( it's breathtaking, the way it always is, when feyre mounts him. the clumsiness of her motions only make it more — satisfying when she sits down on his cock, rhys immediately letting out a hiss of ) Shit — ( before his hands clamp down on her hips, keeping her stationary for a moment, while he gathers himself. he has a thousand memories in fifty years of laying like this beneath amarantha, pathetic and vulnerable, pretending to enjoy it while they both knew the inevitable truth. he used to dream about killing her. choking her, something intimate and personal and painful, like every stretch of her cunt, every invasion, every cruel, dirty word that ever left her mouth.
he always made it good for her. he had to. he became well fluent in the art of fucking, vulgar and racy, until sex was like breathing — unconscious, unthinking, something that his body did to assure its place in the hierarchy. he wasn't acting as a whore, he was a whore, and he was good at it. good enough to trick everyone. good enough to stick close. good enough that he never faltered for a moment, never forgot his place, never stuttered on a stroke or fumbled a thrust.
he fumbles now. it's messy, his adoration of feyre. he forgets every single lesson in lovemaking he learned under the mountain, and meets her gracelessness with his own, a rattling breath knocking loose every emotion in his chest. he doesn't hide from feyre. he doesn't give her the whore that's good at what he does — he just gives her himself, blinking glassy eyes up at her as she descends on him, reaching hungry hands up to cup her breasts, to slide against the rise of her belly as his cock nudges against her inner walls. night sky gathers and clouds around them, halfway to concealing rhys — but feyre stays radiant, vibrant in the dark. his one guiding light. his north star.
it takes no time at all before he tosses his hips up in a buck, a loud, aching moan out of his throat as he empties himself inside of her, hips giving gentle bounces as he comes, filling her up. breathing a mess of aborted, rough gasps, he helps himself up into sitting, strong arms enveloping his wife. dragging her as near and he can, still pumping hot streams of come inside her. )
Feyre. ( he presses his face to her tits, breathing raggedly, roughly, rubbing his face against her skin. ) Feyre, Feyre, Feyre.
( and then, with no one but the stars to witness, the high lord weeps. )
cw: sexual abuse mentions
he always made it good for her. he had to. he became well fluent in the art of fucking, vulgar and racy, until sex was like breathing — unconscious, unthinking, something that his body did to assure its place in the hierarchy. he wasn't acting as a whore, he was a whore, and he was good at it. good enough to trick everyone. good enough to stick close. good enough that he never faltered for a moment, never forgot his place, never stuttered on a stroke or fumbled a thrust.
he fumbles now. it's messy, his adoration of feyre. he forgets every single lesson in lovemaking he learned under the mountain, and meets her gracelessness with his own, a rattling breath knocking loose every emotion in his chest. he doesn't hide from feyre. he doesn't give her the whore that's good at what he does — he just gives her himself, blinking glassy eyes up at her as she descends on him, reaching hungry hands up to cup her breasts, to slide against the rise of her belly as his cock nudges against her inner walls. night sky gathers and clouds around them, halfway to concealing rhys — but feyre stays radiant, vibrant in the dark. his one guiding light. his north star.
it takes no time at all before he tosses his hips up in a buck, a loud, aching moan out of his throat as he empties himself inside of her, hips giving gentle bounces as he comes, filling her up. breathing a mess of aborted, rough gasps, he helps himself up into sitting, strong arms enveloping his wife. dragging her as near and he can, still pumping hot streams of come inside her. )
Feyre. ( he presses his face to her tits, breathing raggedly, roughly, rubbing his face against her skin. ) Feyre, Feyre, Feyre.
( and then, with no one but the stars to witness, the high lord weeps. )