressed to her stomach before when he was teasing her against the crates was nothing compared to the thick, insistent bulge that captured her full attention now. She could see every twitch, every vein, the thick line of the head highlighted by a patch of wetness darkening the fine fabric…

She took a step forward.

She wanted him. She wanted him, she wanted him, gods, she wanted him. She wanted to possess every bit of him. She wanted to fall to her knees and open her mouth and taste him on her tongue. She wanted to shove him onto his back and grip his hair so she could hold his mouth to her pussy until she came on his. She wanted to lay herself out on the altar and invite him to fuck her until they were drunk with pleasure, and he was imprinted on her skin. She wanted to be filled, dripping with—

Rhys’s groan turned to a ravenous snarl, and another shudder of power rocked out of him and into the cave.

“Keep thinking like that, darling, and we’ll never make it to the altar.”

Darling. It clicked into place in her mind like a key in a lock.

And just like that, Feyre brushed away the hold the Fire Night magic had on her mind, grasping instead for the fury that had, at some point, faded entirely. She had to clench her fists to distract from the hollow neediness radiating up through her abdomen and used her newfound focus to grasp a burning rope within herself instead.

She grasped it, holding tight, and hissed, “My name is not darling.”

Rhys tensed.

She shook her head as if she might dislodge more of the feverish lust clouding her mind and whirled, preparing to winnow with her next step—

Shadows exploded into her periphery, and a firm arm caught her around her middle.

“Got you.” That low, beastly voice was a bedroom murmur against the base of her throat.

“Bastard.” Feyre threw a sharp elbow into his side, ignoring the mind-numbing heat of his breath against her skin.

He caught her arm with a gentle hand. His calloused fingers were rough, but breathtakingly gentle as they curved around her forearm, tracing the length of it down to her wrist.

Slowly, almost… tentatively, in a way that made Feyre’s heart squeeze, he interlaced their fingers.

He lifted her hand until it was mere inches from his face, turning it this way and that. Her mother-of-pearl nails shimmered dimly in the low light. He let out a quiet breath through his nostrils and lifted her wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the veins marbling the sensitive skin on its underside.

“You cruel, wicked thing,” he murmured against her palm, his lips dragging over her skin. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

Every inch of her heated in response, the golden thread tied to her navel pulling to the point of something close to pain. Her skin went taut as she loosed a shaking breath of her own, fury fading again, and the claw-tipped hand grasping her beneath the ribs rose in response. She dared a glance at him; he was watching her face through heavily lidded eyes as he brushed the underside of her breasts through the barely-there bands of silk she wore. She bit her lip as they tightened, her nipples peaking in interest and anticipation.

“Poor baby High Lord,” she managed to croak, pushing against his arm. “What will you do on Fire Night without an anonymous female to fuck when I leave you all alone here?”

His expression turned fierce. Without any warning, he pulled her back against him, letting her feel his interest—hard and insistent—against her ass as the hot breath fanning over her collar disappeared.

Wickedly sharp teeth nipped her earlobe before he breathed into it, “Careful, darling. Who said I have any intention of ever letting you go now that I’ve caught you?”

The growing heat between her legs coiled tighter, and chills erupted across her body.

Rhys, she allowed herself to think, the mental whimper as pathetic as she was desperate.

He groaned again.

The cavern bled into a splash of color as he spun her in his arms, lifting her off of her feet so quickly that she barely had time to register that they were also stepping back into the whipping wind between spaces in that single movement. She was in the air for only a moment before he deposited her on the cool slab of onyx stone.

He placed a firm hand on either thigh and spread her open. The thumbs spread across the sensitive skin between her legs stroked lazily, possessively. The talons caught, scratching deliciously close to the apex of her thighs, and all the fight went out of her as she canted her hips, seeking more. She would have been ashamed by how easily she capitulated if she didn’t catch the approval that flashed across his face.

But even though his glowing eyes darkened, he didn’t put those hands where she wanted them most. He glanced just once at the soaked silk between her legs, a smirk ghosting over his lips, before stepping into the space he’d created for himself. He lowered his mouth to her neck again, dragging his tongue over her collarbone before latching onto it with those sharp, sharp teeth.

He barely lifted away, barely gave Feyre a moment to swallow the moan building in her throat, before glancing up at her with those bright, starry eyes.

“What is your name?”

Feyre gulped down a cool lungful of air, feeding the embers of her anger once more. “Fuck you.”

Rhys laughed despite the dark halo of power wreathing his body, his chest shaking against hers until her back arched. She pressed her breasts into that subtle, tantalizing touch.

“That’s the plan.” If it were any other male, if it were spoken in any other way, Feyre might have rolled her eyes and shoved him off of her. But her High Lord all but growled the words, one of his hands drifting from her thigh to the hard length of his cock. She swallowed, incapable of doing anything but watching as he palmed the head with brazen nonchalance, mesmerized…

Until he pushed closer, filling the space around her with warmth and scales and that dizzying salt-and-citrus scent until her eyelids fluttered shut against her will. He pressed forward until she had no choice but to lay back on the altar. The damned thing practically purred with its own pleasure as she reached out to either side of the stone and curled her fingers over the edge, clutching until her knuckles went white.

It was that or give into the urge to bury her fingers in his hair.

But, no, she wasn’t about to give him one bit of pleasure that he didn’t damn well earn first.

Even her legs burned with the effort not to wrap them around his waist and drag him closer until nothing but those sinfully thin pants and her tissue-paper skirts separated them. Until she could grind herself against that cock and find some sort of relief without giving the presumptuous prick too much pleasure, even if it were a pale imitation of what she truly wanted.

The Mother was nothing if not kind, because in the next moment that thick length was notched against her. He was so hard she could feel his pulse beating between her legs, and the weight of it, the heat—

Her mind went blank.

A talon stroked the length of her throat, right over her own rushing pulse. “What’s your name?”

Feyre turned her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart ached for him, for her prince, her High Lord. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted...

She would not give in.

“Eat my—”

In the next second, his hands gripped her knees with unforgiving strength and pulled. Shock and a healthy dose of fear that she might just plummet off the edge of the altar pulled an undignified squeak out of her, but Rhys stopped when her ass was just at the edge.

He rasped a laugh, and then the only sound in the cavern was their harsh breathing until he all but ordered,

“Open your eyes.”

So Feyre did.

And she watched as the High Lord of the Night Court knelt before her.

Whatever instinctive horror she felt at seeing him kneeling at her feet—between her legs—vanished the moment the wet skirts between her legs fell away into nothing but mist with a snap of his fingers. He gave her no more warning before the broad length of his tongue traced the seam of her dripping pussy in the next heartbeat, opening her to him. She jerked, squeaking again. He only braced a strong hand on either side of her waist as she lurched upright onto her elbows, helping keep her upright.

He feasted on her like a male possessed.

All the while, those starry, glowing eyes peered upward through the darkness, boring into her own.

It was messy, all lips and tongue and those long, pointed teeth. He licked and licked and licked, driving Feyre out of her head with every pass. He lapped at every bit of her he could find before his tongue—thicker and longer in this massive, half-monstrous form—dipped into her as if he couldn’t get enough. His eyes closed, his brows furrowed, and she whimpered, her own mouth dropping open at the sight of pure, unadulterated ecstasy on his face.

He ate her like he meant to tattoo that pleasure between her legs. Like he got just as much pleasure out of it as she did.

Or more.

Feyre’s limbs went loose and shaky as he pushed out a long, cool breath—all relief and satiated hunger—that tickled her clit.

He growled in response. The vibration alone dragged her to the very edge of climax. Her legs started to tremble, and he parted from her just long enough so she could see the filthy smirk on his shining lips.

Just long enough so he could reign in some of that arrogant, male pride on his face. Just long enough to glance between her legs at the pussy he’d just eaten like it was his last meal.

His eyes widened, and, despite herself, despite the unsatisfied need burning between her thighs, Feyre tilted her head. As much as she wanted to drag that skilled mouth back to her, to make him finish her, the stunned look on his face was enough to have her smothering a laugh and asking, a shade tartly,

“What? Have you never seen an oread’s cunt before?”

It wasn’t like most other females. That much she knew from sneaking into a niche with a handsome Tartera female when she was young and curious. Their tryst had been brief but enlightening when she reached between the female’s legs and encountered soft folds and silken skin instead of the dips and nooks that resembled nothing more than a rose quartz geode between her legs.

Just as soft and hot and tight, but—in her estimation—far, far prettier than most. She hadn’t done much research outside of that one female lover, and she certainly wasn’t the loveliest nymph in the mines, but an evening with a hand mirror had given her enough confidence to spread her legs wider now.

The obscenity of it all seemed to jar him out of his shock.

“It’s fucking gorgeous,” was all he said, his voice rough. He drank in the sight of her for another long moment, and Feyre hooked her knees over his shoulders to let him look his fill. His teeth bared, his nostrils flared; when he looked back at her, his eyes were so dark they nearly matched the black power leaking from him in ribbons. “It’s mine.”

She didn’t have even a second to spare for indignation or fury at such territorial male presumption before he dove back into her like he was starved once more, his lips and tongue finding the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex with ease.

Her head fell back, her arms turning to jelly. The hands at her waist lowered her gently back to the altar and pulled her impossibly closer to his face.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!”

Feyre didn’t recognize her own voice, broken and crying out as it was. She didn’t feel the cool stone at her back, the hard edge of it under her fingers. All she knew was the mouth she’d dreamt of for decades sucking at her clit and her Rhys and the gentle darkness brushing up against the edge of what little remained of her mind.

Yours, that darkness confirmed. All yours. Now tell me again, darling: what is your name?

“Fey—“

No! No, she couldn’t tell him. Shouldn’t. She could barely remember why not as his hot tongue speared inside her again, curling upward to press against the spot that ached for it.

Fey, that darkness purred back to her. The mouth at her cunt disappeared, wrenching a desperate sob from her as he dropped a dripping kiss on her belly instead. I don’t think that’s the whole thing, somehow.

And she realized as his fingers stroked her sides that the darkness wasn’t just darkness. It was his mind, embracing her own as it it were an extension of the hands circling her waist. His mind, because he was a daemati, just as the miner’s rumors claimed.

He’d even told her as much, hadn’t he? Keep thinking like that, darling, and we’ll never make it to the altar.

It prowled like a beast at the borders of her consciousness, and through the darkness that accompanied him, she spotted a whipping tail and the maw of a creature much, much larger than the male between her legs.

Pleasure lit her from inside, every inch of her body singing with it, as if he’d flipped some sort of internal switch to reward her for figuring it out.

Illyrian and a daemati. Does that change things for you?

Feyre couldn’t think clearly enough to form a coherent reply as she shook her head. All she threw at him instead was,Please, please, please, please, please…

You don’t have to beg, love, his mind crooned to hers, sweet and soft. The careful pad of a thumb stroked her clit. I’ll never make you beg.

She begged anyway. Gods, gods, please.

Just tell me your name, and I’ll give you everything you want.

She whined. Rhys…

Not quite. His tongue traced the curve of her stomach, teasing what could be hers if she just— That’s my name. Tell me your name.

“Rhy-hy-hys!” Her voice was a desperate, panting keen.

One firm hand replaced his mouth on the span of skin between her hipbones, pressing her back into the altar. The pleasure lighting up her mind faded back into something approaching normal, and all that was left was the bulk of him between her legs and the crest of her climax just out of reach.

“Tell me your name,” he ordered, his voice firm. An Illyrian commander’s voice. A High Lord’s voice.

But the clawed beast in her mind he coaxed her tenderly, Please tell me, my darling.

He laid a kiss on the inside of one thigh.

My love.

And then another kiss on the other.

My mate.

Every trembling inch of her froze.

Liar. He was lying.

He couldn’t be her mate. He wasn’t. She didn’t dare to believe it. Mating bonds were the stuff of girlish daydreams, even more ridiculous than a lesser faerie loving a prince from afar and convincing herself he loved her too.

She clutched that disbelief like a lifeline.

Only to have him drag it away.

My mate, he crooned, twining that doubt between those vicious mental talons.

He shredded it with a thought.

My mate, he said again. This thought, this truth, was so pure it nearly glowed golden, pulling at the cord tied to her. The cord, she realized, that led to him. She felt him smile against her thigh. See, you feel it, too. You are my mate.

Suddenly, Feyre had the dizzying experience of looking through someone else’s eyes—through Rhys’s eyes, as he projected what he was seeing into her mind. And, fuck, he could see perfectly in this dark cavern. Every line and dimple and marbled vein on her body, the round fullness of her poor, ignored breasts, the teartracks drying on her flushed cheeks, and the bird’s nest of her mussed hair.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, he thought of her, all primal need and wine-soaked lust. Mate, mate, mate. His grip on her tightened, and she saw herself again, running from him, fighting him, moaning for him. So headstrong. So perfect. I kneel for no one but you, my mate.

His mate. They were mates. The cord sang sweetly to her soul in response, strengthening into an unbreakable, adamant bridge binding them the longer she examined it. She held onto that feeling, sighing with relief and joy.

And then she said, “Feyre.”

My name is Feyre, she told the mind cradling her own with such infinite tenderness.

“Feyre,” he breathed her name like it was a benediction. His voice was so reverent that she peeked open an eye just in time to see him bow his head over her and brush another kiss to her stomach.

Feyre darling.

“Offer me something to eat, Feyre.”

“What.”

That wicked tongue flicked out, the tip catching against her clit with a touch so pointed and teasing it made her entire body tense. His mind drew away from hers, and though she reached for it, he shook her off with painstaking gentleness.

His eyes were dark but clear as he said, “Make me yours, mate.”

Cauldron fucking boil her.

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat as, at last, Feyre gave into the temptation to sink her hands into his hair. She tilted her hips upward again, aided by his hands.

“Eat me, Rhys.”

A glance downward revealed his indulgent grin softening into something painfully soft. Good girl.

And then that final, tenuous glint of clarity disappeared from his eyes, and he bent his head to her. He didn’t bother with filling her with his tongue; he didn’t bother teasing with anymore kitten licks. He simply wrapped his lips around her clit, sucking hard as he lashed at it with his tongue, drinking down every bit of wetness he found as she screamed, the climax he’d already denied her twice overwhelming her in an instant.

And deep inside of her soul, the final piece of that bridge snapped into place.

Her mouth was moving, her throat working, but she was deaf to it. All she knew was the bond as it opened to reveal a bottomless well of frenzied desire. She needed him like air, like water, needed to possess more, more, more of him.

Magic sang and snapped and sizzled between them, sweet and sharp as it ricocheted in waves across the lake. Cool droplets of water misted her skin, and the altar pulled the tingling buzz of the orgasm rocking her from her bones, her skin, and into the black stone beneath her. The very mountain seemed to tremble, and Feyre went limp as the last of her strength disappeared.

“I loved you, godsdammit,” she heard herself sobbing as the final wave of her orgasm ebbed away. She had to drag at his hair, her hips squirming, to draw him away from her too-sensitive pussy. He went with a snarl that went silent when she sobbed again. “I loved you.”

The sound of leather on leather filled her ears as his wings flexed. It was her only warning before he moved, lifting himself off his knees and following the line of her body upward. He laid kisses on her skin as he went, as if he couldn’t help but map each new bit of her he encountered with his tongue.

Once they were face-to-face, Feyre could only blink at him through the blur of tears. She was beyond emotion, beyond pain or relief or joy.

He said nothing, and she choked back another sob. Each had started deep in her chest, clawing up her throat and through her limbs; she still felt the sore, lingering effect of each.

Without a word, he bent over her, still pinning her hips with that hand on her belly, and the weight of him was a welcome distraction from the painful, cathartic tears wracking her body.

Feyre loosed her grip on his hair, burying her face in her palms.

A thrum of displeasure shivered down the bond, and then warm, strong fingers curled around her wrists. With painstaking gentleness, Rhys pried her hands away from her face. Feyre only wept harder, unable to contain the emotion shaking apart her entire being.

A quiet, growling hum echoed through the cavern—an upset sound of consideration for a male beyond words. Feyre pulled at his hands, but his grip was unshakable. The hard length of him pressed against her stomach, going utterly ignored, as his lips descended on her cheek and he licked away a tear.

Feyre recoiled, but he followed where she led, tracing the trail left by another tear before capturing her lips with his. A rolling purr pulled from his chest as he kissed her languidly, slowly, sharing the taste of the wine and herself—her pleasure and her tears—with her. It threatened to undo her. Just that small taste of him, of them, was as intoxicating as if she’d been the one to drink the blessed wine.

He kissed her until the taut bridge between them relaxed. His eyes were half-lidded when he pulled back, looking at her with a single shard of lucidity, more than he’d possessed since she accepted the bond. That look screamed of avarice, but it was not the curious, evaluating stare she was used to seeing on the faces of past lovers. He didn’t look at her like she was a diamond under a loup. She couldn’t see him calculating the price she might fetch at auction in his head.

No, as he threaded a hand through her hair, tipping her head back so he could watch her lips part for him…

He looked at her like he was upset that she was distressed, as if he had some sort of responsibility to ensure the opposite and had failed. He looked at her as if licking up her tears had been his pleasure—as if he wanted all of her, whether she was crying or kissing him or making him chase her through a cave.

He looked at her like wanted her.

He looked at her like he could love her.

“My mate. Feyre.” His voice was a quiet rumble, and it was obvious that, though he seemed to be searching for them, no more words would come to the beast claiming him now.

Feyre let loose a shuddering breath, and his brow furrowed. He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes sliding closed, and then his arms were around her, his wings blotting out the dim light of the glowworms. His hold tightened, as if he felt the jagged edges of Feyre’s collapsing ribcage where they threatened to pierce her heart and meant to piece them back together for her.

Feyre buried her face in the crook of his neck.

Wind whipped at them again as he pulled them through the world, and then she was on her knees above him, looking down at her mate splayed across the obsidian altar. His wings spread wide, vulnerable, so long they draped over each side and dipped into the lake below. Beneath her, his cock pulsed again against the thin fabric of his pants.

He ignored it and lifted his chin, baring his throat to her. There was nothing but raw trust in his expression.

Her mate. Her prince. Her oblivious, wonderful High Lord.

“Rhysand…” She brushed an errant strand of inky hair off his forehead, tracing a line of scales at his temple. She had never dared to commit his likeness to canvas before, too afraid that she might not fully capture the easy, dangerous grace with which he held himself. If she painted him now, she knew she would have to work with thick daubs of blackest black to craft the gentle ridges and grooves of each individual scale and claw.

She bent over him to press a gentle kiss to his bobbing throat.

He freed one hand from behind her back and snapped his fingers. The scrap of silk around her shoulders—long since pulled askew to bare her breasts by her own writhing—fell into black dust, and Feyre swallowed a starved sound as his pants followed. Nothing but bare skin and scales remained between them. His hands grasped her hips, and her mind emptied as he pulled her down onto the underside of his cock. He dragged himself through the dripping wetness between her legs, a low, feral sound filling the cavern as the blunt head caught on her clit, and all she was and all she knew narrowed into that molten point of contact.

“More.” She was reduced to a writhing, pleading thing above him as she pressed her hands to his chest, steadying herself. She pushed up on her knees, and his grip on her tightened for a heartbeat as if he might refuse to let her go, to let her off his cock, but she gasped, “I need more.”

But his eyes narrowed, his talons digging into her skin like he wasn’t planning to let go of her any time soon, so she reached down between them. Finally, some small part of her sang as she curled her fingers around him, testing the weight and silken slide of him against her palm. Finally, finally, finally, beat her heart as she notched his tip at her entrance.

A breathless sound as she sank down just an inch. So thick—he was so much thicker than his fingers, his tongue. Every muscle below her navel went taut with anticipation, the magic coating every crevice in the mine singeing her nerves, and Rhys’s head dropped back to the altar beneath with a groan that shook the cavern.

Had he been watching her take him? She hadn’t noticed…

“Mate…” The word was a cautionary rumble beneath her. But when she looked down at Rhys, his eyes were sparkling with amusement, a playful twist to his lips all she needed to lift herself off him and then rock back down again.

And again.

Rhys moved with her, cupping a breast in one palm and dragging gentle talons across her peaked nipple and the sensitive underside until her legs quaked, pushing himself into a sitting position to drag his teeth along her opposite shoulder until she had to curl her arms around his to keep upright, lowering that mouth to scrape his teeth over her other breast. The world cracked and reformed and cracked again with each touch.

He let her tease, watching with bared teeth and indulgent, half-lidded eyes, and when she was a pliable, shivering mess in his arms, his hands returned to her hips and he thrust upward, spearing her with every inch of his cock.

“Oh!”

“Play later.”

He set a punishing pace, bearing her entire weight in his palms as he pushed into her. No more games, no more tricks; this was a claiming, frenzied and animalistic and hell-bent. Magic crackled in the air around them, the ripples on the lake’s surface cresting into small waves as the walls of the cavern quaked.

His power was a symphony, swelling to a magnificent crescendo that lit every inch of her on fire, each note snapping against her skin with every wet, slapping thrust into her. Her own magic thrummed in answer each time he hit the sweet spot inside of her.

And then every hair on her arms raised, and a quicksilver thrill shivered down her spine as pure blackness blotted out the dim glow in the cave, obsuring the sparkling stones set into the walls. His eyes were the only two points of light in the darkness, locked on her, and Feyre let her head fall back as they dipped lower, following the bounce of her breasts down, down to the place where they were joined.

Unseen, the rough pads of a pair of fingers found her clit. Feyre’s head fell back, and in the next instant, razor-sharp fangs locked around her rushing pulse.

“…fill you,” he swore, the half-rendered thought clear enough to make her collapse against his chest with sheer need. “Make you mine.”

The darkness parted like a curtain as the altar came to life again beneath them, drinking deeply from their free-flowing magic. The runes beneath Rhysand flickered to life, silver droplets of magic flowing into them, illuminating each one until the cavern was full of their pure, white light.

“You’re mine,” Feyre moaned back, because he was—hers and beautiful, so damned beautiful, his wings flared wide and his black-and-gold skin glowing in that ethereal light. “Fill me, Rhys.”

He was beautiful, and he was hers, and she was his.

The hand between her legs faltered, Rhys’s next breath a harsh rasp, but Feyre rocked back into that touch, claiming it for herself as her pleasure crested. Her climax broke over her, seizing control of every wild inch of her body, and she cried out. Rhysand roared, slamming deep as he fell over the edge with her.

Stars wheeled past behind her closed eyelids, the altar transforming into a blinding supernova of color and power and heat beneath them. The bond flared in response, and Feyre felt the altar’s power settle beside it, forged anew into a band of liquid gold that gilded the adamantine bridge binding her to Rhysand.

Time and space melted away, and Feyre traveled that bridge as her mate held her, his heartbeat hammering beneath her ear. She was distantly aware of lips on her neck, her cheeks, her breasts, her lips. The lull stretched on without end and then heated into that untamed, desperate need for him again, and he laid her out on the altar and took her until she screamed for him. Again and again, the cycle continued, sweet kisses and gentle fingers carding through her hair followed by frenzied coupling and swelling magic, and she floated on the blissful tide of their combined power as it eddied and flowed.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before the magic finally receded enough that Rhys was left dozing, cradling her in his lap, and she felt only smooth, soft skin beneath her hands and the backs of her thighs. Elegant fingers tipped only with neatly trimmed nails curled around her waist, squeezing, and she hummed in response.

Another long, lazy moment passed, and then Rhysand broke the silence. “My darling… I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Feyre blinked her eyes opened, her brow bunching in thought, and—

Oh. Right. She was upset with him, wasn’t she?

“My, my, an apology?” The sleepy, contented mumble against his warm shoulder was all the venom she could muster. “Must be important to rate one from a High Lord.”

She shifted, swinging one leg over his lap to straddle him; instead of the smooth, hard altar beneath her knees, she found silken sheets and a feather-soft mattress. Good. They would need that soft, warm bed for what she wanted next.

Rhys let out a low sound, desire stirring on his end of the bond once more.

Feyre lowered her head, pulling her teeth along the soft side of his throat. “Make me come again and I’ll forgive you.”

Thank you all so much for your patience with this fic! I hope you enjoyed. 💕 One more chapter to go!

#feyre #rhysand #feysand #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #feyrhys #feyre archeron #acotar smut #acotar fic #my fics #bejeweled #a court of thorns and roses fic #feysand smut #with hints of #acomaf

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nolanhollogay · 1 year

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“ i can’t breathe. i can’t— ”

edgar gets some bad news :/ (takes place during s2 e5) (at least i think it's e5) (all you need to know is that they were at a bonfire)

"I can't breathe. I can't—" Edgar gasped, clutching at his t-shirt, trying to get it away from his skin as if that would help the tightening of his chest. "Oh my G— I can't breathe. I—"

"Eddie, you need to calm down and tell us what's going on," Kie said, sitting in front of him with Nova and Mikey, the three of them all wearing matching worried expressions. He was flanked with JJ on his right, hand in his own, and Pope on his left, rubbing circles into his back. John B was in the driver's seat, taking them to Edgar's house. "Did something happen?"

JJ snapped. "How is he supposed to answer that if he can't breathe, Kie?" He tightened his grip on Edgar's hand. It would've hurt if Edgar could feel it.

"Bickering isn't going to help this situation!" Mikey shouted. "He's having a panic attack. We need to get him to breathe first, and go from there. Alright?"

He forced Kie to swap places with him, then rested his hands on Edgar's knees. "Copy my breathing, Eddie." He breathed in exaggeratedly, like a diver about to go underwater. Then he breathed out just as hard. Edgar mimicked him.

They did this for about a minute until Edgar's head was no longer swimming, and his panicked tears had melted away.

"You okay now, bud?" John B called from the front.

Edgar sniffled, nodded. "Yeah," he said.

"What the fuck was that about?" Nova said, making Mikey mutter, "Do none of you people have any sensitivity?"

Edgar's breath hitched as he remembered why he started freaking out in the first place. "My Mamí—" Pope's hand clutched the back of his jacket and Edgar reached out for his knee, trying to ground himself. "My Tía called, like, fifty times. Said my mom collapsed at work and I needed to come home. I didn't see it because I was with JJ and—"

"What do you mean you were "with JJ"?" Nova asked.

"Not the time, Nov," Mikey said, glaring at her.

Edgar sighed. God, he was so tired all of a sudden. "I just.. I just lost my abuelo and I just got John B and Sarah back and.. if I lose my mom, I think I'll lose my sanity."

"You're not gonna lose your mom, Eds," Pope said. "I'm sure everything is okay."

JJ nodded. "Yeah, Rita is the toughest lady I know. She was probably just overworking herself."

Edgar rested his head against seat behind him, sighing again. "I hope you guys are right."

In the end, there was nothing to be worried about. Tía Manuela had been sort of exaggerating on the phone, fear over her baby sister being hurt clouding her mind.

His mom had just fallen asleep at work and got sent home because they didn't want her to hurt herself, but there'd been some kind of communication error on the phone when her boss called Tía Manuela.

Everything was so fine, in fact, that his mom chastised him when he got into the house.

"You are supposed to be enjoying your night, not worrying about me!" she exclaimed. "And why do you have half the neighborhood in my home? You didn't warn me! I had no time to clean!"

She was lying on the couch surrounded by six different kinds of juice, which was definitely Tía Manuela's doing.

Edgar smiled and rubbed away the last of his anxious tears. "Sorry Mamí. Everyone wanted to check on you because I was losing my mind."

"For the record, we told him you'd be fine," JJ said. Pope smacked him on the shoulder. "Ow! We did!"

"Hi JJ," Edgar's mom said, rolling her eyes.

JJ smiled, "Nice to see you, Rita."

"Hello, other delinquent children," she said, making everyone else say their own hellos. "Get out of my house. Let me talk to my son alone for a second."

Everyone else took their leave, except for JJ, who was still holding Edgar's hand.

"I'll give him back in a minute, JJ. You don't have anything to worry about," Rita said, smiling softly at him.

JJ nodded, blush on his cheeks as he forced himself to let go. "We'll be outside, Eds."

Rita shooed him away with a wave of her hand, making him laugh.

Edgar turned back to her after watching JJ leave, and his eyes immediately filled with tears all over again when he saw her awaiting, outstretched arms.

He crawled into her hold, lying on top of her, just like he would as a child. "I was so scared, Mamí."

She shushed him, kissing the top of his head. "Oh, mi amor. I'm fine. It's just my sister and her overactive imagination," she said, making him laugh. "You don't have to worry about me, okay? It's my job to worry about you, not the other way around. All you have to worry about is enjoying your night, okay?"

"Yes ma'am," he said. He was trying to memorize the rise and fall of her chest, just in case.

She kissed his forehead, running her fingers through his hair. "Good. Now go have fun with your friends. Go do something crazy that you'll lie to me about in the morning."

He breathed a laugh. She always managed to hit the nail on the head without realizing. He'd been lying to her for how long now?

He got to his feet, ready to walk out the door again when she called, "Amor?"

"Yes?"

"JJ? He's the one you picked?" she said, eyebrow raised.

He made a desperate, nervous sort of squeaky noise. "Mamí!"

"You would pick the biggest troublemaker in town. That's exactly the kind of thing you'd do, just to spite me. Pope and John B were right there!" she teased. "Even Mikey would be better!"

"Leave me alone," he groaned, through his laughter.

She paused, suddenly serious. "Edgar, do we need to have the safe sex talk?"

"Oh my gosh," he muttered, before running out the door. "Bye Mamí. Te amo!"

He ran straight into JJ, literally colliding with him. Thankfully Pope was there to catch him.

"She good?" John B asked, once they'd righted themselves.

Edgar nodded. "She was making fun of me literally as I was walking out the door."

"Like mother, like son," Pope said, bumping their shoulders together.

Nova exclaimed, "Let's go get trashed!"

"We're going to the Chateau," Mikey explained, sending Edgar a smile.

Everyone started the walk to the car, but a hand on Edgar's wrist stopped him in his tracks. He turned and JJ was sending him a nervous smile.

"Are you good?" he asked.

Edgar nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay now. Sorry for freaking out."

"No, you don't have to—" JJ waved the apology off. "You just had me scared is all."

Edgar reached out for his hand. JJ linked their fingers together without hesitation. "I thought Maybanks didn't get scared."

JJ rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Freak accident, I guess."

"Oh, is that what it was?"

A bang sounded, making them both jump. They turned to see Nova smacking on the top of The Twinkie. "C'mon, lovebirds! We got places to be!"

JJ flipped her off, and she mirrored him, before they started to walk to The Twinkie, hand in hand.

#edgar ramirez #edgar asks #edgar x jj #with hints of #edgar x jj x pope #ship names tbd #asks #leaf tag 🌿#my writing #michael caswell #nova morales #nhgobxcu

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