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Feysand Month Day 28: Classics
So happy to share this STUNNING commission from @winterofherdiscontent ❤️ This is based on the The Kiss by Silvio Allason, and is meant to show Feyre and Rhys when Feyre is at the spring court pretending to be Tamlin's bride again
Merry Christmas Eve!
Here’s a little art piece I commissioned from the lovely @\ sinnamon.19 on Instagram for the Feysand Month free day!
I like to think that Rhys would hang mistletoe all over the house to increase his chances of catching Feyre beneath one 🥰
You’re So Vain
Pairing: Feysand
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Smut, cuck!tamlin, karaoke
Word Count: 6k
Gifting this one to my darling @impossiblescissorspeachpaper !! Thank you so much for helping me work through this idea 🥹🫶🏻. Hope you have a marvelous December ♥️. This is the first Feysand fic I have ever written!! My humble offering to @feysand-month 🤍.
“What is he doing here?” Feyre asked, glaring at the back of her ex-boyfriend. Tall — the only two people taller than him at the party were his brothers — and she could see his lean muscles underneath his white button down. God, who wears a well pressed shirt to a karaoke party?
He ran a tan hand through his perfectly tousled hair which caused Feyre to narrow her eyes. She knew exactly how much time and effort he put into his hair. How many products he used, how much he spent on imported hair care products from France. How the little movement he just did was actually pre-determined and done to make him look nonchalant.
She hated how much she remembered about him when they broke up 8 months ago.
She hated how much she learned about him when they only dated for a month. Four weeks. 30 days. 730 hours.
She hated that she still thought about him when she fucked her current boyfriend — Tamlin. But it was the only way she could feel pleasure when she laid underneath him and he grunted on top of her. Most days she didn’t even like Tamlin. But it was better than being alone.
“He’s my cousin,” Mor explained, running a hand over her slinky red dress. Style ran in the family, apparently. Feyre adjusted her own simple black dress. “I couldn’t just not invite him.”
Her smile was too innocent.
“What were your words? ‘He would never degrade himself with a karaoke party?’” Ferye asked sarcastically, giving her friend a bland look and shifting all of her golden brown hair to one shoulder. It was absurdly hot in their apartment, but she guessed that’s what happened when you crammed too many bodies into an apartment like sardines. Even if it was the middle of December, and it wasn’t as if their apartment was small by any means. But Feyre felt her blood start to simmer the second Rhysand walked into the room.
“Evidently I was wrong.” Mor said brightly, pouring herself and Feyre large portions of her homemade margaritas. She handed Feyre a red plastic cup rimmed with salt.
“He broke up with me, Mor,” Feyre said softly, proud of herself for hiding the hitch in her voice. “Just because you put us in the same room doesn’t mean he’s going to magically fall in love with me. Plus I have a boyfriend.”
Mor rolled her brown eyes and took a sip of her Margarita.
“Sadly.” Mor muttered, not hiding her hatred for Feyre’s boyfriend.
“If Amarantha comes, then I’m leaving.” Feyre said seriously. She had no wish to see the red head clinging to Rhys — the thought alone had her seeing red. She’d rather scratch her eyes out than see those two going at it in real life. They were all over social media — it didn’t matter that she had Amarantha blocked on all platforms, but she couldn’t go on tiktok without seeing edits of them on her FYP. And if she saw one more picture of them on her Pinterest she was going to blow a gasket.
It didn’t matter than Amarantha was married to somebody else, some high ranking government official — Rhysand was still more powerful than her husband. With his old money and family connections.
Feyre wanted to vomit just thinking about them together.
She could only go on Instagram in small bursts, and every time she fought the urge to check his Instagram to see if he was posting about them. She didn’t go on Instagram often, since it was almost always a battle she lost.
“No way that bitch is getting past our door.” Mor said viciously. It was a toss up between who she hated more: Amarantha or Tamlin.
Feyre’s blue eyes traveled back to her ex-boyfriend and her world stopped for a bit to see that he was looking at her. His violet eyes intense as they stared at her.
Rage simmered through her veins as he smirked at her.
Feyre glared at him as she took a large gulp of her margarita.
“You can’t leave me tonight.” Feyre told Mor, who looked at her mischievously.
— —
Mor was a horrible friend.
30 minutes later Rhysand approached them and Mor just had to double check the karaoke machine.
“There you are,” Rhysand said in a voice that was practically a purr. “I’ve been looking for you, Feyre Darling.”
Her stomach dipped as he said her nickname. His British accent just as lovely and attractive as ever.
“Don’t,” Feyre said in a cold voice, jamming her finger into his chest. “Call me that.”
His smirk grew, and the cocky expression on his handsome face irked her as much as it unraveled her. She wondered what the hell he saw in her face. She was never as good at masking her emotions as he was.
“You’ve always loved it when I called you that,” He dipped his head close to her — close enough that she could feel his damp breath on her cheek. “If I recall correctly,” Warmth flooded her veins. “You especially liked when I said it as you were coming all over my cock—”
“Stop—”
“Tell me, Feyre Darling, has anyone else been able to reach the spot deep inside of you?”
“Yes.” Feyre lied through her teeth.
“Liar.” Rhsyand said softly, his lips still upturned.
“Tamlin does,” Feyre continued with her lie, not breaking eye contact as she took another large sip of her drink. “He makes me forget your name. All the time.” I can only come if I imagine he’s you.
She thought a hint of fury passed through his eyes.
He licked his lips and Feyre hated how her eyes were drawn to the action.
“You’re with Tamlin?” Rhsyand asked in a flat, cold voice. He was close enough that Feyre could feel the tension radiating from his body.
“Yes.” Feyre replied, tilting her chin up to glare at him.
Rhys stole the plastic cup from her hand and finished it in one drink. Her eyes glassed a little as she looked at the way his throat worked. Fuck, she had a thing for necks. And she recalled so vividly how Rhys liked it when she bit him right next to his pulse — the first time she did it was on a whim, but it pushed him over the edge and caused him to come inside of her.
They were on his fucking yacht and had sex the entire weekend.
How the hell was she with a guy who had his own yacht?
“I bet he doesn’t even touch your clit,” Rhys said, taking a step towards her until her back was pressed into the counter, his arms caging her in. “Or go down on you at all. He’s a prick.”
True. Everything he said was true.
And yet she felt the need to defend her boyfriend.
“His cock is bigger than yours.”
Another lie.
His gaze darkened and his smirk fell.
“You’re a horrible liar, Feyre Darling.”
“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
“Because the thought of him sticking his tiny prick inside of you makes me want to flay the skin from his bones.”
Feyre bit her lip.
“Why do you care so much?” Feyre asked, her face pulling towards his.
“Because I remember how fucking wet you were coming on my cock over and over again, Feyre Darling, and your sweet little pants as you stretched around me. And how fucking insatiable you were riding me all night long,” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, causing her to shiver. “I’m the best you’ve ever had.”
True.
“How the hell did we have room for your ego in our relationship?”
Feyre glared as his lips fell back into a smirk.
“I bet you’re wet right now.” Rhys said, and Feyre felt her cheeks burn.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Mor’s boisterous voice echoed through the microphone.
Feyre recognized the music and lyrics instantly.
Mariah Carey’s Fantasy.
Feyre felt herself smiling, the song fit her friend perfectly.
With two hands, she pushed Rhysand away from her and muttered, “I need another margarita.”
The sound of Rhys’s laughter grated on her nerves and set her on edge — especially because she could feel how wet her panties were.
She was grateful Mor only knew how to make strong margaritas. And she was also incredibly grateful that Mor thrived in the spotlight because it meant that no one could see her skulking in the corner.
Mor crooned the words, “But it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby - When I close my eyes, you come and take me - On and on and on, it's so deep in my daydreams,” and twisted her body to the music in a way that captured everyone’s attention. And there was one brunette that Mor was making eyes at, and Feyre knew Mor was going to go back with her tonight.
Leaving her their apartment.
Feyre took another swig of her drink and grimaced when she found it was empty, so she filled it up again. By the time Mor finished her song, Feyre was half way done with her third margarita when her blonde friend pointed to her.
“Feyre,” Mor sung her name into the microphone. “It’s your turn.”
Feyre was ready to shake her head and run out the door, but she saw Rhysand smirking at her and raising his eyebrows in a challenge, Feyre quickly finished her drink and walked to where Mor stood on a makeshift stage. She didn’t even know how her roommate got it into their apartment without her knowing, and the sparkling disco ball that hung over the stage came close to smacking her in the head.
She took the mic from her friend and slowly scrolled through the songs until she found the perfect one.
The opening notes sounded through the room and her eyes clashed with violet ones as she sang, “You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht,” She hated the fact that he had an actual fucking yacht. “Your hat strategically dipped below one eye - Your scarf it was apricot,” She gestured to the imaginary clothes dramatically and rolled her eyes as she moved. “You had one eye in the mirror, as you watched yourself gavotte,”
She noted the exact moment that recognition dawned on his face — it was accompanied by his brothers laughing and playfully punching him in the arms.
Her hips moved with the beat of the song, popping to the side as she sang, “And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner - They'd be your partner and,” A smirk stretched across his face as she danced like she was Kate Hudson from How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days. “You're so vain - You probably think this song is about you - You're so vain (you're so vain) - I bet you think this song is about you - Don't you don't you?”
The bastard brought his hands up and brought them together — he was slow clapping at her. Douche, Feyre cursed silently, hating that he was enjoying this.
“You had me several months,” She intentionally changed the lyric, but the venom that laced her voice was unplanned. “Ago when I was still quite naive - Well you said that we made such a pretty pair and that you would never leave,” If it wasn’t for the copious amounts of tequila, then she would have moderated her voice. “But you gave away the things you loved - And one of them was me,” She placed her hand on her chest and bowed dramatically, showing off her cleavage just slightly and she watched as Rhys’s violet eyes followed. His jaw clenched. “I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee clouds in my coffee and,” Her hips popped with the song, and she grinned hearing everyone singing along. Everyone but Rhys. “You're so vain- You probably think this song is about you - You're so vain,” Even Azriel and Cassian were singing along — Cassian cupping his hands and sang with the booming voice. Azriel may have just been mouthing the words, but a win was a win.
Feyre continued to sing, loving how the tequila made her bold and brash even though she was certain she would be cringing with regret in the morning.
Her eyes narrowed as she spit out the lines, “Well you're where you should be all the time - And when you're not, you're with some underworld spy - Or the wife of a close friend wife of a close friend,” An image of him and Amarantha tangled in sheets flashed through her mind, fueling her anger.
Like a spark in an engine, the mental image of that old crone with her hands on Rhys sent her spiraling as she sang the last few lines of the song. “Probably think this song is about you - You're so vain.”
She didn’t call on someone else, she just set the mic down and marched into her room, avoiding eye contact with everyone in her path.
Feyre was vaguely aware of Cassian climbing onto the stage and making a show of selecting whatever song he was going to sing.
She closed the door behind her, but her neck whipped around when it opened two seconds later.
Rhys slid into her room and leaned against the closed door. His white shirt tight over his chest as he crossed his arms. The muscles on his arms straining against the fabric — the bastard probably did it on purpose.
He crossed one ankle over the other as he gazed at her.
“Feyre Darling,” He said in his lilting accent. “Did you really think I would let you get away with that?”
Feyre lifted a hand, pointing towards the door, and said, “Get out.”
He locked the door behind his back and pushed off of the frame, taking a step towards her.
She could hear Cassian begin his song through the door. It sounded suspiciously like Meat Loaf.
“I have a boyfriend.” Feyre said, dropping her hand as Rhys walked closer to her.
“And yet you sang to me tonight.”
Feyre rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips.
“I think you missed the point of the fucking song.”
“And I think you missed me.” Rhys said and he swooped his head down to her, but Feyre pushed him away.
“What the fuck are you doing,Rhys? You,” She poked his peck roughly, hating how his white upper teeth sank into his bottom lip to hide a smile. “Broke up,” She punctuated every word with her fingers on his chest. “With me.”
His violet eyes darkened.
“Because I had to, not because I wanted to.” His voice was unbearably soft.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You’ve gotten a potty mouth since we were together,” Rhys observed, and before Feyre could stop him he brought his hand to her face and brushed his thumb over her lips. “Your mouth is much too pretty for such dirty words.”
“I must have picked it up from Tamlin.” Feyre said, pouting as his thumb stilled on her lips.
“Then I’m going to fuck it out of your system.” Rhys growled, fury lining his face at the mention of her boyfriend.
“Oh, so it’s ok for you to say fuck?” Feyre narrowed her eyes, drawing out the word and putting extra emphasis on the k.
“Your mouth is going to be the first thing I fuck tonight.”
Feyre gasped as his hand moved from her mouth and tangled in her hair, tugging it sharply to angle her mouth directly under his.
She shivered, remembering how much he loved it when she took his cock into her mouth. He loved coming down her throat as Feyre looked up at him with wide blue eyes, especially with smeared makeup. And she knew it drove him crazy to watch her swallow.
“And your girlfriend?” Feyre said spitefully, unable to not throw it in his face.
His grip on her hair tightened.
“One day, love, I’ll tell you everything.” He said, his breath fanning over her face.
Agitation stung under the surface of her skin.
“You can tell me now,” Feyre said between her clenched teeth. “Or you can get out.”
“You don’t want me to leave,” Rhys placed his lips against her cheek and Feyre’s breath came faltering out of her lips, and he slowly moved down to her neck. His kisses burning a trail over her sensitive skin. “Or you would have kicked me out by now.” He said into her neck.
His tongue traced over her fluttering pulse.
“I tried.”
“That little fit? That’s our foreplay, Feyre Darling, you should remember that.” Rhys said as he moved his lips up her neck.
He was right.
He loved to heat her up and cool her down.
She was about to respond, but his lips dropped to hers.
Hot and needy.
Feyre felt her knees give out, but Rhysand’s free arm wrapped around her and brought their fronts together.
His tongue grazed the seam of her lips and Feyre parted her mouth, moaning as his tongue slid past her lips.
Breathlessly he pulled away from her and said, “I knew you missed me.”
Feyre rolled her eyes at his arrogance.
“There is one thing that I missed.” Feyre admitted and placed her palm against his hard cock over his black slacks.
Rhys chuckled lightly and said, “A rather large thing, really, darling, but then again you were always greedy when it came to my cock. You could never get enough.”
A rush of applause sounded through the door — Cassian must have finished his song.
“Did anyone see you follow me?” Feyre asked, finally registering the fact that there was still a party going on without them.
Rhysand gave her a bland, regal look.
“Do you really think this is my first time sneaking away for a tryst, love?”
Feyre glowered at him.
“It is with me.” She growled and roughly unbuttoned his shirt — a few of his buttons popping off and clanking as they landed. Feyre didn’t want to imagine how much they cost. They were probably made of platinum.
“Darling, don’t take your jealousy out on my Armani.” Rhysand said, laughter lacing his voice as he shrugged out of his shirt. He walked over to the side of her room where her desk laid and hung his shirt on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle.
He stepped out of his shoes, and then the clicking of his belt unbuckling filled the room, followed by the swishing of his pants.
And then he was naked in front of her and it became a little harder for Feyre to breathe.
Her mouth watered a bit at the sight of his erection — a little bead of liquid pooling at the tip.
He looked so fucking confident as he walked over to her, as if they were in his room.
“You know,” Feyre said, looking up at him. “My lock is broken. It only works like 50% of the time.”
Rhys placed two hands on her exposed arms and turned her around, his hand leaving her skin to remove her dress.
“I was never one to shy away from a little exhibitionism,” Rhys whispered into her ear as he unzipped her dress slowly. “Love, why the fuck are you wearing this rag? We break up and you lose all sense of fashion?”
Feyre rolled her eyes.
“I have more important things to spend my money on, like rent.”
She shivered as he nudged the sleeves of her shoulders and the dress pooled by her feet. Feyre stood in only her heels and little black lace thong — goose bumps pebbled her skin, but soon Rhysands large, warm hands covered her breasts. He pulled her back into his chest and Feyre bit her lip at the contact — his hardened chest hot against her back. She could feel his muscles straining against her. His thick dick pressing into the round globes of her ass.
“Feyre Darling,” He said, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, and he moved his hips against hers. “I can put you up in a lovely little townhouse. Apartment. Penthouse. Whatever you want. I can give you the loveliest clothes and jewels. All of your needs will be met,” He grasped her earlobe between his teeth and tugged sharply. “All the orgasms you want.”
Hurt pricked at her heart and the next words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“As your whore?”
Rhysand tensed as he processed her words — an arrow aimed straight for his heart, and a little worm of regret wiggled inside of her. Probably from the tequila.
“Of course not.”
“If you can give me all that, then why can’t we be together?” Feyre asked, looking over her shoulder at him to find his violet eyes burning brightly.
“We will be — one day. You need to trust me,” Rhys said in a harsh whisper as his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “Fuck, I missed having you in my arms.”
“I missed your touch.” Feyre admitted in a whisper and reached to claim his lips.
As they kissed one of his hands reached down to clasp between her thighs. He groaned against her lips and he muttered, “I fucking knew you were wet for me. I remember your needy little pussy. How my tongue and fingers were just never enough — you craved my cock. And you would get into such a cute little frenzy, coming over and over on my tongue and still desperate for more. My insatiable little love.”
“I love the way you feel in me.” Feyre said, leaning her head back on his shoulder as he worked her over her lacy thong. His other hand teasing her pink nipple.
Rhys dipped his head to kiss her neck.
“The first time we were together you came from my cock alone. All you had to do was take my entire cock and you drenched the bed from your orgasm.”
A gush of liquid seeped out of her and onto his hand — Feyre could feel him smirking against her neck.
“And now all you need are my words to come. Feyre Darling, don’t tell me my voice alone does it for you.”
“Your voice only does it for yourself, darling.” Feyre replied mockingly, and she delighted in the little chuckle that pulled from his lips.
“To be determined, my love.”
Feyre was about to respond, but the tearing of fabric and the friction of her panties being pulled against her clit caused a small scream to sound from her lips.
“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Rhys grasped her earlobe between his teeth and tugged. “Made of silk.”
“Sounds impractical.”
“I like the sound of silk when it tears, darling.”
His fingers were hot as they slid through her wet folds, teasing her bud.
“I can’t wait to be inside of your sweet pussy,” Rhys said hotly into her ear. “But first I want you on your knees.”
He twisted and maneuvered her body until she was kneeling in front of him, dressed in only her strappy black heels.
She remembered that he had a thing for them. For a brief moment she was stunned by how much she remembered about him, but soon became enamored by his erection bobbing in front of her eyes.
She hated that her mouth watered just by looking at it.
It bobbed in front of her long and thick and she longed to have it between her thighs, filling her up as he took her at a brutal pace.
Feyre roughly grabbed the base of his cock and used her tongue to trace the vein that ran the length of him. All the way until she got to the weeping head and swirled her tongue, collecting all the liquid that beaded at his tip.
His fingers pulled at her hair, enough for Feyre to feel slight stings on her scalp.
Her pussy clenched in response.
She looked up at him with wide eyes as her mouth wrapped around his head, her cheeks already hollowing out.
His sharp features were ridden with lust, and his eyes were burning bright as he gazed down at her and Feyre felt so fucking desireable.
Their eyes locked as Feyre slowly took more of him, and Rhys gathered her hair into his hand like a ponytail.
“Your mouth is so pretty wrapped around me,” Rhysand said, slowly starting to move his hips. “Isn’t this a better use of your mouth, darling? Rather than saying all those filthy words?”
Feyre narrowed her eyes at him and scraped over his skin with her teeth, delighting in the way he shivered at the contact.
“That wasn’t very nice, Feyre Darling. I’m going to show you the proper use of your mouth.” His voice was heavy with lust and he snapped his hips into her face, her nose nudging his pelvis.
Drool pooled down her chin as she choked on his cock, which was moving furiously in and out of her mouth. His balls slapping against her chin
Feyre was so turned on and drenched that liquid coated the insides of her thighs, loving how Rhys was slowly losing control and that it was because of her. He was always so annoyingly in control of how he appeared to others — always in a mask, showing people the arrogant prick he pretended to be. Well, mostly pretended to be. She saw the depth of him when they were together and it completely captured her heart. He was still an arrogant prick, but there was more.
She moaned around his hot cock, slippery from her mouth, and he held her mouth to the base of his cock as he shot down her throat — Feyre swallowed most of it, some of it falling down her chin as he pulled out of her mouth.
A line of spit connecting her lips to the head of his dick.
Her tongue collecting the smear of semen on her lips. She used the back of her hand to wipe away the drool on her chin.
Feyre panted with her hands on her knees, staring up at Rhysand and wondering what it was about him that drove her wild with lust. The thought of doing what they just did with anyone else made her want to shrivel up.
“Stop thinking.” Rhys said, helping her to her feet. Her knees wobbly like jelly and his lips claimed hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth.
Feyre moaned knowing he could taste himself.
When he pulled away Feyre said, “Tamlin makes me brush my teeth and rinse with Listerine before kissing me after—”
A hard slap cracked against her ass, and Feyre screamed in shock and pleasure. His hand roughly massaging her cheek to ease her stinging flesh.
“Don’t,” Rhys growled through clenched teeth. “Talk about him.”
“Jealous?” Feyre asked, wanting to provoke him.
“He doesn’t fucking deserve you.”
“And you do?”
“No,” Rhysand said, kissing her again. “But I’m fucking taking you anyway.”
He picked her up and tossed her on the bed — Feyre felt dizzy for a second before spreading her legs for him, her knees high as her heels dug into her quilt.
She didn’t care that he was seeing how soaking wet and ready she was for him. Didn’t care that it was probably stroking his ego in a way she would probably never hear the end of.
“Then fucking take me and make me forget about him.”
Rhys leaned over and placed one hand on the outside of her hip and he traced the fingers of his free hand over her exposed sex, playing with her and making a show of her wetness.
His lips turned up into a self-satisfied smirk as he plunged a long finger inside of her, and Feyre could feel herself desperately clenching at the contact. Wanting to tighten around something much bigger than his finger.
A strangled scream got caught in her throat as he curved his finger to hit the spot within her that only he knew about.
“They’re going to hear you, love.” Rhys said, preening at the fact that he was causing her restraint to slip.
“I can’t,” Feyre panted as he pulled out and slid two fingers inside of her, hitting her sensitive spot again. “Help it,” She tried to glare at him. “You know that.”
He always teased her about how vocal she was during sex, but the sounds went right to his cock and his ego. He loved her sounds, and he loved making her scream.
His smirk split his face as her hips ground against his hands, fruitlessly trying to take control of her own pleasure.
Rhys took pity on her and pressed his thumb into her swollen clit. His hand and her hips moving together as Feyre rode out her wave of pleasure.
As soon as she fell limp and sweaty against her bed Rhys slid up her body and aligned his hard cock against her dripping, glistening cunt. One arm propped next to her head and one hand gripping her plush thigh.
The round head of his cock slipped through the puffy lips of her pussy and nudged at her entrance.
Feyre watched as his teeth bit his lip as he slowly sunk into her, her hands came up to grip his tight ass, pushing him further into her stretching cunt.
“Yes.” Feyre said in a breathy moan, feeling deliciously full as his cock filled her to the hilt, her eyes falling shut.
She waited for him to move, to start thrusting in and out of her in the way that she liked, to lift her hips in the way that altered her universe.
He stayed still.
Feyre opened her eyes to see Rhysand gazing down at her.
“I want you to remember this Feyre,” He said in a dark, full voice. “How fucking perfectly I fit inside of you. Feel that no other man’s cock can have you squirming with need and satisfy you at the same time.”
He pulled out and pushed back in, tilting her hips in the way she desired.
“This is the only cock that belongs between your legs, Feyre Darling.”
One of her hands reached up and slid into his hair, gripping it tightly in a way that made him grin.
“Mine is the only pussy for you.” Feyre muttered as she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts — urging him to go faster. Harder.
“Possessive, love?” Rhys smirked, quickening his pace as her hips bucked against his.
“Yes,” Feyre admitted, tightening her grip in his locks. She loved making a mess of his hair. “I hate thinking about you and her. Together.”
Rhys growled and adjusted his position, gaining more leverage on the bed and thrusting harder.
Feyre gasped at the movement and opened her legs wider.
He grabbed one of her legs and bent it to her chest before placing it over his shoulder. Her heel sticking up in the air.
She cried out as he hit deeper inside of her — his hips creating a delicious friction as they ground against hers. “I pretend she’s you,” Rhys whispered harshly into her ear. “It’s the only way I can do it.”
Feyre gasped and clenched around his cock as he drove into her.
Their flesh coming together sounded through her room, wet and sharp and frantic.
His sweat slicked chest leaned closer to hers, pulling her leg back further and causing him to go deeper.
“Harder.” Feyre gasped, overwhelmed with how tight and full she felt — her nails unintentionally digging into his skin which caused him to grunt, his hips faltered as he drilled into her harder.
“I’m gonna come.” Rhys grunted, his hips pumping faster. He looked at her with a question in his eyes and Feyre said, “Come inside of me. I want to feel you,” Feyre brought his head down so that their foreheads were touching and stared him in the eyes as she tightly, intentionally clenched around him. “I need to feel you.”
Feyre turned her head so that her lips were on his neck. Her teeth right next to his pulse as she bit down.
Rhys shuddered as he pushed forward again, the walls of her pussy clenching his cock as he came deep inside of her — shallowly rocking against her. He brought his hand between their hips and pressed his thumb against her aching clit, so that both of them were coming at the same time.
He pulled back, and fell onto the bed next to her, breathless.
Their sweaty bodies pressed against each other, and their heavy, humid pants were loud in the air
“Feyre Darling,” Rhys said, and Feyre turned her head to find him already gazing at her. “I hope you didn’t think that was it for tonight.”
— —
They didn’t sleep.
Rhysand took her two more times before the early morning sun started to stream through her windows — and it wasn’t until Rhysand pushed off the bed that Feyre realized she was drifting off.
“You’re leaving.” Feyre said, her eyes gliding along the length of his bronze body. Tucking away the mental image so she wouldn’t forget — She took note of every mark she left on him. The claw marks down his back. The half-moon indents on his ass cheeks. The purple love bite on his throat.
“Believe me,” Rhys said, walking over to her desk and picking up his pants from the night before. “I would rather stay in bed with you all day.”
“You can.” Feyre blurted out as she sat up, clutching her quilt and sheets to her chest. Suddenly feeling shy.
Rhys turned to face her fully, his cock shamelessly on full display. His abs well defined and tight and Feyre found herself wanting to lick them.
She quickly looked away and accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed.
Rats nest. She could hear her mothers voice in her ear venomously whispering about her hair, tangled and messy from the friction of her pillow. Her full smoky makeup smeared black around her eyes, and lipstick stained on her lips and chin.
She cursed herself for letting Mor do her makeup.
“You look beautiful, Feyre Darling.” Rhysand said as he stepped into his pants.
“I look—”
“Well and truly fucked,” Rhys smirked as he shrugged into his shirt. “By me.”
Feyre fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Her nails nervously picking at a stitch on her quilt.
“What happens now?” Feyre asked, gazing at him and tucking her chin onto her bent knees.
He stared at her for a moment, tucking his shirt into his pants before finding his belt.
He looked absurdly good on no sleep — his black hair deliciously tousled, and a heady warmth spread through her knowing she was the one who tousled his hair. And his skin perfectly tan and even, not even purple smudges under his eyes.
Rhys looked like a fucking cologne ad.
Feyre could see him on the page of a magazine modeling for some overpriced scent that smelled like sex and citrus. He did always smell good. But he didn’t need the money.
He took a step closer to her after putting his shoes on, and as he approached her he lifted her face to look up at him. His fingers touching her chin delicately.
“What happens now is that you trust me, Feyre Darling. Even though you shouldn’t.”
Rhys brought their mouths together and Feyre felt a bit of her anxiety melt away.
“When will I see you again?” She asked.
“You still have my number?” Rhys asked and Feyre nodded in confirmation. “I’ll call you, but there is something I need you to know, love,” Rhys laid his forehead against hers, and Feyre felt her heart stop and tumble into her stomach at the intensity of his gaze. “I’ll be thinking about you the entire time we are apart.”
——
Tagging: @sakurakittypeach @nikethestatue @tswaney17 @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @feyredarlinq @alwayssara @nyxreads @rinadragomir @secretpuppyflower @captainbrucebanner @ultadverb @irisesforelain @shedoessoshedoes @magnolia-blossom87 @sheena-beene @nivem565 @casuallivi @rhysiedarling @elain99 @athena-85 @swankii-art-teacher @reverie-tales @jujugirlfrombookstore @shadowflorecita @shy-violet-soul
Feysand Month Day 18: Love Languages
The five love languages of Feysand
Just a teeny tiny mini glimpse of angst at the end. REST IS FLUFF
Words: 1,800
TW: mention of death, mention of nightmares, implied depression
It's Love Language day for Feysand!
Acts Of Service
Feyre Darling Rhys spoke into Feyres mind. She groaned and pulled the blankets higher. They took time for themselves today and that included sleeping in. A loving caress followed through the bond when she didn't answer. She let her adamant walls down a little bit for her mate.
What? she asked him.
I got your favorite crossaints
Feyre opened her eyes. The chocolate ones?
She felt Rhys's amusement as he answered. Yes, and I am fighting for my life down here because Cassian and Mor want to get their hands on them.
Feyre threw her blankets aside and jumped up. She didn't care that she was still in her nightgown. She already heard Cassian and Rhys from the corridor as she hurried towards the dining room.
"She's not eating all of them!" Cassian whined.
"If she wants them all, she gets them all!" Rhys answered.
Feyre entered the dining room, smiling at her mate. He held the box with the croissants away from Cassian. "Good morning." she said to Azriel, patting his shoulder as she walked past him. He was watching the spectacle from the other side of the table.
Feyre took the box from Rhys and squeaked excitedly when she opened it. She took two crossaints out and put it on her plate and then took another one and gave it Azriel because she knew when Cassian and Mor get the box, there won't be anything left for him. He smiled grateful at Feyre.
"Say please." she said when Cassian grunted. He squinted and then said "Please." Feyre raised her eyebrow. "Can I please have the box, Feyre?"
She smiled satisfied and handed him the croissants.
"Don't empty them all, you wild animal!" Mor complained.
Feyre chuckled as she took her seat beside Rhys.
"I'm not! I'm looking for the best ones!" Cassian replied, turning his back to Mor.
Feyre bit in her croissant and grinned at her mate. "Did you wake up early to get me croissants?"
"Well, they would have been gone later." he replied. Feyres grin widened and she laid her head on his shoulder. "I love you."
Quality TIme
Feyre tried to paint. She had a great idea and she was motivated to paint it. At least when she entered her studio an hour ago. Then she started to think about Rhys and that she wanted to spend time with him. Feyre tried to tell herself that she would spend time with her mate when she was done but she barely had any progress because her mind always went back to him.
After another hour without any progress she put down her paintbrush and sighed. Before she went to Rhys, she went up to their bedroom and grabbed the book that she had started a few days ago and she wasn't far into the story yet. She left the bedroom again and went back to his office.
He raised his head, looking up from the paperwork before him, watching at her. "Hey." he smiled.
"Hey." she smiled back, sitting down on the couch closest to him. "Continue." Feyre said and gestured to the papers on his desk. "I'll just read my book."
Feyre opened it and as she started to read, Rhys asked. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes." she answered. "I just want to be here. Does it bother you?" she looked up at him.
Rhys shook his head and smiled. "No, not at all."
Feyre grinned. "Alright." she said and continued to read her book. They didn't talk at all while they were together but it didn't bother either of them. They were just glad to be near the other. Content with their company. While she was there with Rhys she managed to read almost the whole book.
Physical Touch
Rhys let himself fall on the couch right beside Feyre and laid his head on her shoulder. "I love doing paperwork for hours." he said sarcastically. Feyre giggled and took his hand, starting to massage it. He sighed in content as she did so.
He watched Feyre as she massaged his hand, finger after finger. "That's nice." he said. Feyre kissed the top of his head and continued. When she was done with one hand, she started on the other. "What is Mor doing by the way? I didn't see her all day." Feyre said.
"I think Cassian lost a bet and he has to accompany her on her shopping trip." Rhys snorted. Feyre giggled in response. "I bet Mor is having a great time."
Rhys chuckled and looked up at her. Their eyes met and they just looked at each other for a moment, in silence. Feyre smiled and squeezed his hand, Rhys squeezing it back.
She let his hand go and put her arms around him, cuddling him. Rhys laughed when she pressed kisses on his cheek.
Gift
"Rhys!" Feyre yelled through the house when she arrived home again.
"Yes?" he asked from the living room. Feyre winced, she had expected him to be in his office. Or in the garden. Or bedroom. She quickly hid the book behind her back and went to her mate, stopping at the doorway. She smiled brightly at him. Rhys squinted his eyes and looked her up and down. "What did you do?"
"Why do you think I did something?" Feyre asked. He took a sip of his tea, watching her closely. "Where were you?"
Feyre grinned, tightening the grip on the book behind her back. "Outside." she answered.
Rhys put his cup down and crossed his arms, letting out am exaggerated sigh. "Feyre darling, what do you hide behind your back?"
"Nothing." she said. She didn't stop grinning as she said it. "Okay, maybe I found something."
Rhys started smirking. "What did you find?"
"Well, I went outside- wait, no. First, do you remember when you told me about the book you want but can't find?" she asked.
"Which one?"
"The one with the dead author."
"Male or Female?"
"Male."
"Which one?"
"The dead one."
"Which book?"
"The book with the dead, male author."
"Which one?"
Feyre giggled. "The leather book."
Rhys tilted his head.
"The one you talked about for two hours." Feyre said.
"Oh, yes. I remember that one. Why?" he asked.
Feyre grinned. "You sounded so excited that I started looking for it."
Rhys's smirk turned into a soft smile. "That's very kind of you, my love, but I already looked everywhere. Not even Helion could help me there."
"I know, I expected that." Feyre replied. "But I assumed you knew about the book because you held it in your hands at a point in your life."
"I did." Rhys confirmed.
"And I assumed it might have belonged to your family." Feyre said.
"It did, I don't know what happened to it." he confirmed again.
Feyre nodded. "Remember when you threw me into the weavers cottage?"
Rhys cringed. "Yes?"
"And how I professionally retrieved my own engagement ring?"
"I remember that you were climbing through a chimney." Rhys said.
"Well it was that or getting eating alive but that's not the point." Feyre said. "I used my professional retrieving skills and found-" she pulled the book from behind her back and held it up. "-this!"
Rhys jumped up, gasping. "You found it?"
Feyre jumped up and down excited. "I did! I found it!"
Rhys was there in an instant, picking her up. Feyre laughed as she threw her arms around him. He put her down again and took the book, taking a look inside. "It's the very same book. It still has the note I left in there." he said, astonished. He looked at Feyre in disbelief. "I-"
Feyre chuckled at his loss of words. He hugged her again. "Thank you."
Words of Affirmation
Feyre couldn't sleep again. She didn't have nightmares in a while but before she went to sleep she suddenly had a bad feeling. She ignored it, blamed it on the long day she just had until she woke up, coated in sweat and tears streaming down her face. Rhys was with her, rubbing her back and whispering to her as she calmed down. When they went to bed again, Feyre couldn't sleep anymore. She waited until Rhys's breath evened out before she carefully wriggled out of his embrace and went to their balcony. She welcomed the cold air of the night on her skin, breathing it in.
She sat down on one of the iron chairs. The only thing she was wearing was a thin nightgown, so the cold of the iron bit her skin as it met the chair but she didn't care.
Feyre heard his footsteps a few seconds before he opened the glass door. She smiled at him but it wasn't convincing enough she realized when she saw the look in his eyes. Rhys sat down in the chair across from her. "I can't sleep." Feyre said. He nodded.
"Rhys," Feyre looked down at her hands. She was about to say what she tried to ignore for some time now. Feyre rubbed her eyes and sighed. "I feel heavy again." she whispered. Tears were burning in her eyes that Feyre blinked away.
She stretched out her hand to take Rhys's. "I'm sorry for telling you just now but I-" she shrugged. "I didn't really acknowledge it for myself until now."
Rhys took her hand between both of his hands. "Don't apologize." he said. "You're talking to me now, right? You're talking about it." he smiled at her. "Can I help you somehow? Just say the word."
Feyre shook her head. "No, you can't do anything. Just-" he looked at her, expecting. "Just stay. Please."
He knew what she meant. Feyre saw the realization in his eyes, why she worded it like this. After yet another dream of him dying. Another dream of her holding his lifeless body.
Rhys nodded and crouched before her, wiping the tears from her face. The tears Feyre hadn't realized escaped. "I will." he said, tears lining his own eyes. "I love you, Feyre. I love you so much." Feyre leaned her head into his hand as he spoke. "You will get through this and I won't leave your side. I'll stay with you every step of the way and everything that comes after."
"I'm scared." she whispered.
"I know." Rhys said. "But we won't let the fear win, right?" he smiled when she nodded. "I'm so incredibly proud of you."
Feyre leaned forward and hugged him. Keeping him close to her. When they went back to bed, Rhys stayed awake and told her stories as he held her close to him, cuddled under the protection of his wing. He didn't stop telling her stories until she finally fell asleep, with her head on his chest. Over his heart.
Taglist: @reverie-tales @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 @feysand-month @elentiyawhitethorn
A Bad Nightmare
Summary: A post-canon fic where, in the middle of the night, sixteen-year-old Nyx wakes from a terrible nightmare about his parents and seeks them out to make sure his nightmare is only that—a nightmare.
Notes:
- For Feysand Month's A Bad Day Prompt
- Inspired by @shallyne's post.
- One Shot
Word Count: 1373
Fluff and Angst
.
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Nyx stared up at the ceiling and at the host of stars shooting past that were summoned from the darkness he unleashed, willing his breathing to even out. He had woken in a cold sweat with clammy hands from a nightmare he never wishes to revisit. He was thankful that he only opened his eyes to find his room pitch black from the darkness seeping from him, devoid of any stars until he called them forth, and that he did not find his sheets burning from an uncaged fire with smoke filling up the room. That had happened once when he was a child, and his parents rushed in, terrified for his safety. He didn't want to worry them. It was just a nightmare—a nightmare of them in peril.
Sitting up, he rubbed his hands on his face, trying to wipe away the memory of his dream before it seared into his brain. He dreamt of a faceless, crimson-haired female cackling as his parents were pulled under the sacred mountain defenseless and bleeding, their limbs bound by ancient chains draining their magic while their weakened, beautiful wings were out and torn as they were being pinned to the cave walls. And where was he? He was soaring above Velaris, screaming and cursing as he wrestled against the magic prohibiting him from leaving and the last order they gave that kept him inside. He was tossing out all his powers to the invisible shields protecting the city, but it was useless as he was ordered to stay put with the rest of their family and banned from going after them. He was in complete and utter agony as he watched through his daemati powers, his parents sacrificing themselves once again for what they valued most: their family and court.
He sighed. He was sixteen years old, a youngling still by Fae standards, but he was grown up. He shouldn't be so afraid of a nightmare, even if that nightmare painted a scene of him losing both his parents at once. His heart thundered at the thought of the possibility of it happening in real life, and he abruptly got up from bed. He smoothed his rumpled pajamas from his tossing and turning and stretched his wings wide before tucking them back in.
"Maybe I'm not so grown up after all," he groaned, wiping away the darkness from his room. His parents had decided that afternoon to tell him their complete story of how they came to be together, and it's not a stretch to say he wasn't prepared for all the revelations and was outright shocked and devastated about all his family had endured in their lifetime.
"We can't always protect you from the truth, son. It's time you knew our family's history before someone else tried to use it against you," his father warned.
"We made sacrifices, my love, and we'll do it all over again if it means we get to be where we are now with you," his mother vowed.
"Thank you for telling me; I love you both," he promised them.
"We love you more," they declared.
Taking a sip from the glass of water his doting mother always leaves for him on his nightstand, "I need to see them," he told himself. "Just to make sure they're safe and sound," he decided and darted out of his room and into the hallway.
As Nyx walked towards his parents' room, he cleared his mind of the nightmare in case any of them were snooping. It would be so like them to snoop, especially his father. And if he were honest, he had the predisposition to be a snoop as well. He knew he could have checked on his parents' well-being mind-to-mind, of course, but he wanted to see and hear them with his very own eyes and ears.
Passing an open window he gazed outside upon the peeping moon high above the night sky indicating it was midnight. Maybe it wasn't such a brilliant idea he thought to disturb his parents this late but just the same he kept walking toward their room.
Upon reaching their door, his head tilted to one side as he could hear their steady heartbeat and breathing across the other side soothing his worrisome heart. They were awake he could tell and for a moment his hand hovered in the air as hesitated to knock as he shuddered thinking of one possible reason why his so unbearably in love parents could be up so late crossed his mind. He didn't want to be walking in if they were in the middle of the act.
And as if summoned by his thoughts, he felt the familiar presence of his father in his mind, realizing he left his walls down that he easily slipped through.
"Don't worry son, we're decent. You can come in," his father said into his mind, his voice coated in amusement.
"Okay, Dad," he replied in relief, building up his walls and entering the room.
His mother in a silk robe instantly rushed over to him, acting on pure motherly instinct, and cupped his cheeks. "Oh sweetheart, what's wrong?"
Nyx could have burst into tears at how comforting his mother's concern for him was, but he held it in. She always knew when something was troubling him, even if he didn't show it on his face. "I had a bad nightmare, Mom."
His mother frowned. "Show it to me, show it to us both," she said, herding him towards the bed where his father sat waiting with wings out and furrowed brows wearing dark pajamas much like his own.
Sitting down, grateful to be sandwiched in between both his mother-henning parents, he nodded. "It's really awful. Are you sure?"
His father placed a hand on his shoulder. "I assure you, Nyx, that your mother and I have experienced worse nightmares. Go on," he said to him while his mother smiled encouragingly.
And so he lowered his mental walls and let his parents see every detail of his nightmare from start to finish. He visibly saw both of his parents flinch at the gruesome parts and intertwined their hands together in solidarity, their eyes silverlined.
"I'm sorry. I should have never shown you," he apologized, hugging his parents closer as his own eyes turned teary-eyed. "I just really wanted to see that you're both here and okay. I was terrified I lost you."
"You have nothing to apologize for, Nyx," his mother said, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. "We always want to know what plagues you, and we're happy that you came to us."
"Trust me, son; opening up about our nightmares makes it easier to let them go. I'm proud of you for being brave enough to show it to us," his father said and then ruffled Nyx's hair just like when he was a child, causing him to smile.
"Thank you," he replied, because he did feel much better after sharing it with them. "I know I'm too old for this, but can I stay with you for the night?" he asked his parents, not wanting to leave them and resting his head on his mother's shoulder.
Both his parents' eyes sparkled with starlight as they smiled at him. "Yes," they both quickly answered.
When Nyx slipped into bed with his parents, having vanished his wings with his magic so he would be more comfortable in the middle, he was easily drifting to sleep tucked under the warm and cozy sheets when he heard his parents whisper a few words to him.
"Good night, Nyx," they said together.
"Remember you're never too old to stay with us, our darling son," his father's voice drifted to him, followed by his mother's saying, "And you will always be our most loved baby boy."
Having heard those words and being cocooned by their unwavering love, he murmured, "Good night, mom and dad," before falling asleep with the knowledge that his parents were safe and sound with him. And for the rest of the night, he dreamed of no nightmares but of them teaching him to build his very first snowman as a baby, a memory he cherished in his heart.
Thank you for reading! 🥰
🌻Masterlist
Tagging friends who might like to read it: @the-lonelybarricade @msfeyredarling @sideralwriting
Barely an Ember
A little something for @feysand-month Day 6: Obsession.
Rhys’ POV. Set during early ACOMAF.
And the hope crept in, having no permission to do so…
He felt like a complete and utter prick.
He supposed it was, after all, her preferred pet name for him. She’d shout it at him within her mind so loudly he couldn’t help but be barraged by those angry thoughts, even when she never uttered a word.
Prick! Prick, prick, prick!
But when he had felt her panic on the other side of that bond— the sheer terror coursing its way down that undeniable link between their souls— he couldn’t help but winnow right to the bottom of that rose petalled isle. He wasn’t even fully aware of what he was doing until he was there, arriving theatrically in an unnecessary clap of loud thunder.
The Mother knew he could sneak up on anyone almost as stealthily as Azriel. But no, in that moment, he wanted to be heard. Wanted to make it a show. Needed to make it easier for her. To make it believable that she had no choice but to be taken by him. That it was not her that had pleaded for someone— anyone— to come and end the fiasco that was her own wedding. To stop it, to save her.
He had to play his part well; the act he had perfected over the centuries, and the only version of him anyone outside of his Inner Circle knew.
The mask of the arrogant, dangerous, High Lord of Night slipped on all too easily as he made a show of straightening his lapels and sliding his hands into his pockets irreverently. The insolent smirk that slid into place was second nature as he made a dramatic show of coming to claim his prize, the bargain he had struck with the bride of Spring finally being called in to debt, opportunistically crashing the wedding of his nightmares. It was time. He would never tell a soul he was simply fulfilling her wishes.
His thoughts stilled, a jarring concept once again plaguing his mind. He had found his Cauldron blessed mate, only for her to be the bride of fucking Spring.
He chuckled humourlessly, the dark sound rasping from between chapped lips, his mouth dry as a bone. What an utterly cruel twist lady fate had delivered. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. After all, villains never got their happily ever after.
And now she sat up in the open halls of his moonstone palace, high atop that mountain he loathed with his entire being.
But she was here, in his territory. With him. He would gladly share every corner of it with her one day, if she ever stopped hating him. Because hate him, she did. She thought of him exactly as the rest of the world did. Abhorrent, evil, a torturer. A monster.
He didn’t have to reach into her mind to feel her fear down the bond, she truly thought him detestable.
She wasn’t all wrong but it still didn’t stop him from hoping.
Hope.
It seemed as soon as Feyre had come into his life, he had found himself hoping more often. Hoping for Prythian’s triumph, for a future, for freedom. As a fragile human, Feyre had entered Amarantha’s court and reintroduced him to the prospect of survival when he had just about given up.
When she had called— no, begged for help on the day of her wedding— that glimmer of hope had sparked again, this time leaving him wondering if he may not have lost her forever. It was short lived but… that tiny glimmer of hope still glowed quietly in his chest, like an ember fighting the fierce winds to remain alight. Fighting to not be snuffed out by those suffocating, pollen thickened, spring winds.
Spring. He couldn’t wait to leave as soon as he’d arrived. The very air in that Court itself made his skin itch. He hated it there. Despised it. But he’d been hating it less since he’d found her within that rose covered manor.
The chance to see just a glimpse of her was worth the discomfort, the traumatic memories, the anguish those halls bought upon him. He’d never dreamed he’d ever be leaving with her. But she had come, somewhat willingly, even though she tried in vain to deny it.
Now, she sat in the open aired parlor of his palace. The light in her eyes just a little less dim…
Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord
Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord
Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord
Like the bastard he was, he had made her write out line after insipid line. Day after day. His only hope being she would one day believe those lines she was beginning to perfectly render.
He already knew she was intelligent, and brilliant, and beautiful, and powerful beyond measure. That temperamental beast didn’t know how fucking lucky he was. He didn’t know what a treasure she was, just how far out of both their leagues Feyre truly was.
But, she did not love him. Did not even like him. Hence why he had kept his distance this past week. If she did not seek him out, he would leave her be. Leave her to heal. She hadn’t been eating or sleeping, and that bastard did nothing to help her. He knew her nightmares were bad, they would haunt him too, Feyre unwittingly forcing them down the bond as she slept. But when he had gazed upon her in that ridiculous dress, engulfed by layer upon layer of ivory tulle and chiffon…it may as well have been a noose around her throat.
She was suffocating. Drowning in her own self-deprecating thoughts. That much was clear. She was drowning in that dress and in that court and that insipid priestess did nothing to help. Nor did her… fiancé. His mind choked on the word, his face contorting into a sneer.
A growl rumbled in his chest, trying in vain not to shatter the crystal tumbler he grasped in his hand, the expensive whiskey within like burnished gold.
He’d go to the ends of the earth for her. Defy every god only for her to look upon him with anything other than scorn and contempt. And not only because she was his mate. He knew that often meant very little in determining one’s happiness. No. He had seen glimpses of the Feyre that dreamed. Of the Feyre that fought and slaughtered and threw herself into the deepest pits of hell for those she loved, for those she believed deserved a voice.
She was a dreamer, trapped in a nightmare.
If only she knew how similar they were. How similar she was to his entire family, his Inner Circle. The ones he’d fought for and whored himself for, the ones he had cloistered away from the rest of the world and hidden behind a veil of his own making for forty-nine years. Not able to know simply if they were still alive. It tormented for half a century, wondering every second of their time apart if they were all okay.
He'd do it all again for them, too. And for her.
He sighed, swallowing another deep swig of his whiskey, hopeful the amber liquid would burn away his wretched feelings of obsession.
Love. He had no business loving her, but he knew he would spend forever doing so. It didn’t matter if she loved him back or not. His fate was sealed. He’d found his mate, but he’d loved her long before he’d found her.
His mate.
But… It wasn’t his mate that he loved. It was Feyre. Just, Feyre.
*******
A/N: I’ve never written feysand before so I hope I represented them well in this little offering. Not using my usual list but tagging a few people I think might like this ♥️ @ultadverb @fawnandshadows @reverie-tales @tswaney17
@unofficialfeysandmonth2022
Growing Up
Nyx at age 5
“Mama! Daddy! Look at this one! It’s as big as Mama’s belly!”
Nyx ran through the pumpkin patch, black hair swaying in the autumn breeze, his mother and father close behind him. Rhys looked at Feyre, worried that Nyx’s comment would upset her, but Feyre just laughed and Rhys swore it was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. Nyx didn’t understand all the changes taking place in his life just yet, but he was incredibly enthusiastic about meeting his baby sister. Unfortunately, the only way he seemed to realize how soon she’d be here was by how much Feyre had grown. He didn’t want Feyre to ever think that she was anything less than ethereal while she was carrying his child. He knew she was self conscious about how her body was changing, but Rhys loved her all the more for it.
Feyre was due to give birth any day now, and Rhys prayed to all the stars in the sky that it would be a simple and safe delivery. There had been complications when Nyx had been born and they hadn’t been sure if he would make it through that first night.
Now Rhys watched as his wife crouched down next to Nyx and the giant pumpkin. Feyre seemed to glow as she kissed their son’s forehead and he couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to deserve the three miracles that were his wife and children.
“Is this the one you want, Nyx?” Rhys asked.
“Yes! Yes yes yes!” Nyx ran to his father and hugged him tightly around the legs. “But Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“Umm.. I think you have to help Mama stand up.” Rhys huffed a laugh and helped his wife back to her feet.
Nyx hugged Feyre around the legs as well and then pointed a finger at her stomach as if scolding it. His eyes, so much like Rhys’, were narrowed in annoyance.
“Stella. I know you’re new, so you might not know better yet, but you have to be nice to Mama. Don’t make her so tired.”
Feyre and Rhys shared a look as Rhys picked up their pumpkin and headed to the car.
As Rhys drove his family home, Feyre turned to Nyx and asked, “Did you have a good day, little prince?”
Nyx yawned and said sleepily, “I had the best good day.”
Rhys was sure he could never want anything more than this.
—--------------------------------
Stella at age 13
Rhys had the afternoon to himself for the first time in a while. Life with his wife and two children had a tendency to be quite hectic, not that he ever really minded. He loved his family and everything he did was to keep food on the table and smiles on their faces. Today was different, though. Nyx was starting college and had moved into the dorms at Prythian University, Stella was at a friend’s house for a sleepover, and Feyre was out of town for a relaxing weekend with her sisters.
Rhys had just gotten comfortable in his favorite chair to start reading when he heard the front door slam. Immediately, he was racing down the stairs and what he saw broke his heart in two. Stella was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, sobbing into her hands. Rhys had no idea what to say, so he sat beside her on the floor, put his arms around his daughter, and let her cry on his shoulder.
Stella was a kind and compassionate soul. She felt everything on a deeper level than most, and she took after her mother so much. While she might have had his black hair and golden-brown complexion, her nose and smile were all Feyre, not to mention the freckles. Both his wife and daughter were insanely creative and talented, and both of them held his heart in their hands. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his little girl.
“Tessa said she doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore,” Stella said once her tears slowed down. Rhys was shocked to hear that. Stella, Tessa, and Luna had been an inseparable trio until Luna moved to the city a few months ago. Rhys didn’t say anything, though. He just rubbed a soothing hand down her arm and waited for her to explain. “She said I’m too weird to be friends with her now that she’s a cheerleader. She said she can’t hang out with geeks like me anymore.” She took a shuddering breath as tears spilled down her cheeks again and Rhys didn’t know how to make it all ok. “I lost both of my friends this year. What am I supposed to do now?”
Rhys pulled his daughter in for a hug and told her, “There will be people who come into your life who won’t stay forever. It doesn’t make your relationships with them any less significant, and they all will teach you lessons about who you are and who you want to be. There will be friendships worth fighting to keep, and others that will bring you more peace to let go.” He pulled back to look in her eyes, one violet like his, and one gray like her mother’s. “You’ll find that the people worth fighting for are the ones who love and accept you as you are. It’s your choice, but it doesn’t seem like Tessa is one of those people.”
Stella was silent for a few minutes, thinking through what her father had said.
“Dad? Luna was always my friend, even though we liked different things. Should I fight for that friendship even though she’s gone?”
“Stella, if you want to be friends with Luna, don’t let the distance get in the way. It’s just an obstacle. Why don’t you call her and talk. Maybe we can arrange a weekend for one of you to visit the other. It’s only a couple of hours away, it shouldn’t be too hard to work out.”
Stella beamed and kissed her father on the cheek. “Thank you, dad. You’re the best. I’ll go call her right now!”
“Sounds good, pumpkin. When you’re done, why don’t I take you to that little book shop you like so much and we can get ice cream afterwards.”
“Sounds great dad!” She shouted back to him as she ran up the stairs.
No, Rhysand rarely had time to himself, but as a smile lit up his daughter’s face, he found he much preferred this.
—--------------------------------
6 years later
“Rhys! Look what I found!” Feyre was digging through the dozens of boxes in their attic. Now that both kids had moved out and had lives of their own, they decided to look back at all the keepsakes and photo albums to remember when their children were still little.
Rhys went to where Feyre was sitting on her knees on the dusty floor. The box she had opened was full of old home movies that Rhys had forgotten about.
“Feyre, darling, I think it’s time to bring out the old VCR,” Rhys said as he shuffled things around to find it.
Feyre laughed. “Do you realize how much Nyx and Stella would make fun of us for still owning a VCR?”
“But Feyre,” Rhys said, picking it up from where it had been hiding, “How else are we supposed to relive their childhoods? Now pick a tape and meet me downstairs.”
Twenty minutes later, they were comfortable on the couch and watching the video that Feyre had chosen at random. A much younger Feyre was sitting with their two kids, setting up paints at the kitchen table. Rhys glanced at his wife currently snuggled into his side, thinking she was still as beautiful as the day he’d met her. Looking back to the screen, Rhys took note of how old the kids were. Stella must have been almost four at the time. Already her hands were covered in paint while Nyx was trying to be more refined.
“Stella,” he said, exasperated. “This is how you hold a paint brush.”
Stella just giggled at her older brother and continued smearing paint around on her paper. Blue, purple and black.
“But now it just looks like a mess!” Nyx said, clearly frustrated.
At that moment Rhys passed the camera to Feyre while he went to stand between the kids.
“Nyx, sometimes people have different ways of seeing and doing things. Why don’t you paint a picture together and see what you can create?”
Nyx looked at the paper, the swirling colors staring back, and grabbed his brush again. Over what Stella had painted, Nyx carefully painted several stars and a crescent moon.
“Look, Mama! We made the night sky!” He held the paper up, proud of what he and his sister had made together.
“It’s perfect, love. When it’s dry, we’ll hang it on the refrigerator, ok?”
“Ok, Mama.” Nyx then turned to give his sister a big hug. “I love you, Stella. You’re my favorite person.”
“Love you, Nyx!” Stella shouted back.
Rhys smiled at Feyre who was still holding the camera until the screen went dark.
When Rhys turned to look at his wife again, he was not surprised to see the tears threatening to fall. He pulled her in close and kissed her forehead.
“We did a good job with those kids, didn’t we, Feyre, darling?” She smiled up at him, eyes bright.
“We really did, Rhys.”
Boy, you've been a naughty girl
...you let your knickers down.
Feyre Archeron does not offer joy freely, and someone wants it all to himself.
Feysand Month Day 3: Glances
Warnings: Smut, 9.4k
Beta'ed by @iambutmortal
Read on AO3 - Fic Masterlist
~*~
The throne room was bustling with life.
Its ornate silver chandeliers hung low, magically dimmed light scattering across familiar, onyx stone; fae danced and mingled in groups, voices raised to be heard over the pulsing music. The revel was in full swing: a festivity thrown solely for the newly appointed High Lord of Summer, who, together with his delegation, was travelling around Prythian to garner official acquaintance with the other Courts.
Feyre Archeron stood alone, tucked into one of the more secluded corners, nursing a goblet of wine. Anyone would think she was uninterested in the festivities, and they’d be right: dancing and participating in the tedious debauchery of Hewn City – even if it was, supposedly, a special night – was one of the last things on her mind tonight.
No, the only interest she could dredge up was aimed at her High Lord, who was seated above them all on his stupid, fancy throne. He’d swung one leg carelessly over the armrest while the other neatly followed the sharp edges of his seat, allowing the room a wonderful view of his clothed crotch. A goblet of flashy silver dangled from his long fingers, tilted precariously to one side.
All of her High Lord was visible from Feyre’s position, her view immaculate. His should be too, but she had chosen this spot carefully and was all but hidden from his heavy-lidded eyes.
All part of the game they’d played for years.
Nesta had called it a treacherous ego-boost when Feyre had confided in her, convinced it would get her killed. Their High Lord was well-known for his devilish demeanour, and should Feyre ever tire of their little play, he would chase and he would catch—and when push came to shove, he would maim.
Feyre knew this all too well. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t noticed that all of the unfortunate males who dared to touch her would vanish into the night after revels, never to be seen again. And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t as if she did not like it.
It was a losing battle to argue that toying with their High Lord’s precarious temper was part of the appeal. Feyre didn’t bother to mention Nesta’s own teasing brushes with danger, that she’d seen her sneak out to rendezvous with the Lord of Bloodshed when Nesta thought her sisters were asleep.
And, regardless of the hypocrisy, Nesta’s worries were all but unfounded. Rhysand had never truly touched her, though it was obvious he wished to. No matter how much his fingers twitched, no matter how much she silently encouraged him, he’d only ever trapped her against walls by caging her in; at most, his lips would ghost over her pulse point, hitching breath tickling her skin. Feyre was certain that, if she only thought the word, he’d listen.
She wished he wouldn’t.
With an annoyed twitch of her nose, Feyre brought the goblet up to her mouth and took a careful sip. The wine was sour, leeching saliva and leaving her tongue feeling dry. A particularly intoxicated female claimed it was a Spring Court specialty—Feyre had picked it based on the drunken enthusiasm, and because its crimson tint was a match to the colour she’d painted her lips with. What a disappointment.
She swirled the liquid around, scowling. In order to fetch a new goblet she’d have to saunter into Rhysand’s view, something she had not planned to do for at least another hour; that, and none of the attending fae were drunk enough to not pay her any mind. She did not wish to mingle.
But the wine was awful, and she was thirsty, and perhaps—
Earlier on in the night, Lord Tarquin had taken up Rhysand’s attention with a lengthy conversation that had included a lot of cocky grins. It had been a blessing of sorts: with Tarquin serving as distraction, Feyre had been able to avoid Rhysand’s heated gaze with ease if, and when, she decided to traverse through the sea of fae gathered in the hall. When Tarquin, accompanied by his delegation, eventually descended from the dais and disappeared into the mass of bodies, Feyre actually considered it a shame.
Especially considering Keir, the old bastard, had finagled his way into the spot Tarquin abandoned, ready to spout his usual nonsense and complaints. The smirk had slid off Rhysand’s handsome face within seconds and his gaze, that had barely drifted away from Tarquin before, begun to sweep over his semi-loyal subjects as he attempted to hide his boredom. It was likely he would be looking for her.
But the wine…
It took less than thirty seconds for Feyre to break and strut resolutely out of her secluded corner, a straight line for the refreshments.
Then a hand seized her dangling wrist.
“Pardon me,” a low, male voice breathed. “I did not know how to catch your attention otherwise.”
Feyre turned to stare whomever had the audacity to grab her down—and found their guest of honour staring right back.
All thoughts of chastising flew out of the window. Before he’d gone out to mingle, Feyre had been able to admire Lord Tarquin from her little corner. He’d been a sight for sore eyes then, but up close, he was extraordinarily beautiful: his face was as even as the Mother would allow, dark skin glowing in the faelight and eyes a wonderfully vibrant turquoise. His long, shiny hair was just a shade above ivory and looked strong and healthy. She wondered, briefly, if the ends would tickle if they brushed her skin.
She swallowed dryly, ignoring the pair of violet eyes burning holes in her back.
“I would just like to say,” the High Lord murmured, voice just loud enough to be audible over the music, “that you truly are the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen.”
Feyre’s eyebrows raised at his boldness, though she could feel a corner of her mouth turn up. “Thank you, my Lord.”
His eyes slid over her face, down to her barely concealed breasts. Feyre was not offended: she had purposefully chosen to wear one of her more revealing dresses tonight, a sheer, dark navy material with a high slit and a deep neckline, tailored to bring attention to the parts of her body she was proudest of. It was not for him, of course, but she did not fault him for looking.
Another male, though, possibly did.
Lord Tarquin swallowed roughly, dragging his gaze back up to hers with visible effort. “May I ask your name?”
“Feyre Archeron,” she answered, holding up her hand when he parted his full lips to speak. “I know who you are, my Lord. You’re rather recognisable.”
He grinned boyishly. “Am I?”
“Of course. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re not well known.”
“Is it because I am young?”
“It’s because you are handsome,” she said, watching his eyes widen and grin grow wider. He really had a lovely smile. “Not a rarity, but in addition to your position, quite interesting indeed.”
His laugh was low and pleasant to the ears, and it made him all the more handsome. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
Feyre suppressed a smile. “You should.”
“The Night Court truly is peculiar,” he said, shaking his head. “You are all so blunt: no matter how much I know Rhysand doesn’t tell, he still says it like it is.”
“We enjoy being straightforward at times, my Lord.”
“Then I hope my boldness won’t offend you,” he immediately retorted, smiling, “but you are taken?”
Feyre stiffened imperceptibly. It was a valid question: he was obviously interested in her, but did not wish to offend any fae who had already claimed her. And technically, none had; only Rhysand could count, but he had not done so officially.
And so, all she said was: “I am unwed, my Lord.”
“Oh?” he asked, boldly stepping closer with visible curiosity.
“My sisters and I have avoided it thus far,” she elaborated. “Our family is not of… particular political importance.”
“Lucky,” he murmured, mouth pulling into a charming grin. “A chance to wed for love.”
Feyre raised her eyebrows, amused. He was so young, still, so green—barely seventy, if she remembered correctly. Truly a child of Summer; especially considering he still entertained the idea of a marriage out of love.
“Sure,” she said. “I suppose we are very lucky indeed. At least we are not married to a male who sees us as broodmares.”
Tarquin nodded in genuine sympathy, though Feyre’s attention had scattered: from her peripheral, she could see the throne was suddenly empty. Her heart seized her throat—and deep down on her belly, excitement coiled itself into a sturdy knot.
“Lord Beron has lots of ideas like this as well,” Tarquin said, oblivious. “It is absurd to me. Though he does have many heirs to choose from, having children, blessed as they may be, does not take away from a female’s power or intelligence.”
“When Lord Rhysand is not looking, this Court thinks otherwise,” Feyre replied. “I assume you know what happened to The Morrigan?”
His mouth pulled into a thin line. “I did,” he admitted. “It is truly a shame this is how society works.”
“It is changing,” Feyre said. “Slowly, but it is changing. I long for the day when I can fuck whoever I choose, and there are no true social consequences.”
Tarquin’s eyebrows raised and his shoulders loosened. If he hadn’t been so dark skinned, and if the light hadn’t been so low, Feyre was certain she would have seen him blush. “That is quite the wish.”
Before Feyre could even think of a reply, the back of her neck started to prickle, and a wave of sea-salt and petrichor washed over her. Her breathing hitched, and when she stepped back to make room, a large hand drifted over her elbow as though to stop her.
Tarquin‘s eyes widened, the grin spreading across his face bright and excited. “Rhysand!”
“Tarquin,” Rhysand greeted, a heavy gaze flicking between the two of them. He shoved his hands into his pockets, smirking. “Are you enjoying the revel?”
“Most certainly,” Tarquin replied, and he shot Feyre a wink. Thankfully, the brief flare of Rhysand’s nostrils went unnoticed. “The members of your Court are incredible conversational partners; Spring and Autumn have nothing on you.”
“You tell Beron that, won’t you? He’d love to hear it.”
“And Tamlin won’t take offense?”
Rhysand snorted. “Tamlin takes offense to everything, Tarquin. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Tarquin barked out a laugh, eyes closed and head thrown back. Feyre’s eyes focussed on the lines of his throat without her permission; a talon of violent darkness brushed against her mental shields, scratching in warning, and Feyre yanked her gaze away.
“How is my Court?” Rhysand then asked. His smile was as charming as could be. “I am assuming it is quite a change for you.”
“It is very dark,” Tarquin replied, smiling. “But it is beautiful, especially taking the brief glimpses of the night sky into account. This has truly been a pleasurable visit so far.”
“Darkness is our speciality.” Rhysand’s violet eyes slid to Feyre, trapping her under his heated gaze. “Isn’t that so, Feyre darling?”
A challenge, or a boon. She never knew with him, when he was like this.
Feyre lowered her chin in a nod. “When you are born in the dark, it becomes your home. I cannot imagine living in constant sunlight.”
Tarquin tilted his head in unveiled curiosity; his white hair shifted, exposing one muscular, dark-skinned shoulder.
Feyre didn’t dare allow her eyes to linger.
“You wouldn’t truly?”
“I quite enjoy the darkness.” Feyre took a sip of her wine, unable to hide her distaste at its acrid flavour. “Have you explored the city yet, my Lord?”
“Haven’t had the chance, I’m afraid,” he replied. His grin widened, then, and he leaned closer. His scent flooded her nose, encircling her. “Would it be too much to ask of you to give me a tour?”
Feyre looked to the side, where Lord Rhysand stood. Though his stance was relaxed, mouth pulled in an amused tilt, his jaw had tensed. She could feel him against her mental shields, pounding, as though he had any sort of control of her—any sort of claim.
Feyre smiled, bright and dazzling. “If you wish, my Lord, I will. For you alone, of course.”
“Brilliant!” Tarquin called out, clapping an incredibly stiff Rhysand on the back. “And to think your Court terrifies mine—your kindness is truly a hidden gem. Should we meet tomorrow, Feyre?”
“You’ll have to give me some time to recover from the festivities,” Feyre said, ignoring the way Rhysand threw himself at her mental shields. “How does three in the afternoon sound?”
“Amazing, I look forward to it, genuinely.” His eyes twinkled with mirth and excitement. “Cauldron, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it—can I fetch you anything to drink?”
Feyre held out her goblet. “Anything but the red from Spring,” she said.
Tarquin nodded, already reaching for the cup—but then Rhysand snatched it.
“Let me,” he purred. “Feyre is a member of my Court, after all; why doesn’t she continue to… entertain you, Tarquin.”
Feyre raised her eyebrows, questioning, but Rhysand refused to meet her gaze. Tarquin, to his credit, only showed a little surprise; his eyes merely flicked between the two of them, before he nodded yet again.
“Alright,” he said. “She’s doing a good job of it already.”
Feyre couldn’t help the genuine smile from crossing her face this time. Tarquin blinked at her, a bit dazed; Rhysand huffed out a grating laugh and then turned on his heel, stalking towards the refreshments. The crowd parted for him without batting an eye.
Tarquin watched him go, a contemplative expression on his handsome face. “Are you sure you’re not claimed yet, Feyre?”
Her heart stuttered. “I am sure, my Lord.”
He hummed and smiled again, a bit crookedly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll have to believe you then, don’t I?”
“You will,” she agreed. “If a male has claimed me, he has done so without my explicit knowledge, and I do not count that as a claim.”
“I’ll have to take my chances, in that case,” he said, still smiling. Then he sidled a bit closer to her, reaching out for her back.
He pulled her closer to him.
“What—”
A particularly desperate couple barrelled past them, almost fused together. She’d been in the way, and they weren’t taking any note on where they were going. Knowing Hewn City faeries, she would’ve accidentally ended up in a fight.
“Thank you,” she breathed, shooting an offended glare at the two heated fae. “By the Cauldron—I can’t believe I forgot why I hate revels.”
Tarquin hummed again. “You do? I find this quite… fun, actually.”
“It will get significantly less fun as the Night drags on. It’s a miracle fae don’t end up dead more often.”
“Dead?”
“Only once every three years or so,” Feyre said offhandedly, watching as the taller male wrapped his legs around the shorter and started, in full view of every guest and the Mother, grinding on his partner like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Many get rather… aroused, which causes quite possessive behaviour. The sustained injuries rarely warrant a passing of a soul, though,” during the revel, “so do not worry.”
“Perhaps I should be,” Tarquin murmured, audibly amused.
Feyre was about to reply that he was a High Lord and he therefore had nothing to worry about, but then Rhysand appeared in front of them in a wave of shadow—empty handed.
“Your sister is looking for you, Feyre darling,” he drawled, eyes lingering on Tarquin’s hand resting on her lower back, politely touching only fabric.
His mouth tightened.
Feyre sighed. She wasn’t sure whether he was being truthful; then again, both Elain and Nesta could be quite insistent.
“It wasn’t my business, of course, so I do not know why. But I did promise to fetch you,” he continued. He inclined his head. “Are you coming?”
“Ehm—” she glanced at Tarquin, shooting him a grimace. “Sorry, it’s just…”
Tarquin’s eyebrows shot up, but he released her with an easy smile. “It’s fine. I’ll have you to myself tomorrow, anyway. Isn’t that right, Rhysand?”
Rhysand smiled tightly. “Whatever you believe, Tarquin.”
They stared at each other, Tarquin still with that easy smile and Rhysand all tight lines; though the posturing would have been enjoyable, Feyre felt impatient. She pinched the black fabric of Rhysand’s sleeve between her thumb and pointer finger and tugged.
Rhysand jerked, breaking his staring contest with Tarquin to briefly glance at her, before his bored gaze flicked back to his fellow High Lord.
“Have a nice revel,” he said. “Don’t drink too much.”
Tarquin inclined his head with a curious little smile, and waved them off.
Rhysand walked fast. Feyre, in heels, was struggling to keep up without breaking her ankles.
She was so focused on matching his strides that she noticed far too late they hadn’t stepped outside the palace: instead, they’d walked up to the family wing, abandoned with the High Lord’s lack of siblings and cousins.
“I thought,” Feyre huffed, “my sister was asking for me?”
He didn’t answer, not even sparing her a glance as their hurried steps echoed through the wide, darkened halls he was leading her through, seemingly focussed on one thing and one thing only: getting her alone.
In the absence of his gaze, Feyre smiled to herself.
It took a set of stairs and another long hallway before Rhysand took a sharp left turn, grounding to a halt in front of a door. He pressed his hand flat against the lock, skin barely lighter than the door’s material, and it clicked, swinging open.
Feyre got a quick glance of the room – dark, empty, possibly having laid unused for centuries – before he roughly shoved her inside and entered as well. The large, iron-wrought door shut behind him with a barely decipherable flick of his wrist; with another, the abandoned, empty fireplace sparked to life. He made a bee-line for it, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders heaving up and down.
She left him to his inner turmoil, instead taking the time to look around. As all rooms within the palace, both the floor and walls were hewn from onyx, polished until shiny. Two windows were carved into the rock on either side of the fireplace: on one side, two plush, dark green arm chairs and a small table; on the other a chest, with across from that, a large canopy bed with dark sheets.
Her gaze flicked back to where her High Lord stood, silent and tensed. Feyre took a step forward, thought better of it, and crossed her arms impatiently.
“So?” she then asked, voice loud over the muted crackle of burning logs. “Is my sister hiding in the armoire?”
The lines of Rhysand’s body tightened. She almost smirked.
“My Lord?”
“Do not act dumb,” he hissed, voice low and venomous.
Feyre froze, heat sparking to life in her chest. “Excuse me?”
“Your ears work, don’t they?” Rhysand turned, face dark and promising. “I told you to not act as though you are dumb.”
White-hot pleasure pooled in her belly when her meeting his gaze made his face darken even further. Feyre feigned a sigh, allowing her arms to dangle along her body, and tilted her head to one side.
“You told me my sister was asking for me,” Feyre said. “Neither of them is here—I was making a joke.”
Rhysand didn’t reply.
“Did you wish to speak to me in private, my Lord?”
He simply stared at her, heavy and intense. Goosebumps pebbled along her skin and in a fit of daring, she raised one brow.
“If you do not wish to speak I’ll return to the revel, my Lord,” she said, taking a leisurely step back. “I was having a lovely conversation with the High Lord of Summer—”
“Do not—” he barked, seemingly frozen between wishing to approach her and waiting for her to approach him. “You—”
“You do not wish for me to speak with the visiting High Lord?”
“The visiting High Lord,” Rhysand breathed, “does not need to be entertained.”
Feyre’s eyebrows shot up. “He does not? I thought it good form to amuse him, seeing he is your honoured guest, but…”
“He does not need to be entertained by you,” he said. “Anybody else can entertain him—but not you.”
“And whyever not?”
His jaw tensed. “I do not need to explain myself.”
“I wish you would, my Lord.”
“Why is it of interest to you?” with an odd shudder, as though he was stepping through a shield, Rhysand finally approached her. His steps were slow, calculated, as though he was playing predator.
The skin fit him well.
“What is of interest to me?” she asked. “That you are not allowing me to entertain Lord Tarquin?”
His mouth contorted into a violent grimace momentarily, before it morphed into a tiny, daring smile. He’d donned his favourite mask.
“Saying his name comes so easily to you,” Rhysand purred, his voice teasing the very edge of anger. “Do you wish to entertain him? Do you truly wish to guide him through our city, show him the sights, as he hangs from every pretty word falling from your lips?”
“I do not see an issue,” she murmured, watching his eyes narrow. “And as I don’t—how will I ever be able to listen? What, exactly, is your problem?”
“My problem? My problem?” he barked out a laugh. “You wish to know what my problem is?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Feyre said quietly. “I would love to know what your problem is.”
“My problem,” he hissed, teeth bared, “is that you smiled at him.”
And there it was.
She could have scoffed. It was such a simple reason for their little tit: so boring, so benign. Under any other circumstance, Rhysand would have allowed his imagination to flow freely, or he would have stuck to baser instincts.
Tarquin was kind, easy to smile at without it being used for other purposes. It hadn’t meant anything; Feyre smiled at her sisters more often than not. But Rhysand was snarling in her face, eyes glowing with a thirst for blood, and whatever retort had been building up stayed put beneath her tongue.
This wasn’t play. Not anymore. Not now, when his jealousy was a palpable tension in the air, growing thicker with every heaving exhale.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “My Lord—”
“Do not call me that,” he interrupted. He stepped closer, all ruse of his self-control gone and flung into the all-devouring flames. “Your loyalties do not lie with me, surely, if your joy is so easily bought by a charming façade and a promise of sunshine. Tell me,” he continued, his breathing irregular, “did you wonder what he would be like in bed?”
When had it gotten this far? When had their little game left the bounds of the board and embedded itself in reality? Sure, a decade of teasing and quiet, polite, stolen moments in darkened corners had at times felt too long, even for her… but it worked for them, did it not?
Perhaps it did not any longer.
He leaned in, close enough for her to count his individual lashes in the dim faelight, close enough to spot the raised remnants of a gnarly scar under his eye, cutting through the apple of his cheek. She wished to touch him, if only to feel the authenticity of the rage boiling under his skin no matter the needlessness.
His anger, his jealousy, was real. Yet, despite the thought that she should be afraid, Feyre felt excitement take hold of her.
And so, she breathed out, “Yes.”
Rhysand had her trapped against the wall in an instant. He smelled so mind-numbingly lovely, of rain and sea and the sharp tartness of citrus; it took all of her willpower to not breathe him in, right at the little depression in his skin above his collarbone, or the curve of his throat.
Instead she watched, heart stuttering in her chest as his power spilled out of him like ink dripping over stone, as his pupils slitted and irises glowed; if he’d looked menacing before, then he looked downright feral now.
He still found it in him to smile at her, fanged and sharp, to brush a lock of hair behind her ear with talons she hadn’t seen appear.
“Then why are you here, darling?” he asked, tilting his head to one side in some distorted display of genuine curiosity. A wisp of shadow curled around the strong line of his jaw. “He’s interested in you—everybody could smell it on him. If it was any more obvious, he would have been on his hands and knees, begging you to ride him.”
Feyre said nothing.
“And considering you’d like to know how talented the little runt would be at satisfying you,” he continued, “it is quite baffling you have not taken him up on his soundless offer. Unless…” he breathed, eyes sparking with a monstrous, corrupted kind of glee, “you find him far too young.”
And yet again, Feyre did not comment. His smile fell away for a snarl; the sound he produced came from his diaphragm and he brought his face closer to hers, hissing out through gritted teeth, “Answer me.”
There was nothing to say. One glance at her mind and he’d find all the answers, plain and clear as day, which would leave him soothed for another year or so—or, perhaps, until another attractive male took an interest in her, and she in him, and Rhysand would feel threatened again.
But it was obvious he was not interested in putting in the effort to find out for himself, so all Feyre did was raise her hand and slowly, but surely, rest her palm against his chest.
Rhysand’s breathing hitched. She suppressed a smile, allowing her hand to slide upwards, fingertips catching against the buttons of his tunic.
“Is it truly only me having smiled at Lord Tarquin that upsets you so,” she murmured, brushing the flat over her thumb over the soft brown skin of his collarbone, “or are you so ridiculously angry because I also hadn’t rejected him outright, for something he did not even ask?”
“I—” Rhysand started, but then her hand closed around his throat and he trembled all over, swaying even closer to her.
“Tell me,” Feyre whispered, pulling until she could brush her lips over his without leaning in. “One or two, both or neither. It is quite simple, my Lord. You only have to give me an answer.”
She placed her other hand on him as well, flat against his chest, inches below his peck; his heart beat at an almost alarming pace, flinging itself against his ribcage.
“I’m waiting.”
Rhysand stared at her, throat bobbing under her palm as he swallowed.
“Both,” he whispered. “It’s both.”
Keeping a firm, gentle hold of his throat, she brought her other hand up to cup his cheek. His brilliant eyes fluttered shut; his sigh expelled from his lungs in spurts.
“Good boy,” Feyre murmured. She stroked the apple of his cheek with her thumb and silently marvelled over how soft his skin was. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Carefully, making sure she wouldn’t let him go, he shook his head and then rested it against her palm.
“Use your words, my Lord.”
His eyes opened; the violet was nothing more than a thin ring around his pupils. “It wasn’t hard.”
Feyre smiled. Rhysand blinked at the sight, dazed, and then leaned closer to her.
“Oh, no,” she tutted, pushing lightly with the hand around his throat. “Not yet.”
“But—”
“Not yet,” she repeated, satisfaction mixing with the hot pool of arousal deep down in her belly as he nodded dutifully.
“What do you—”
Feyre released his throat from her grip and stepped backwards, delighted at the unabashed confusion and pure longing in his heated gaze. She flicked her eyes down and then back up to his beautiful face, quirking an eyebrow.
“Kneel.”
Rhysand sank to his knees almost immediately, without any discernible hesitation. He looked up at her with undisguised reverence, mouth parted, as though he was waiting for her next order.
Resisting the urge to caress his face, Feyre swept the front plane of her dress aside and relaxed against the wall. “You know what to do, don’t you, my Lord?”
He descended upon her like a man starved.
Slowly, at first: he was still discovering, mouthing leisurely at her outer labia as if he had permission to take his time. His lips were soft, if a little chapped, and the sensation was genuinely pleasant; Feyre had to suppress a sigh, slid her hand down to rake her fingers through his hair.
Yes, their game had ceased; it was finally time.
He shivered as she touched him, kissing her sex with more enthusiasm, more fervour. The tip of his tongue teased the very entrance of her cunt, once, twice, before he lapped at her, groaning.
“Do I taste good, my Lord?” Feyre asked, cursing how breathless she sounded.
Rhysand moaned in lieu of a reply, pressing the flat of his tongue against her as he continued to slowly, almost teasingly, eat her out. Feyre allowed her eyes to flutter shut, fingers still tangled in his thick hair, and then threw one of her long legs up, around, the back of her thigh resting solidly on his shoulder.
The slight alteration of position was well-received. Rhysand pressed his face against her, close enough that she was certain he could scarcely breathe, and then he dragged his mouth up, up, lips closing around the little bundle of nerves.
He sucked. Hard.
Feyre’s back arched, mouth falling open on its own volition, and barely managed to reel in the high-pitched moan threatening to leave her throat. Her fingers tightened in his hair, caught between yanking him away and pushing him even closer, and Feyre didn’t know what to do.
Then his right hand curled around her thigh, grip firm and almost bruising, and he simply mouthed at her clit, kissing and sucking, circling it with the tip of his tongue before relaxing his jaw and licking her entirely—she ceased to care about what was supposed to happen next.
Soon, too soon, her body started to tremble and heat up. She had half a mind to tell him to stop, to wait, to drag this out until the first streaks of sunlight crawled above the horizon – they had all night and a good part of day, after all – but she wanted him to help her finish. Pleasure spread throughout her alarmingly fast, the back of her head pressed against the wall so firmly it was almost painful, and he just kept licking her—
Feyre came with a strangled shout, vision whiting out for a brief second as her entire body tensed and trembled. He did not stop, simply continued to eat her out as though he could not stop, would not unless she told him to; she ground her sex against his face, using him to ride out her orgasm and he let her, moaning.
Breathing shakily, Feyre tried to relax against the wall, allowing him just a moment more as she came to. Every time his nose brushed her clit her muscles seized and pleasure slowly started to rebuild. If she was being honest with herself, she could spend the rest of the night like this, with him below her in a position of worship: but this was not in her plans.
She tightened her grip on his hair and pulled until he rose to his full height and collapsed against her, heavy and panting, both of his hands settling tentatively on her waist. Feyre allowed it, smoothing her free hand down the powerful, clothed planes of his back; his breathing hitched again.
Rhysand was unbelievably hard. She could feel the length of him, only barely contained by his trousers, poking her pelvic bone. Curious, she slid her hand from the bottom of his spine to his crotch, cupped his clothed cock, and squeezed.
He jerked his hips, muffling a moan in her shoulder.
“I’d say you enjoyed that, my Lord,” Feyre whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Didn’t you?”
He nodded, grinding against the flesh of her palm.
That wouldn’t do.
She pulled her hand away and rested it on his hip, gently keeping distance between their hips and shushing him when he made the decision to whine. “Use your words, my Lord.”
“Yes,” he breathed needily, pushing himself against her. “Yes, I did, I—Oh—”
“That’s what you get when you’re being good,” she informed him, rubbing leisurely at the throbbing bulge in his trousers. “You see? Listen, and I’ll touch you. Okay?”
Rhysand whimpered as he rutted into her hand, his grip on her waist tightening and loosening in intervals; he was completely at her mercy and, as wretched as it sounded, it brought a thrill like no other.
His grinding started to stutter, signalling he was close already. Though Feyre was very entertained by the idea of her High Lord coming in his trousers on the mere feeling of her hand, she wished to play with him for a bit longer.
With a gentle, featherlight kiss to his neck, Feyre retreated her hand and pushed him away from her.
He stumbled back, eyes wide and confused, breathing heavy—and then a disgruntled expression settled on his handsome face. He immediately stepped closer again with a hissed, ‘Feyre’, as though he wished to chastise her.
One look had him frozen in place.
“You’re wearing so many clothes, my Lord,” she murmured. “Why don’t you undress for me?”
It took him less than a second to jump into action, sitting down on the bed to remove his boots and socks. Then he stood again, hurried, shimmying his trousers and undergarments down his hips simultaneously; his cock sprung up, hard and engorged, precum smearing against the dark fabric of his tunic.
It was so incredibly lovely to watch him fumble with the buttons of his top, hands shaky and hasty. If she’d tell him to bow for her, would he? If she’d tell him after this night that she wished to do this again, would he want to? He was being so enthusiastic, so excited, so willing to please—
By the time he’d managed to shrug off his tunic, leaving him entirely bare to her, his breathing had turned irregular with anticipation and arousal. The beauty of his form was breath-taking: Feyre dragged her gaze across the tattoos curling over his broad shoulders, noting the ink followed and emphasised the natural shape of his body. A light smattering of chest hair matched the dark happy trail that started at his navel and trailed down from there, blending into a neat bush of hair surrounding the base of his large cock. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, built to be used, to fight.
Feyre wanted to climb him like a tree.
Instead, she pursed her mouth, walking closer to him. Every single step caused his muscles to tighten just a bit more: so much so that when she finally reached out to touch him, flicking a perked nipple with the flat of her thumb, he was trembling top to bottom.
“I could do anything to you, can’t I, my Lord?” she stated, smiling as his mouth parted. “I bet that I could only touch you like this, and you’d be happy. Frustrated, yes, but happy. Isn’t that right?”
He started to nod, paused, and then said, with difficulty: “Just me.”
“Just you?”
“Only me,” he corrected himself, eyelids fluttering when Feyre dragged her hand back up to his throat. “You’ll only touch me.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Feyre tutted, “we’ll see about that.”
Even though his brows pulled together, he still leaned against her with an appreciative groan, his right hand sliding back to her waist. She reached for his face again, touching his plump lips with just the tips of her fingers, and with a slow and heady blink he sucked the digits into his mouth.
“You’ll need to open me up a little bit,” she said, heart stuttering as he swirled his tongue around her pointer. Her smile had him groan, and she released his throat to cup the back of his neck. “Can you do that for me?”
Hastily, almost too hastily, Rhysand grabbed her pussy with his free hand, his long middle finger entering her in one swift moment. A breath punched out of her as he impatiently pumped in and out, barely waiting before he added a second; at this rate, he’d be sheathed in her within the next minute or so.
Feyre extracted her fingers from his mouth and tangled her fingers with the hair on the back of his head to drag his face to the curve of her shoulder, successfully muffling his wordless whine. It brought them just that much closer together: the velvety head of his cock rubbed against her belly and Rhysand cursed low in his throat, fingers curling inside her.
“There’s no need to rush, my Lord,” she breathed, pressing her mouth against his temple. “We have all night.”
Rhysand exhaled shakily, scissoring his fingers and then, without being asked, he rubbed his thumb against her still-sensitive clit. Her toes curled; she yanked him even closer, rocking back and forth on his fingers.
“There’s a good boy,” she gasped out, when he rubbed hard enough for her to see stars. “You pleasure me so well–”
“I want to take you against the wall.” The words were a low growl, tapering off into a whine when she tightened her grip on his hair. “Please, Feyre, I need to be inside you, please–”
She stepped away from him, cunt clenching around nothing as his fingers slid out of her, and saw him sway in place. His eyes were clouded with lust and desperation and he reached for her, obviously confused.
“Get on the bed,” she whispered.
She hadn’t even finished speaking before he moved and sat down on the edge of the mattress, hands twitching atop his strong thighs. Feyre watched him, dragging her gaze over his heaving chest and up to his face, lingering on the red flush high up on his cheekbones.
Slowly, trying her hardest to take her time, Feyre pulled at the silky fabric slung over her shoulders; it slid down to her upper arms without too much resistance.
Then she reached behind her.
Rhysand groaned low in his throat when the belt popped loose and the garment, barely held up by the curve of her breasts, slid down her body with one yank at the neckline. His mouth had parted, eyes dark and hooded: he stared at her like she was the moon, or a goddess, a deity—like he’d been kneeling at her altar with an offering for hours and she’d materialised in front of him just to grant him a wish.
“Scoot up,” she said.
Rhysand scrambled until his back reached the wall, obedient, waiting. He was trembling still, likely almost jumping out of his skin with anticipation.
“Excited, my Lord?” Feyre asked, brushing her pointer finger down her hip. At his lack of an answer, she tilted her head to the side, wisps of hair brushing her cheeks. “Well?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Feyre, please…”
“So demanding,” she tutted, though she stepped onto the bed anyway, crawling closer until they were a hairbreadth away from touching. “It’s alright, though. You said the magic word.”
And then she reached out and closed her hand around his cock.
He threw his head back, entire body tensing; his hands had grabbed hold of the silky black duvet, and Feyre thought, with a weird mixture of amusement and arousal rushing through her veins, that the maids would undoubtedly be puzzled to find the fabric punctured in the morning.
One sure, firm stroke of her fist caused his hips to buck up. She tutted again, bracing her free hand against his hipbone to press him back onto the bed.
“Stay,” she said, punctuated by a twist of her wrist.
Rhysand cursed quietly under his breath, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew shallower with every single pass of her hand, muscles flexing whenever her thumb brushed the beading pearls of precum off the slit of his cock. He was so pretty like this, flushed with arousal and her touch; the fact that it was her doing, that he was minutes from falling apart because of her, only added to his beauty.
It made her feel almost feral.
Before she was aware of what she was doing, Feyre crawled even closer, swinging one long leg over his lap and casually manoeuvring his dick inside of her.
Gravity had never been more useful. Rhysand was big enough for her to feel the burning stretch down to her toes, but allowing her own weight to help her sink down made the whole ordeal significantly more pleasant. Especially the look on Rhysand’s face, screwed tight with pleasure, caused her lust to grow tenfold.
She scraped her nails down his chest, middle finger catching on a perked nipple. Rhysand rocked his hips in response and Feyre’s vision briefly blurred at the pressure: she breathed through it, repetitively clenching and relaxing around him, before she’d gathered herself enough to cup his cheek and offer him a small smile.
“Alright, baby,” she murmured. “Now you can move.”
And he did.
With a strangled moan he thrusted upwards, and Feyre moved with, holding herself up inches before his body rested on the mattress again. And then she started meeting him, thrust by thrust, feeling so unbelievably full that she did not doubt the feeling of him inside of her would linger for days to come.
He pushed himself forward, large hands landing on her hips just to hold, not to guide; his forehead dropped against her neck and she hugged him close in silent reply.
“You feel so good,” he slurred, mouthing and nipping at her bare skin. “So good, Feyre, I—”
She shushed him, raking her fingers through his thick hair. He did not need to speak or voice his feelings, not now. This was about them joined together, an echo of the intense, almost primal attraction they’d felt for one another when their gazes first crossed all those years ago, something that morphed into a game exciting and tentative and teasing.
Nesta had been right in a way: their play had been a ticking bomb ready to explode, a bucket threatening to overflow. This wouldn’t end in tragedy, though. Feyre would not allow it to.
The sound of their flesh connecting with every thrust was downright filthy, but Feyre found that she quite liked it. That it was something she quite wanted to hear again, something that made her burn with need. And it wasn’t just the sound: it was him clutching at her like a lifeline, it was him looking at her like that, it was him always giving her the urge to smile.
It was the finally, really.
“You’re so good at this,” Feyre said finally, gasping through a moan that was a tad too breathy for her liking. Then his tongue laved at the sensitive spot behind her ear, and her answering moan was far breathier than the last. “Makes me suspect you’ve done this before.”
“Never again,” he groaned. “Only you—only—”
She squeezed around him, and whatever he’d wanted to say tapered off into a guttural moan.
“My lord—"
“Rhys,” he gasped into her neck, whining hoarsely when she ground down. “I—I want you to call me Rhys.”
“You’ve told me that before,” she murmured, raking her fingers through his hair until she found hold, pulling his mouth away from her skin. “I’ve never accepted your offer, have I, my Lord?”
He looked at her, thrusting up into her with a shaky kind of hesitance, as if unsure what she wanted him to do. “You—you haven’t.”
Feyre smiled. His perfect mouth went slack and she released his hair, hand sliding until she was cupping his cheek. The other, ever-greedy, travelled to his beautiful throat. “Would you like me to?”
“Yes,” he gasped, “yes, yes, yes—”
“Well, alright,” she conceded, still smiling, and she brought his face closer to hers. “Just because you’ve asked so nicely, Rhys.”
He accepted her kiss with fervour, lips already parted and waiting before she even managed to slant her mouth over his. The taste of him – herself, and sour wine, and the cold, dark magic that permeated his bones – was resplendent, pinpricks of burning starlight spreading throughout her at his tongue touching hers.
The kiss caused him to groan deep in his throat, hips stuttering briefly before he found his rhythm again. She did not blame him: it was a feeling unlike any other so far to kiss him now, his mouth soft and his tongue hot, almost too overwhelming to cope with. By the Mother, did she want to swallow him whole; nobody would ever match up to this, and nobody should for him.
A strange feeling had started to pulse in her chest sometime between the last breath she’d taken before kissing him and the moment their mouths had touched. It was smug, some kind of annoying satisfaction, accompanied with the white-hot feeling of jealousy.
Feyre was pulled back into reality by the insistent quality of his cock grinding inside of her, as though he was testing his limits. His hands had tightened around her hips, almost as if he wished to guide her instead of her guiding him.
It only took a little pressure on his throat to make him go pliant again. A little more fight would have been lovely—perhaps, next time…
Now, though, she’d grant him one thing.
Keeping her hand wrapped around his neck, she pulled away, successfully keeping him where she wanted him despite his desperate attempts to follow. He whined as soon as her mouth left his, tapering off into silent, hitched breaths when her lips brushed the shell of his ear.
“Pleasure me, baby,” she whispered, smiling when his hand released her hip before she’d even finished speaking, thumb already rubbing against her clit. Her eyelids fluttered and she hugged his face against her neck, pleasure zapping up her spine. “There you go. Good boy.”
He kept up with the movement of his hips, Feyre meeting him with every shallow trust. Yes, this—this was lovely. This was how it was supposed to go. Her in control, him listening to her, and nothing else mattered.
Then Rhys spoke.
“‘M—I’m—” he cut himself off, words morphing into a deep moan. His hips stuttered again, breathing heavy yet slow; he was, undoubtedly, close to completion.
Feyre bit down on his earlobe, relishing in the little gasp that followed. “Not yet.”
“But—”
“Not yet,” she repeated, pulling his mouth away from her. He looked wrecked, hair mussed and cheeks red with exertion and pleasure, mouth slick and swollen. She tightened her grip on his throat briefly. “You’re going to be good, right? You can control yourself, can’t you?”
Rhys set his jaw and nodded.
“Words, Rhys,” she murmured.
His eyes squeezed shut. And then, with another hitching breath, he slurred: “I can be good.”
Feyre wished to press her thumb to his bruised lips, to push the digit behind his teeth and force him to suck. She wished he’d never let her go. She wished, fervently, to be back in the throne room, where the fae would watch her ride him just like this and watch him submit to her just like now.
But then he ground up into her, deep and slow, and his thumb made slow circles around her clit, and his brilliant eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at her with an expression akin to awe—and the desire to be in public scuttled off, to be filed away for later.
He was so beautiful it made her ache.
“I know,” she said, cunt clenching around his cock. At his moan, she brushed her free hand down the side of his face, pressing the flat of her thumb just-so against the corner of his mouth. “You’re being so good, Rhys.”
He whined quietly, trying, in an almost desperate manner, to bring his face closer to hers again.
Feyre smiled.
“Is this what you wished for?” she asked quietly, tilting her head and tightening her grip. Rhys’s breath was stuttering in his throat, eyes heavy-lidded and cloudy; still, he managed to produce a confused groan that told her he had no idea what she was talking about.
“You, under me,” she whispered. “Is this what you’ve dreamt of, Rhys? Is this what you wanted? Or was your little tantrum simply an attempt to get me to fuck the High Lord of Summer whilst you watch?”
It took a moment before the words settled and Feyre watched, delighted, as understanding and rage sparked in his irises. His teeth bared, sharp and straight and a perfect, shiny ivory; the growl started deep in his chest, hissing out from behind his canines like the steaming, violent froth of boiling oil.
“Did you?” she cooed, barely able to keep the smile on her face as his next thrust punched the breath out of her. “Was—was that what you wanted instead, Rhys? Watching me get fucked by another—”
“Feyre—”
“He’s so handsome,” she said breathily. He thrusted again, deep and hard, and she tightened her grip on his throat to prevent herself from falling. “Don’t you think so, my Lord?”
With a guttural snarl, Rhys flipped them over, setting a punishing, mind-numbing pace. The sheets were positively freezing against her sweat-damp back; Feyre barely took note of it, too wrapped up in his cock sliding in and out of her, his thumb rubbing teasingly at her clit. Pleasure, white-hot, rendered her entirely unable to speak—unable to so much chastise him for taking control when he shouldn’t have. Her legs wrapped around his waist on their own accord, ankles locking together.
“Don’t speak of him,” he growled. “Not while I’m in you, not while you’re touching me.”
“Rhys,” she gasped, releasing his throat so she could scrabble at his back with both hands, desperate to find purchase. “Oh, fuck—”
Rhysand pressed his forehead against her neck, sweaty hair tickling her jaw. His mouth was open above her collarbone, breath hot and teeth sharp against her skin.
“You cannot ever torture me like that again.” His voice was gravelly with lust and jealousy, lips just barely skimming her as he spoke. “The way you looked at him earlier, how you smiled—it drove me mad. It drives me mad. And to hear your little fantasies—”
He ground himself into her, deep and slow and torturous, and Feyre’s own moan took her so off guard that it morphed into an embarrassing squeak.
“Only me,” he breathed. “Only I can touch you like this, and it’s only you—only—”
She grabbed his face and wretched it away from her neck, only to push their mouths together. Rhysand moaned into their kiss and she swallowed the sound greedily, drinking him in.
It truly had been far too long; after ten years of only the barest of touches, of dark looks and briefly shared breaths, this was pure bliss. She had him everywhere and he had her, and his hair was spider-silk between her fingers and his mouth was golden dripping honey and he was hard and soft and warm against her, and she never wanted it to end. Just this, just them, forever—that would be enough.
His hips started stuttering again; Feyre did not even attempt to comment. He deserved it at this point, and the way he was kissing her was so sweet and so hungry that she could not find it in herself to take completion away from him for another moment.
Then he rubbed at her clit harder than before, as if trying to urge her along. Their mouths disconnected and Feyre gasped for air, inhaling greedily, the breaths exiting her lungs in breathy moans as quickly as they could enter. Her entire body was tingling, her legs were trembling around his waist. And still, she was trying to hold it off, despite being desperate for release—
He bit down on her pulse point, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break skin, and Feyre’s vision completely whited out, his name a mere gasp on her lips. Through the all-encompassing haze of pleasure she could feel him chasing the final leg of his own pleasure, could feel him pushing his cock deep inside of her, thrusting harshly once, twice, three times before they turned shallow and gentle.
Rhys collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily, and as the world slowly came back into focus she stroked his hair and his back. He was sticky with sweat, still trembling with exertion, and – to her complete and utter surprise – his wings were out.
“Aren’t you a good boy,” she mumbled after her breath was caught, when she was certain her voice would not fail her.
He chuckled throatily. “I do hope it was better than just good, darling.”
“Fantastic,” she replied, blinking slowly. “It was—yeah.”
She moved just the littlest bit. His hips jerked when she did so, and she could feel his cock twitch inside of her. Then he pulled out, dropping himself onto his side next to her, and completely wrapped her up into his embrace.
She pressed her lips against the space between his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and his eyes blinked open, irises still so impossibly large.
“I am sorry,” she whispered into the warm, damp air between them.
He frowned. “What for?”
“I was prodding you, wasn’t I?” Feyre laughed lightly, trailing her finger over the pointed curve of his air. “With the High Lord of Summer. He is attractive, but I—”
“Only wished to make me jealous?” he asked, and when she nodded, his face relaxed. “That—I suppose that makes sense.”
“It was exciting,” she said, “to watch you like that. It’s always been exciting—I just didn’t expect you to lose your composure as much as you did.”
A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s a bit more threatening than any old third son of some Lord,” he said. “I couldn’t just break his brain and mist his body. And when you smiled at him… you’ve rarely smiled at me. I couldn’t handle it.”
Feyre pressed a kiss against his mouth, chaste and small. “I’ll save my happiness for you, Rhys.”
He sighed, tightening his arm around her and pulling her against his chest. “Don’t give Tarquin a tour,” he then murmured.
“And whyever not?”
“Because,” he said, almost whining. He buried his face in her neck. “I don’t like it.”
“I made a promise.”
“You did not,” Rhys retorted. “You merely agreed to his ridiculous request—and considering he is the visiting High Lord, my word overrules his. And I say you don’t need to guide him throughout Hewn City.”
Feyre could not help but smile. “And what do you reckon I am supposed to do instead?”
“Be in my bed,” he replied, pulling back from her neck when she slapped his shoulder in admonishment. “I am being serious.”
“You cannot be.”
“I have finally touched you,” he said. “Years of just barely being able to feel the heat of your skin—and now you have put your hands on my body and pressed your mouth against mine. Forgive me, Feyre, if I am no longer able to resist the pull between us; it is far easier to separate two magnets that have not yet connected, than those that are already attached.”
She looked at him, at his earnest expression and the promise in his beautiful eyes, and reached out to cup his cheek.
“Game over,” she whispered, and he smiled.
--
@feysandmonth
