fic: Darling I'd hang the stars for you
Fandom: ACOTAR Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand Word Count: ~3,200 Warnings: Sex n feelings. But mostly the former \o/ Summary: A moment where Rhys reflects and resets with Feyre. AO3 Link
AN: Ok you know what this is so gratuitous that I really struggled to think of a title/summary for it and this is the best we’re gonna get ok. Also World Ending Rhys is my favourite Rhys. Desperately on his knees in love Rhys is a close second (they're the same thing really).
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Sometimes it was hard, walking around knowing that the future of the known world rested on his shoulders. In the least fatalistic sense of the phrase.
Lost his temper? There goes a mountain range.
Someone being exceptionally irritating, usually from the Court of Nightmares? Misted.
That was what life was like before he learned control. Real control, where the hurt he inflicted with his power was only ever intentional, and never an accident. Accidents were careless, sloppy, unbecoming. People who were worthy of power could not be allowed to wield it carelessly.
Despite all of his power (and who really knew how deep that well went?), Rhys knew better than anyone what people thought of him. He was the one with unfettered access to most of their minds, after all. Even those who desperately, futilely, tried to bar him access, built mental walls of pliable metal and flammable supports. Most never bothered, never realised, never felt his claws sinking into their very psyche until it was no longer possible to separate him from I.
He knew the taste of their hate, their resentment, and their fear.
Of the three, it was the fear that was never ending, everlasting, that permeated and soured almost every relationship he might've sought before it had ever begun. The fear twisted people's intentions, corrupted their trust, when all he had done was just be.
There's a certain resentment that comes with living under that sort of pressure, something that all that power was not able to take away. It did the opposite, mostly. Helped it fester, helped make succumbing to his temper, to retaliation, all the more attractive. Revenge was sweet when he could not seek a sweeter brand of kindness. Not before the days of his inner circle.
It took a few decades for Rhysand to acknowledge that it was lucky, so lucky for himself and for everyone else that he had not been raised to take an eye for an eye; that his mother was the brilliant, kind, and disciplined female that she was to have instilled so early in him that sense of justice and honour that she did. For if Rhys had allowed himself to believe in a world where he should take an eye for an eye, the world would soon be out of eyes, and Rhys would still be needing to learn other ways to defend himself against the venom hurled his way.
So amongst the hate, the resentment, the fear... Rhys never imagined that there would be love. The kind of love that brought him to his knees, that made him want to cry, that made him want to roar until he brought down mountains.
Feyre frequently called him dramatic.
It was Feyre who he watched now, perched at the edge of her artist's stool, a brush balanced in her hand, a palette knife in the other. She was mixing whorls of paint on a palette board that had been clipped to the easel in front of her, and occasionally blotted in more paint from a different colour as she worked on building her current shade. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun that allowed curls to escape down the nape of her neck, and she wore a light, loose shirt with form fitting pants that cut off above her ankles. She was barefoot in her studio, the instruments that she would need for her current piece scattered around her, held by cups or hanging off hooks or tucked away in the small, wheeled, several tiered trolley beside her, nothing more than an arm's length away.
As usual, she had paint everywhere.
Rhys watched her for a while, and the simplicity of having her there before him, smiling and at peace, was enough to make his heart swell.
If it weren't for the bond, you'd probably startle me ten times a day with the way you lurk. It'd send me to an early grave.
Rhys smiled at the touch of her thoughts curling in his mind, relishing their presence there.
I imagine I'd go to an early grave if I weren't bonded to you too, Feyre darling.
She turned to him then, the soft light of the studio backlighting her, illuminating dust motes in the air and the gold in her hair. She frowned at him, a glimmer of concern in her eyes.
So serious, Rhys.
She showed him what she saw, her mind's eye. He stood silent as a shadow in the doorway, his eyes drowning in the dark as they remained fixed on her, the damper on his magic gone, content to be utterly himself. Comfortable with his power rolling off him in waves, curling off him like deep smoke, like so much dark bleeding from his skin into the space around him. Comfortable because he knew that she would be.
He strode to her then. He may have caused her attention to break, but he always hated physically interrupting her focus on a canvas. He took her shifted attention and lowered brush as permission enough for him to approach.
He cupped her face in both hands when he reached her, tipped her head back and leaned in for a gentle kiss. Feyre obliged, the abandoned brush sliding off her lap and to the floor with a clatter. He drew back slightly, just enough so that he could brush kisses onto each of her cheeks, before finding her lips again.
His touches drew a warm thrum of love from his mate through their bond, which pleased him to no end. But chasing it was still that glimmer of concern.
"I'm fine," he reassured her gently, drawing back. He thumbed a smudge of blue by her cheek before leaning in again.
She arched her brow, setting the palette knife down in a safer position before returning the kiss.
He smiled against her lips, the question she left in the air. I just... love you.
Her eyes softened, her smile brightened.
I loved you as I waited for you and I loved you as you fought for everything we hold dear and I will die loving you, Feyre.
"I love you too, Rhys," she said softly, with a quiet sort of assurance, almost determination, the glimmer in her eyes solidifying to shine with conviction. "I love you." Then mind to mind: With everything I am, with all that I have. Always.
His heart swelled, and his kiss deepened. He delved into her mouth slowly, again and again, one hand remaining on the side of her face as the other dropped to cup the back of her head, pushing his fingers up into her hair as he took his time laying her open.
Feyre made a soft noise, low in her throat, and her body shifted towards him.
The air changed between them.
She made to stand the same time he broke the kiss to step closer to her. Her arms came around his neck the same time he straightened, his hand cupping her thigh as he hitched her up, his other arm wrapping around her waist as her legs wrapped around his. Her body had remained toned, as Feyre trained and kept in shape even though Cassian was no longer around to train with her, but against him and his Illyrian body, she was still so soft, her curves so warm and plush against the hard planes of his own frame. Rhys groaned as he tightened his arms around her, burying his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply his mate's scent, each draw of breath causing that roiling dark inside of him to rejoice.
Feyre turned her own head to him, a smile on her lips as she took his earlobe between her teeth, putting slight pressure on it before she let it slide free. Her legs tightened around his waist, her back arched, and she settled her arms more solidly around his neck as though she too was trying to maximise the contact between their bodies, to press herself closer because as they were now, it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
A low noise rumbled from his chest, a possessive sound, one edged in arousal. Feyre curled a hand in his hair, tugging his head back away from her neck to kiss him again. This time it was her turn to delve, to probe and lick, her body writhing against him with each kiss in a way that drove him crazy.
She didn't pull back from his lips as he winnowed them, but she did to utter a breathless laugh when he let them fall out of the winnow and onto their bed.
"I thought you said you wouldn't interrupt me when I paint," she said, perched on top of him, amusement dancing in her eyes.
He rolled them until she was the one below.
"I didn't." He lowered his mouth to bite gently at the flesh of her throat. "I was merely watching you." His mouth tracked down, sucking her breast gently over her thin top, his tongue probing for her nipple. "It's not my fault you find me distracting enough to set down your work."
Feyre laughed again, even more breathless this time, even as she arched her back into his touch, pulling her fingers through his hair. "I can't imagine why anyone would find the High Lord of the Night Court distracting, especially when he's glowering in their doorway and leaking power all over them."
"I was not glowering," he corrected mildly against her navel, "And I never leak." He nosed underneath her top, licked a warm line across her belly, just above the hem of her pants.
"Oh really?" Her breath shallowed, sped up.
"I just am, and when I think of you Feyre, when I think of how you choose me, every single day of our lives, I cannot contain myself."
Feyre moaned then, either at his words or at the way his hands had slipped her pants down as he spoke, baring her sex, his head at just the right position so that his breath brushed over her, just so.
He liked these pants, Rhys decided as he discarded them. They were form fitting, but they were stretchy, and slipped down her legs easily without a fight.
He laid an open kiss to the inside of one thigh, and Feyre made a soft noise again, shifting so her legs could open for him. He shouldered one over his back, and pushed the other further to the side, nestling it in the crook of his elbow.
"You have no idea how hard it is to contain myself, much less around you," he murmured again, almost to himself, before bringing his mouth to her core.
He ran his tongue once up her centre, just the barest of touches against her lower lips, all the way up to curl once over her clit, before starting again and again, down up down up, each time pressing a little harder, delving a little deeper, until his tongue was buried inside her and Feyre was crying his name in earnest, until her fingers were vice tight in his hair and her hips were stuttering against his face. He coaxed her to find her rhythm, one hand squeezing her thigh and the other arm braced against the bed, his power rolling across her skin again and again, as though even it could not stand to be without her, not even for a moment. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as she rode his tongue, bliss bliss bliss, the taste and smell and sense of her all around him, inside him, and there was nothing Rhys would rather do, he could do this forever, the sounds of pleasure from his mate the only thing he ever wanted to hear, the fever pitch of her voice rising with her orgasm, the orgasm that he brought to her, that he would offer her again and again, for as long as she could bear it. He felt it gather like a wave before crashing into her, felt her body seize with it, bracketing his face within it as she shook and trembled.
"Rhys," she panted, her fingers tugging on his head that was still searching between her thighs. "Rhys, please."
He withdrew slightly, a devil's grin playing around the edges of his mouth. "Please what?"
Feyre's face was flushed, her lips red from her own teeth setting into them, her eyes bright. "Please fuck me," she breathed.
Night rippled out from him at her words, cradled them both in a star kissed embrace as he reared up to cover her with his body. His clothes were gone in an instant, then his chest was pressed up against hers, and her thin cloth of a top was the last barrier between them.
Feyre's arms and legs went around him again, and this time she rolled them, and he went with her, allowed her whatever she wanted to do with his body. He was hers, he's said as much to her, to the world.
She sat up, her bare ass resting on his belly, his cock brushing the small of her back. For a moment she just watched him, flushed and still breathing hard, her hands stroking from his chest down to his abdomen slowly. He let his eyes take her in, her tousled hair, her breasts tenting her shirt, her thighs on either side of his chest, her sex pressed against his skin, her own skin glowing softly against his night.
He had half a mind to pull her forwards until she was leaning on the headboard, until he was eating her out again.
"No," she said, reading the look on his face, despite desire darkening her own eyes. She leaned down, pressing warm, open mouthed kisses against his chest. "I want you inside me, Rhys." Her mouth reached just below his pectorals, her tongue finding the crease in his abs. Her ass shifted backwards as she bent over him, his cock nestling between both cheeks as she dipped her tongue further down. Gods she was flexible. Her eyes flicked up to meet his as he tracked her every move. "I want to feel every inch of you inside me. Right now."
He made some sort of noise, some small reflection of what she ignited in him as both hands went to her waist, lifted her, then slid her wet, tight body over him. She cried out at the unyielding intrusion, facing the sky, her thighs tightening around him as he entered her to the hilt, her inner muscles fluttering and squeezing at the sensation of him thrusting up side of her. Pleasure, hers and his own, burst like pinpricks of light behind his eyes, between their bond, glittering like starlight.
"Gods," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut as he lifted her. He sat up as he did so, abdominal muscles bunching as both hands stayed to guide her hip, the other squeezing her thigh, her ass, urging her to rise until she held just the tip of him inside her.
Just as Feyre had gathered herself enough to meet his eyes again, Rhys pushed her hips down, slower this time, and she tipped her head back and moaned. The sound made his balls tighten, made a similar noise roll out from deep inside of him at the sensation of her sinking back down over his cock. He raised a hand to fasten in her hair, brought her head forwards and tipped her into his kiss as she became fully seated on him again.
"So tight, Feyre," he groaned against her mouth. "So perfect."
She mumbled something incoherent, her hips rising and falling again without encouragement. He groaned again, pleasure racing up and down him with her movements, and he found that all he could do was watch her, try to keep pace with her as she rode him to another orgasm, this time with him inside her, the bond open between them, and he felt everything she did as she came with a cry, her pleasure shocking through her like so much lightning.
He devoured her with his eyes, drinking in everything she was, the pure satisfaction of making his mate come almost surpassing his own pleasure. He pulled her top off as she was still coming off her high, taking her breast into his mouth, this time unhampered by cloth. He bit and suckled the warm flesh there, until his teeth clamped lightly over her nipple. He bit down, didn't release her until she moaned at the pressure.
"Rhys," she sighed, her arms loose around his neck, sagging slightly against him.
"Yes, darling," he said soothingly, kissing his way up to her neck, his tongue lathing and lingering at certain areas along the way.
"Rhys," was all she said again as he lay her back down on the bed, loose and pliant.
He kept himself sheathed in her body as he slung one of her legs around his waist again, his hand staying to cup the back of her thigh. He leaned down to take her other breast in his mouth. Feyre moaned mindlessly as the press of his body brought him deeper inside of her, her head rolling back in the sheets. She was sensitive now, so much more sensitive, her thighs trembling and hips jerking every time he moved. He could feel her rippling with sensation around his cock, still pressed as deep in her as he could. He rolled his hips once, twice, his mouth still fastened on her breast, and each time drew a small, wild cry from her.
He drew back only after he'd sucked a mark into her skin, and rolled his hips a third time.
"Rhys."
"Feyre," he answered, his voice a croon. "I'm so sorry, you asked me to fuck you but I was terribly selfish and allowed you to do the honours first."
"Don't apologise," she snarled, her hands bunching in the sheets as he thrust again, her heel digging into his back. "Move."
Rhys grinned outright now, her frantic desire delicious on his tongue.
"Anything for you, Feyre darling."
His power exploded around him as Rhys set a furious pace, his grip on her thigh tight and his other hand on the curve of her hip, fingertips digging into her ass as he hauled her body forwards to meet each thrust of his hips. He felt Feyre beneath him, tight as a bowstring, her mouth open in a silent cry as he drove with abandon into her. Stars winked in and out of existence and time drew out and out in the space between them, until his world narrowed to an endless joining of their bodies, exactly what he wanted, exactly what he wished for, he wanted for nothing else but this to go on and on and on, to lose himself inside of her because what better place to be? But somehow the moment still came when he was powerless, powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything but come with a roar that shook the foundations of the house around them as his pleasure somehow reached a peak for him to fall from. His release barrelled down their bond, washed over Feyre, enough to tip her over the edge of another orgasm, and nothing nothing nothing felt better than this, when they came together, when he came inside her body and still she welcomed everything he had and asked for more.
He collapsed wordlessly into the cradle of her arms, eyes closed, didn't move an inch until Feyre laughed and shifted her hips, just enough so that he slipped out of her.
A gentle hand on his face.
"I can't believe I get to do this with you for the rest of my life."
Rhys turned his head, the only movement he could manage for the moment, and pressed a kiss into her collarbone.
"I honestly can't wait."
