17 Az and Elain? If you don't ship that then Feysand 13?
“following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck”
AN: I do like Elain and Az as brotp but no more. So feysand it is :) Hope you like it!
Post ACOWAR; Feyre is away, improving her fighting skills in the female Illyrian camp. She comes back to the cottage after a day of training, exhausted and ready for bed, but there’s someone waiting for her there :)
Feyre’s steps are slow and heavy as she makes her way to the small cottage on the outskirts of the Illyrian camp. Her body aches all over, down to the bones - she hasn’t felt so battered since the early days of her trainings with Cassian. Or her flying lessons with Azriel.
But that’s what you get for insisting on training with the two of the toughest commanders in the Illyrian army.
Ljena and Zamira certainly haven’t gone easy on her - not that she expected anything less when she asked is she could join their sparring sessions.
Feyre isn’t a High Lady when she’s around them or any of the females of the Illyrian army. She isn’t a High Lord’s mate. She’s who she has always been - a warrior, a huntress, a woman fighting for her family and for her court.
It feels good to be with them. It feels right.
The sun has long set over the mountains, the last faint rays dancing with the blues and purples of the sky. Feyre longs for the moment she’s abed in the tiny bedroom in the attic of her tiny cottage, watching the stars emerge in the dark.
The thought of stars makes her long for something…someone else as well.
And just as if he’s sensed her need for him, Rhys is standing there, in the kitchen, when she enters the cottage.
“Rhys,” she lets out short of breath, surprised by the sight of him leaned over the steaming pot and busy stirring whatever’s inside.
With a loud huff, he blows away the unruly lock of hair that’s fallen into his eye, then turns to face her. “Hello Feyre, darling,” he says lazily, his raspy voice a caress against her skin.
“What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to meet with Tarquin?”
Rhys nods at that. “Indeed. I winnowed here for the night,” he explains, putting the pot aside and distinguishing the fire underneath. Next thing Feyre knows, she’s locked in the warm embrace of his arms, his nose buried in her hair. “How could I conduct a productive meeting with the sounds of your growling stomach carrying through the bond?”
“Rhys!” A outraged shriek leaves her mouth as she pulls away and swats him across the chest. Then, something occurs to her. “Wait…you cooked?”
“No need to sound so surprised,” he feigns offence. “I do know how to cook even if I don’t do it often.”
Feyre shoots disbelieving look his way at that and Rhys admits, sighing, “Even if I never do it. Fine, Cassian showed me how to do it.”
A smile curves Feyre’s lips as she imagines Cassian and Rhys in the townhouse kitchen, the commander’s glee as he orders her mate around. She doesn’t even notice when she slightly sways on her feet.
But Rhysand does.
“Sit-,” he demands, clumsily filling a bowl and placing it on the table, “eat your stew.”
With a knowing smile still adorning her face, Feyre falls onto the nearest chair and - too ravenous for a careful approach - takes a mouthful of stew.
It’s not…bad. To distract herself from the slightly too salty taste, she asks Rhys about everyone back home. He clasps her free hand in his, visibly starved for her touch as she is for his, and goes on to tell her about everything and everyone.
Like Mor’s prolonged visit to the Winter Court and Elain’s lessons with Amren and all the latest Nesta’s dealing as emissary to the mortal lands.
No to mention her (slowly) blooming friendship with Az and Cassian’s sudden love for literature.
Feyre listens and it feels like home, with all the little snippets of their lives and with her mate’s gentle fingers stroking her hand, with the warmth of his breath on her neck and face as he murmurs into her ear.
When she finishes her meal, Rhys makes quick work of washing the dishes and takes her into his arms, carrying her all the way to her tiny bedroom.
There’s no rush in his movements as he peels off her fighting leathers and undergarments, one by one, and proceeds to take off his own clothes. “Bath?” he asks, motioning towards the bathroom door, his hand drawing a soothing pattern along her spine.
And Feyre knows she should, it would probably help with her aching muscles but -
“Uh-uh,” she mumbles, shaking her head, “too tired right now.”
“In the morning then.” Sweeping off the covers, Rhys settles himself on the bed and opens his arms invitingly.
Feyre follows him and drapes herself along his body, enjoying skin-to-skin contact, basking in their closeness. “You know -,” she starts, then seals her mouth over his, kissing him leisurely, “I don’t think I’m too tired to ravish you though.”
Rhys arches a brow, daring her. “Oh, really.” His arms circle her back, drawing her even closer, his fingers kneading the aching flesh and muscles.
“Hmm,” Feyre hums. His lips brush over hers, then trail down her jaw and neck. It feels good to be with him. It feels right. She closes her eyes - just for a second - and revels in the attention she’s showered with, in Rhys kissing her pulse point, in his fingers rubbing that particularly sore spot just under her right shoulder blade, in -
Feyre can’t tell when exactly her head falls into its place in the crook of his neck and her breathing evens out. The last she’s aware of is Rhysand’s soft whisper in her ear.
I’ve missed you.
“I’ve missed you too,” she says in the morning when she wakes up in his arms and realizes it was not a dream. “Now how about that bath?”
Her mate seems to agree with the idea. Their joined laughter echoes through the cottage as he scoops her against his chest once more and rushes to the bathroom.
When Rhys asks about the stew, she wants to tell him that it was too salty - she really does. Nonetheless, she omits that part diplomatically.
It’s best to wait until he’s done with her back massage.
Comment here if you’d like :)
