Archive of Our Own ^beta

Feyre glanced over herself in the mirror, tugging down the hem of the short lace top that barely covered her hips.  She studied herself for a moment in growing appreciation at the garment she’d only bought a few hours ago.

In a sense, it was perfect, the right balance between fabric and skin, just enough to be tantalizing without giving away too much (even though Rhys knew well enough what was underneath). He’d thought she’d spent the afternoon shopping for more paint around the Rainbow, when instead she’d visited that little shop she’d only dreamed out browsing before.

She spun to the back, looking over her shoulder and giving a little twist to her hips.  A slow grin spread at the sight that was sure to have Rhys speechless, a rare event indeed.

Even though she’d never done more than pause on the street to look through the window, the shop itself had surpassed even her most vivid dreams.  If the women keeping the shop knew who she was (surely they must) they made no indication save for the selections they’d pointed her towards: black and silver scraps of fabric, laces and ties every which way that she could barely tell what was supposed to go where, and of course, left little to the imagination and were distinct parallels to the Night Court.

She’d eventually narrowed her selections down to three picks: a slightly more modest (though certainly not matronly) gown of cream chiffon, a sheer black lace contraption with pretty ribbon laces up the side, and the one that she wore now.

Feyre picked at a stray thread on her thigh and, satisfied, offered herself another glance-over before throwing on the velvet and silk robe she wore around their Velaris apartment when the nights cooled the city. The fabric rustled as she tied it around herself, cool against her bare skin.

After the end of the war, it’d taken them a few weeks to get back into the swing of the life they lived together, of course, and this night marked the month of their official reuniting. Which was why she intended to make it a night to remember.

Before, they’d barely had time to contemplate the time they had together or had the time to properly savor their hours in bed, not with the threat of Hybern hanging over their heads.

But now?

She strode to her dressing table, taking the time to line her eyes with dark kohl, set her hair loose about her shoulders, and fill in her lips with a rich red paint.  She kept make up at hand, of course, but rarely wore it anymore. At the first sight of it, she’d knew he’d assume—what? What would he think?  She rubbed her lips together, cleaning up the line slightly. Ordinarily she’d infuse it with the slightest bit of magic to prevent it from smudging or wearing off, but the prospect of seeing her husband, her mate, with her marks over his flesh. . .

Her thighs rubbed together at the thought of what he’d do when he saw her.  At first he’d be surprised, jealous even, that she’d gone to the shop without him. After that though, she had firm intentions to have him forget even his own name at the sight of her between his legs.

A light breeze drifted through the open window overlooking the inner courtyard of their apartment and chills rose on her arms.  She had a plan, of course, of what she’d do when he arrived home from his evening flight around the city. He was always the one attending to her needs before his (not that she was complaining, mind you), but she wanted to return the favor, and this was as good a time as any.

She reached down their bond for him, not to pull him back from his flight early, just for the casual reassurance that he was there on the other side.  They did it often enough nowadays that it’d become habit to set both of their anxieties at ease.

A teasing brush followed, dark and warm and content and she knew he’d be back soon.

So she went to her easel in the corner and the half-finished painting perched there, ever-damp paint capped and resting on the edge of her dresser.  Rhys had expanded the apartment to give her a studio to work in, but there were times when she preferred the more intimate space of their room, especially when it was him she was painting.

The one on the easel now hadn’t reached beyond its preliminary stages of body shapes and color blocks, but she took a moment to eye what she had so far, robe slipping over her bare legs as she perched on the stool in front of it. Cream and warm greys, Rhys’s tan body stretched over the dark sheets of their bed, wings relaxed and still powerful, the turn of his sleeping head, hair splayed out over the pillow.

She’d woken one morning to the view of him as such, legs tangled in the sheets she’d kicked off in the warm night, and decided that she never wanted the image to leave her mind.  After she’d sketched out his quick figure, he’d awoken to her lips on his throat, fingers brushing over the joints where his wings met his back, and the thick jut of him into the mattress.

Feyre warmed at the memory of him rolling on top of her, then down, laving at her breasts down to her navel, then farther until she was grasping the headboard to hold onto the edge of her world.  Shaking herself free of the memory, she was starting on defining the shapes of his wings when a flare of wind brushed her back and she sensed the light curtains at their balcony stirring in the wake of Rhys’s arrival.

But she didn’t turn to greet him, a smile tugging at her rogued lips as she dabbed along the line of muscle lining bone, a line she could trace if she were blind.  “How was your flight?”

“Good,” he said, almost breathless. “You would have loved to come, darling, there were herons just over the water and a mother and baby porpoise just close enough to the shore to see.” A smile tugged at her lips and she could sense him meandering in the room, the swish and crumple of his flying coat as he hung it on the peg by the window.

“Maybe I’ll come out tomorrow, then” she said through a wry grin, unable to hold it in, especially at the obvious excitement he had at the prospect of her coming out with him.

“It should be warm tomorrow, too, perfect flying weather.”

She studied her work without actually studying it, paying attention instead to her mate shift around the room, sit on the edge of the bed to loosen his shoes and place them neatly under his dresser, the heels lined up next to the other few pairs he kept in Velaris.

“How was your trip to the Rainbow? I looked for you but you must’ve been back already.”

She set down her brush. “Oh, I picked up something I think you’ll like.”

“You were talking about those new brushes the other day, I was wondering if you’d get them or not,” he said, half distracted, and when she rose and faced him, he was undoing the small buttons down the front of his tunic, the white shirt underneath already open over his collar bone.

“And I saw some pastels, I know you’ve never used them but I thought—” He paused when he glanced up, noticing her make up for the first time. “I thought you meant painting paint, not—” he said, eyebrows raised as his fingers froze on a button. “It looks good though.”

Feyre stepped around the stool, tugging at the ties to her robe. “I figured I’d complete the ensemble,” she said casually before letting it slide off her shoulders, revealing the outfit beneath.

There was half a moment that struck him speechless, jaw open.

“Like it?” she teased, smug.

There was a reason she’d chosen this particular one. The black chiffon skimmed over the curves she’d grown into in the past month, deep purple lace hugging tight to her breasts.  She watched his eyes trace the deep vee of the neckline, along the slender strap that followed the curve of her shoulder.

She’d foregone the angelic white and foreboding black in favor of colors more suited to the night, to their court: black and deep purple, silver lace and ribbon the color of starlight.  It made her feel like the High Lady she was, his equal, friend, mate in every sense.

She turned around, glancing over her shoulder to read his eyes at the low back, the lines of lace that left nearly every inch of her exposed.

His jaw snapped shut and in one second he winnowed the distance between them, so close she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck.

“Feyre, love,” he purred thickly and his finger skimmed up her arm, leaving a trail of chills in its wake.

One flick of his finger and the slender strap slid off her shoulder.  She could feel the heat of his body behind her even though they were barely touching and shuddered when knuckles drifted over her collar bone. Her nipple was already peaked in anticipation before he even reached it, and when he cupped her half-bare breast, her breath hitched.

“You look—” he bent to press his lips to her bare shoulder, the lightest kiss that had her heart fluttering in her chest “—absolutely delicious.”

It took everything she had to get ahold of herself and turn around in his arms, pushing up on her toes to meet his eager kiss.

His hand delved into her hair and cradled the back of her head as his tongue swept through her mouth.  She nudged him backwards, farther and farther till she felt the backs of his legs hit the bed.

She ran her hands up his chest, pushing him down. The look in his eyes was ravenous while he openly eyed her body in a way that made her feel beautiful and powerful all at once.  When she made it clear she wasn’t crawling into his lap as she usually might, an intrigued smirk crossed his face, eyebrow quirking up, and he leaned back on his hands.  His tongue reached out to brush his lips and she watched his eyes follow the lines of her body.

“You’d think you’d never seen me in my underwear,” she teased with an easy smirk, shifting closer between his thighs.

His teeth gleamed through his grin. “You love me.”

“And it’s a good thing, too.” He reached for her, head tilted up, and tugged her the rest of the way to him with two wide palms on her hips, sliding down to squeeze her ass.

“You went without me, though” he said while her hands slid through his hair, still ruffled from the wind.

“I think you’ll survive.” She shifted from foot to foot, well aware of his eyes drifting languorously down her body, the muscle she knew stretched taught beneath her skin, the curve of newly found hips and the healthy weight to her breasts.

On the other side of their bond, she could feel the pulses laced with adoration and lust that welled in him at the sight of her muscular legs, and the warmer, deeper tug when his gaze drifted between them to the scrap of deep violet lace at the apex of her thighs, pausing there.

 “Nothing else to say?” He pulled her ever so slightly closer as she finished unbuttoning his tunic, taking her time to drift her palms over the taught muscles of his pectorals beneath his thin shirt, nails digging into his shoulders when she pushed the garment the rest of the way off.

“How could I be so lucky to have you,” he murmured, catching her hand before it set on his shirt and kissing her upturned palm.  His violet eyes met hers and she nearly went under with the sudden warmth and love pulsing through their bond.

At one time she would have blushed, shrugged him off and changed the subject, but now she offered him a twist of her lips and pulled his hand to her, biting the tips of his fingers and leaving a smear of red in her wake.  “A smug, lucky prick is what you are.”

He laughed at that, a deep, warm sound that reverberated through her mind and sent heat to her core. She set at once on the buttons of his shirt and pushed that over his shoulders too, pushing him gently back on the bed. “Very lucky,” he murmured and tried to pull her up along with him but she slid from his light grasp and settled on her knees between his legs. 

“Patience is a virtue,” she warned with a playful click of her tongue.

“It’s probably a good thing I don’t have any virtue, then,” he scoffed, but leaned up on his elbows to watch her pull at his belt.  She was taking her own sweet time and he knew it.

The tent in his trousers seemed to know it as well.

When she finally did free him, he was already hard and wanting, the knowing look in his eyes entirely male.

“Please,” he murmured, reaching for her hand, and she knew he wanted her over him, riding him. “I want to see you.”

But she also knew that the minute she rose within reach, he’d have his hands on her, pleasuring her when he was the one who needed attention.

Not that she minded his fingers (or his more-than-capable tongue) but there were times that she wanted to attend to just him without the distraction of the pleasure he was so intent on giving her.  “It’s my turn to take care of you,” she insisted, and didn’t even bother to pull his flying leathers the rest of the way off, ducked down and took him in her mouth.

“Fuck,” he spit out, head falling back with a soft thud at her quick tongue sliding over him.

She swirled around the head once, taking with her hand what she couldn’t fit in her mouth.

“Feyre,” he breathed, hand coming down to thread through her hair, their bond suddenly stretched tight and throbbing between them.

He was smooth and hard under her tongue and when she dared take him as deep as she could, she felt him spit out a curse, thighs tightening around her.

After a few minutes she pulled back. “Just warn me when—”

But he’d found her hand braced on the bed next to his hips and was pulling her up even as he scooted further back onto the mattress. “Please, I just want to be in you. Feyre. . .” He palmed her breast and tilted his hips up into hers, “Darling.”

She was already flushed, completely soaked through the lace between her legs, and wanted nothing more than to oblige him.

She took ahold of his hand, hovering over his hips, and guided his fingers to the wetness between her thighs. “That’s what you do to me, Rhys,” she murmured, catching his eyes from under her the moment the rough pads of his fingers brushed the damp lace.

She was about to pull the underwear off, but he stopped her with a shake of his head and simply pushed it aside, fingers slipping through her folds and into her in one smooth stroke.  “I want to see you in it.”

A whimper escaped and she throbbed around him at the sudden stretch of two of his fingers in her. Maybe she should re think letting him have all the pleasure.

But as soon as they’d come, they were gone and he was lifting them to his mouth, licking the taste of her from his fingers and she bit her lip to keep sound from escaping at the sight of him.

Rhys’s hips bucked up when she grasped his cock, guiding him to her entrance with surety, easing down onto him.

The first stroke was always the best, the stretch of him inside her, filling her up while their bond pulsed between them.  And the sight of him under her, the High Lord of the Night Court with flushed, slick skin, fingers digging into her bare thighs as she rode him. . .

His hands roamed her body, catching on the chiffon and lace, and then she let out a small breathless noise when he suddenly sat up, grasping her in his lap so she wouldn’t fall, and ducked his head to her breast, finding her nipple through the sheer lace.

“Rhys.” Her head fell back at the steady roll of their hips.  With them fitted so closely together, her legs wrapped around his hips, she could feel every inch of him buried to the hilt inside her, and with every rock. .  . she let out a muffled moan, grinding down on him harder at the coils of fire it lifted through her body.

Her fingers tangled hard in his hair, holding him just as tightly as he did to her, as if they’d melt away without the other.

He tugged one of her straps down, baring her breast. “This fucking—” he let out a groan, flicking his tongue over her bare collar bone, tracing a wet line down the curve of her breast, grazing her nipple with his teeth.

“Show me how much you like it,” she said breathless, desperate for release, their hips growing desperate even with the intimate position. “Please.”

A growl tore through his throat and he bucked up into her.

“Yes.” She whimpered slightly and his hand dug into her hips while she leaned into him.

He fell onto his back and she braced her knees on the bed.

“I want to hear you,” he growled into her skin, biting at the column of her throat. “Feyre, I want to hear you scream.”

Noises escaped with each breath she released, louder when his hips snapped up into hers, pressing against the nerves just above where they were joined.

Their mouths found each other, a sloppy kiss more teeth than lips.

“What do you need?” he asked, breathless, a hand reaching between them before she shoved it away, eager to have his hips pounding into hers.

“What do you need?” she returned, too flushed and panting to do much taunting.

He groaned, tugging her lip between his teeth. “You coming around my cock.”

She couldn’t help the moan that escaped at that, eyes slipping shut and he tweaked her bare nipple, eliciting a hitch in her breath. 

“You like it when I talk to you, darling?” he purred, voice like velvet, hips relentless.  His legs were still in his pants but he didn’t seem to care.

She couldn’t even find the breath to speak, only tugged at their bond in insistence.

She knew he would’ve chuckled if he hadn’t been so desperate for release himself.  How he was even holding on for this long was beyond her.  Damn Illyrian males.

“You look beautiful,” he threw a memory her way, the image from his perspective of his hand tracing down her stomach, along the seam of her thigh.  “If I didn’t like this so damn much,” he grabbed a fistful of chiffon and lace at her hip, “I’d rip it off of you right now.”

She was writhing against him, tendrils of hair sticking to the nape of her neck, lost in the motions of them, the scent of his soap and sweat and the throbbing pulse of him rocking through her body, rising with every thrust.

“You’re my fucking queen,” he rasped and she opened her eyes, staring down into his and he was everywhere around her, arms around her back, wings splayed to her sides, in her, looking up at her, mouth open, red from her lips smudged on his chin, his throat.  Her name fell from his wicked lips, and when he reached between their bodies this time, she didn’t stop him.

It only took a brush of his thumb over her and she was shattering, crying out, arching against his body that pounded into her in three quick thrusts until he was spilling inside her. 

Pleasure tore through her core and her knees buckled over him.  She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the sea and citrus and sweat that clung to his skin.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, panting against the damp nape of her neck, still moving against her, slower, bringing them both down.  His warm hands caressed her sides in slow strokes until she realized she was sprawled out on top of him, and lifted herself up and off of him with a slick noise.

Her knees felt wobbly and when they readjusted so they could lay next to each other without his wings getting in the way, he was still looking at her outfit.

She arched slightly, running her hand over her bare breast and caught his disbelief with a smirk.

“Next time,” he groaned, twining his leg with hers and burying his face in her neck, “I’m going with you.”