Chapter Text
They had been discussing Feyre’s shapeshifting powers when it had happened.
Feyre had mused aloud about the possibilities of the power bestowed upon her by the High Lord of Spring. Ever since she’d awoken Under the Mountain, newly Fae, she had only ever used it to summon Illyrian wings, and once during the War, when she’d transformed into Ianthe in a desperate bid to rescue Elain from Hybern's camp.
Since then, she hadn’t given much thought to the experience—the sensation of her skin warping and stretching, her bones lengthening and shifting until her body was no longer her own. She’d joked to Rhys that she might shift into anyone—perhaps even him. At her teasing words, she’d felt it—a brief flicker through the bond, so fleeting that she wasn’t entirely sure if she had imagined it or not.
But no, it had been real—the sudden surge of lust from Rhysand, the heated glint in his violet eyes before he quickly looked away and raised his shields a split second later.
Feyre had been consumed with thoughts of his reaction for days. She knew what he wanted from that brief image that had flashed in her mind. She’d be lying to herself if she said it didn’t intrigue her. Her skin felt hot and tight just thinking about it.
Tonight.
Tonight, she’d give Rhysand what he had been too afraid to ask for.
Feyre shivered in anticipation, at the desire the skittered along her skin and pooled low in her belly. She smiled to herself and went to prepare for what the night might bring.
***
Feyre stood naked in front of the large mirror in her and Rhysand’s shared closet. Her heart was racing in anticipation of what she had planned. She’d spent the day talking herself out of it, and then back into it, until she was an anxious puddle of nerves and restless energy. Rhys had asked her several times if everything was alright, and she’d quickly dismissed him, offering up nonsensical excuses that had him tilting his head, his eyes flickering with worry.
Feyre wanted this. Was certain Rhys wanted it, too. She hadn’t misinterpreted what she’d seen down the bond. She wouldn’t let her nerves get the best of her.
Feyre took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She brought the image of Rhys to the forefront of her mind and let it wash over her chilled skin.
She pictured the sculpted lines of his body, the curve of his jaw and the twinkling starlight in his eyes, his inky black hair.
When she opened her eyes again and looked into the mirror, it was her mate who looked back at her.
She watched as his mouth fell open in surprise and then promptly snapped it shut. The reflection mimicked her.
Every detail was perfect. She supposed that every inch of his body, of his soul, had been imprinted on her heart long ago. She knew him better than she knew herself.
Feyre smiled at herself and felt her heart flutter at the staggering beauty she beheld in the mirror. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe how much she loved Rhysand. She would do anything for him.
Anything at all.
Feyre grabbed the robe hanging from Rhysand’s side of the closet and slid it on, marveling at the dense, rippling muscles that now covered her entire body.
He was so big. So powerful. Her blood was quickly heating and something tightened between her legs. The sensation was bizarre, and she averted her gaze before she truly lost her nerve.
Feyre took one more deep breath, turned away from the mirror, and then strolled out of the closet and into their bedroom.
***
Feyre found Rhysand lounging on their bed with a book, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one muscled arm resting behind his head.
She made her way across the room on silent feet and came to a stop on the opposite corner. She watched Rhys with bated breath, waiting for him to notice her.
A moment later, his eyes snapped up, and then widened. Rhys’s mouth fell open as he stared at her. Or rather, at himself, standing in a silk robe at the foot of their monstrously large bed.
When she offered him a crooked grin, he snapped his book shut and stood.
“Feyre…” He seemed to be at a loss for words. He swallowed once, twice, opened his mouth and then closed it again.
She waited patiently, trying to sense any aversion, any displeasure, through the bond, but all she could feel was his racing heart. And his interest, mingled with a faint, but growing flicker of lust.
Good. She hadn’t been wrong.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked. His eyebrows were comically high on his forehead and his eyes were still wide. She studied his flushed face and watched as his eyes traced over her own.
She wondered what it was like—to come face to face with oneself in the flesh. How odd it must be for him, and yet, she could sense that he was aroused. Very aroused. It gave her the confidence she needed to step forward and clear her throat. She grinned and let him see the playful mischief in her eyes.
“Don’t you want to know how you taste?” Ferye asked innocently. The sound of her voice was a familiar croon in her ears, and yet not her own. “Don’t you want to know how all that long, thick steel feels against my tongue, down my throat?”
The deep timbre of her voice tickled her throat and she gave her mate a playful smirk, the one that made her blood heat—made her wet between her thighs.
She marveled at the wanton desire on Rhys’s face as he looked back at her, his eyes roving lazily over her tall, muscled form.
No—not her form, he was looking at himself, his eyes so glazed with lust that Feyre felt her own cock harden in response. Her mind spun at the confusing thought. She tried and failed to keep track of where she began and Rhysand ended. There was little distinction now, and she let herself sink deeper into the role.
Feyre rolled her now broad shoulders, flexed her long, corded arms, delighting at the simmering power within them. The heavy weight between her legs had her heart pumping faster. She wanted to use it. Wanted Rhys to feel the delicious pleasure of having his own cock inside him. Wanted him to feel what she felt every time he claimed her.
Feyre let the silk robe drop to the floor and shivered as the cool night’s air caressed her bare skin. Her mate’s skin.
A low growl of approval rumbled from deep in Rhysand’s chest as he took a step towards her, so utterly lost in the fantasy she had brought to life for him. His eyes were wholly dark with hunger as they drifted from her face…lower, until they locked on the thickening length between her legs. His legs.
Feyre wondered if there was something wrong with her that the blatant desire she saw in his eyes as he looked at himself only made her blood run hotter. Rhys was looking at her, at himself, like he wanted to fuck. And she liked it.
Feyre was utterly consumed by the wild look on his handsome face—mesmerized by the way his eyes roamed over her, wearing his skin. It was erotic, bordering on obscene, and she reveled in it.
Feyre grinned like a fiend and it seemed to snap his control.
Rhys crossed the room in three quick strides and reached for her, but Feyre stopped him with a hand to his broad chest.
She was in control tonight. She was the High Lord of Night. And she would make him bow.
Feyre gave him a teasing, crooked grin.
“Strip,” Feyre commanded him.
She let some of her own dominance slip into the low, sensual demand. Rhysand’s desire pulsed down the bond as his fingers came to the buttons of his black shirt. She watched him undress with a lazy smile on her face. His shirt fell to the ground, and then his pants. Feyre held her breath when his hands came to the waistband of the tight briefs, his cock already straining against the fabric.
He paused, waiting. Feyre knew he could’ve magicked his clothes away, but she sensed he was giving her time to back out, to put a stop to this before it truly began, no matter how badly he wanted it.
Are you sure?
The hesitant, restrained words were a low caress against her mind.
That wouldn’t do. Rhys needed to know how much she wanted this, too. So Feyre dropped her shields completely and let him feel it.
He sucked in a breath as the scent of her burning desire filled the room. The bulge in his briefs grew larger, and then he was quickly dragging them down his legs and kicking them aside.
Feyre drank in his naked form, all that rippling muscle wrapped in smooth brown skin. His cock was hard and long against his stomach and her mouth watered at the sight. She wanted to lick him. Devour him.
But not yet. That would come later.
Rhys stepped closer until their chests were nearly flush.
“Kiss me,” she ordered in his voice.
Rhys’s chest heaved in response. Her night-kissed power swirled around the room and danced with his, and she watched as his eyes glazed over fully. He leaned forward, as if to brush their lips together, but Feyre halted his chest again. She slowly shook her head with a wicked smile.
She put both hands on his shoulders and shoved him down. Her very bones tingled with exhilaration at the power and strength she now possessed.
Rhysand’s eyes were wide as he dropped to his knees before her. He looked up at her, at himself, with utter devotion, mouth slightly agape.
Feyre’s skin caught fire under that gaze, at how badly he wanted this—needed this. Her cock jutted out, thick and painfully hard, the tip already glistening with precum. She wanted to lick it off herself, and the lewd thought had her body trembling with heady desire. She’d never been more aroused.
“Kiss me,” she ordered again.
Rhysand obeyed.
He dragged that wicked tongue all the way from the base of her cock to the swollen tip. And then, with his eyes on hers, he flicked it over the slit, licking away the beaded drop of moisture. A husky moan slipped out of his throat and Feyre nearly came from the sound alone.
Feyre groaned as he sucked the broad head of her cock into his mouth and she let her head fall back and her eyes flutter closed. He bobbed his head, taking her deeper down his throat and Feyre’s knees almost buckled at the foreign sensation, one that should’ve been impossible for her to experience. If this is what he felt every time she took him in her mouth she swore to herself she’d do it more often. It was heavenly, all-consuming. Rhys sucked her harder and she groaned again and let her hand fall to rest on his head.
She needed more. Needed it harder. Faster.
Her eyes snapped open and locked on his. She rocked her hips forward and watched, transfixed, as her cock slid down his throat. She could see it beneath his skin and did it again—and then growled with pleasure as his eyes began to water.
“You’re taking me so well,” she murmured in that sultry, deep voice. Rhys preened at the praise. Feyre wiped away a tear that had slipped free and brought it to her tongue. She forced her cock deeper down his throat.
Not enough.
More, more, more. It was a song in her blood.
Feyre’s fingers tangled in his hair and she tightened her fist, pulling at the roots. She rocked forward again, harder, and he swallowed her down greedily. Feyre couldn’t look away at the sight of him on his knees, her cock sliding past those pretty, full lips. Technically, his own cock. Rhys was perfect—so devastatingly beautiful with his mouth wrapped around her cock. Perfect.
Feyre’s hand tightened further and she quirked a dark brow in question. Rhys pulled her deeper still, so deep that his nose brushed against the trail of dark hair on her pelvis. He knew what she wanted—was offering permission.
Feyre’s restraint snapped.
She gripped his hair tightly and thrusted her hips forward again, setting a grueling pace.
Feyre fucked his face, yanking with abandon at the silky strands, and Rhys met each thrust with a low moan that reverberated along her skin and made her dizzy with pleasure. She could die from this, she thought. Die from the sheer pleasure.
Feyre dropped her other hand to his hair and dragged his head forward as she snapped her hips, shoving her length down his throat until he was choking on it. The sound only spurred her on, and soon she was completely lost to the lust raging within her.
Feyre could feel her release already building low in her belly, at the base of her spine.
When she felt his warm hands grip the back of her thighs to pull her closer, and those long, wicked fingers brushed the sensitive skin of her balls, she felt it crest.
She jerked harder, faster, chasing the pleasure that was just out of reach. She could feel his saliva dripping down her legs, could see the tears streaming down his cheeks as he choked on his own cock. It made her feral.
He squeezed her thighs again, and then brushed his fingers against the split of her backside, against the puckered skin of her hole. That silken touch had her finally splintering apart.
Feyre’s hips bucked as release barreled through her. She spilled herself down his throat, her entire body shuddering at the force of it as it rolled through her in waves. Rhys swallowed every drop of it, kept his lips wrapped around her cock as it twitched and pulsed, until it was utterly spent.
Feyre let out a loud, deep groan and then blinked in surprise. She’d nearly forgotten she was in Rhysand’s body, so far gone in her pleasure that all she could think about was his hot mouth wrapped around her.
Feyre looked down at him where he still knelt on the floor.
He smirked at her and then licked his lips and she couldn’t stop the rumbling growl from slipping past her lips. She hadn’t known her mate was such a freak. Feyre found that she liked it. Liked him like this—completely at her mercy.
Feyre hauled him up so they were eye to eye and then dragged his face to hers. Their lips crashed together and he opened for her instantly. She swept her tongue against his and he moaned into her mouth. She could taste her—his—release on his tongue and it made her wild, desperate. She clawed at his back and dragged him closer, fucking his mouth with her tongue. He moaned against her lips and slid his hands over her shoulders, down her back and then gripped her hips tightly. What did it feel like, for him, to hold himself in his hands? To swallow down his own spend? She shivered in delight at the vulgar thought.
Dark tendrils of night swirled around the room as they devoured each other. She wanted more, still. Would never get tired of this, of him.
More.
Feyre finally pulled back, gasping for breath.
She dragged Rhys by the back of the neck to the bed and pushed him down.
“Get on your hands and knees,” Feyre ordered him. She was drunk on it—the raw dominance in her deep, sensual voice, the power in her hands. Utterly drunk on the way he obeyed her every word without question.
A tremor rolled through Rhys’s naked body and another intense wave of his desire thundered down the bond as he crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees.
He was loving the surrender. The submission. Seemed to love that it was himself who was manhandling him and bossing him around. Freak, indeed. She smiled at him with all of her teeth and the look he gave her was bordering on reverence. How long had he been fantasizing about this? Had he ever imagined it was his own body beneath him, when he slid his cock inside of her? She was surprised the thought didn’t bother her.
No. It made her want to wring every drop of pleasure out of him like he did for her, until he was a weeping, panting mess. His cock was throbbing against his stomach, desperate for release. And she would give it to him.
With a wave of her hand, Feyre conjured the floor to ceiling mirror from the closet and let her magic lean it against the wall carefully. She wanted to watch—wanted Rhysand to watch, to see the look in her eyes—his own eyes—as she claimed him.
Only for her, for his mate, would he submit so thoroughly.
Feyre climbed onto the bed behind him and settled on her knees. Their violet eyes met in the mirror. She smiled at him, and the grin he offered in return was identical in every way. She chuckled at the absurdity of it, and the sound was low and rich and sent a shiver down her spine.
Feyre pushed him down onto his elbows so his ass was in the air, ready for her. She knocked a knee against each of his legs, spreading him wider, so his entire backside was on display.
She had never seen him like this, and wondered if he’d ever been with a male—wondered if the first male he would fuck would be himself. The sight of him so vulnerable made her cock twitch.
Feyre smoothed her hands down his spine, over the curve of his ass and let them come to rest at his hips. Her eyes went to the mirror again and she found him watching her, his gaze dark and hungry. He wanted this. She could see it on his face, feel it down the bond. He wanted it bad.
The knowledge urged her on and her cock hardened again, already eager for more.
Feyre’s breath came faster as her heart started to race. She let Rhysand’s overwhelming desire seep into her skin, wrap around her limbs and heart until she was drowning in it. She wanted to bite him. Lick him. Taste him.
Feyre leaned down and dragged her tongue across his tight hole. Rhys moaned and jerked at the sudden intimate touch. She did it again and then reached through his legs and gripped him at the base of his cock. Feyre tightened her fist and pushed her tongue against his hole again, teasingly. Coaxingly. The guttural sound that escaped Rhysand’s lips had her chuckling darkly. She rather liked being in control, teasing him.
Feyre watched herself in the mirror—watched Rhysand—as she stroked him through his legs. His cock was leaking onto the bed, his muscles trembling in pleasure at every stroke of her broad hand. His hand. The lines between them blurred further.
Feyre dragged her hand up his cock again and swirled it around the tip, the movement familiar to her, though the weight of him felt different in her large hand. It felt good.
While she worked him, she let her other hand slide over the round curve of his ass and along the crease. Feyre studied his face, drank in his reaction, as her finger brushed against his hole. She nearly moaned when he rocked back against her. So eager.
Feyre summoned the small vat of oil she had gathered in preparation and lathered her fingers thoroughly. She spilled some on his body for good measure. Her hand returned to his ass and she slid her fingers along the slit, massaging and spreading the oil until he was gleaming and ready.
Their eyes locked once more and she slowly pushed a finger inside him. He let out a shuddering breath and Feyre’s heart squeezed at how beautiful he was. She wanted to please him, make him feel as good as he made her feel. Her eyes drifted up, and she watched Rhys again, only it was her movements he mimicked in the mirror. She pulled the finger out slowly and then added a second, watching him fuck himself with his fingers. His face was flushed, reddened lips parted, pupils blown wide. No, those were her fingers, her face. Her mind reeled and she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She pushed her fingers in deep and then curled them against his inner walls, searching for that sensitive spot within him. He clenched around her, shuddering.
“You’re doing so well,” she crooned in his deep voice and he groaned in response. “Almost ready to take your High Lord’s cock.”
She couldn’t believe her own ears—couldn’t believe the filthy words that were coming out of her mouth—but she was too far gone to care. Feyre dragged her other hand up his cock again and he moaned again, low and deep, and the sound had her desperate for more. It was like music in her ears.
“More,” Rhys begged her, panting into the sheets beneath him.
She scissored her fingers inside of him, opening him up further, and then slowly drew them out. She quickly coated her cock in oil and then lined it up against his ass.
“Look at me, Rhys.” Her order thundered around the room. His eyes locked on hers and she nodded in approval. “I want you to watch,” she said in his voice, and her own stomach clenched in response. Rhysand’s face was flushed as he nodded silently.
Feyre watched in the mirror as she, the kneeling Rhysand, slowly pushed the tip of his cock inside the male beneath him, inside himself, just past that tight ring of muscle. Her mind spun as it played out. She was utterly transfixed by the tremor that rolled through his body and the muscles that rippled in the mirror. Rhysand’s hole squeezed the tip of her cock tightly and it took all of her restraint not to sink into him in one powerful stroke.
Her mate’s chest was heaving as he clenched around her. A string of glistening arousal dripped from his cock and onto the bed beneath him.
Feyre withdrew slowly and then pushed back in, deeper, and they both moaned in unison, the sounds indistinguishable. She did it again, until she was seated to the hilt inside him and then paused to let him adjust.
The scene in the mirror was deliciously obscene. Rhysand was bent over the bed, his ass in the air. Rhysand was kneeling above him, his cock seated deep in his ass, two hands gripping his hips tightly, skin shining with sweat.
Feyre stared and stared at herself—but it was her mate who looked back at her. Two Rhysands on the bed, both trembling with desire. Her stomach clenched tightly and she had to leash her slipping control before she came right then and there.
But to get to watch…to fuck Rhysand as himself…she hadn’t realized how erotic it would be, how utterly feral it would make her.
“Feyre, please move,” Rhys groaned beneath her. The desperate plea snapped her out of her reverie. She withdrew her cock and then rocked forward, hissing with pleasure.
“Gods, you’re so tight,” she moaned.
She fell into a steady pace, getting used to the movement, and watched as Rhysand’s cock slid in and out of his tight hole. It was the most delicious thing she had ever seen.
Her eyes returned to the mirror and she stared at her mate as he slowly came undone beneath her. He pushed his hips back to meet each thrust and their skin slapped together, the only sound to be heard beyond their quickening breath.
“Rhys,” she breathed his name, and the sound of it spoken in his deep voice had her release building again.
“Again,” Rhysand ground out beneath her, pushing his hips back hard enough that she had to grip him for purchase.
“You want to hear your own name on your lips as you come?” Feyre purred and let her hand snake around him and fist his cock once more. Rhys groaned into the sheets.
“Feyre,” he said her name on a gasp as she squeezed his length.
“Beg your High Lord,” she crooned. Dark power flickered around them. She was drowning in it, in the power she held over him.
“Please. Say it again,” he pleaded in a guttural voice. Her release built further, swelling inside of her, and she knew she had only seconds. Her cock hammered into him. “Please.”
“Rhysand,” she moaned his name again, low and deep, and squeezed the tip of his cock. She watched him shatter apart beneath her with a hoarse shout. The sight of him spurting onto the bed sent her spilling over the edge along with him.
Stars exploded behind her eyes and her hips jerked as she emptied herself inside him. She shuddered as wave after wave of pleasure surged through her, until she was entirely spent. She kept her eyes on the mirror throughout, marveling at the sight.
They collapsed in a heap on the bed, sweaty and sticky with both of their releases.
It took several minutes before her heart finally slowed. She rolled off of Rhys and glanced over at him. He was already asleep and she smiled to herself.
Feyre groaned as she sat up and grabbed his arm. She winnowed them a second later to the already steaming bath she’d had prepared earlier in the evening, kept warm with a small measure of magic.
Rhys hissed and then sighed as he sunk into the hot water.
Feyre slowly felt her body shrink as her bones receded and her hair lengthened, scalp and skin tingling, until she was back in her female body. She dunked under the water and let it wash away the evidence of their joining.
She poked her head above the water and her eyes found Rhys. He was leaning his head back against the edge of the large pool with his eyes closed. She floated over to him and slid into his lap.
Then she lathered her hands with soap and slid them into his thick, dark hair.
She took her time cleaning him, and when she was done, she helped him out of the bath and dried him off. They stumbled back to their bedroom, where the bed was already waiting with clean sheets.
Rhys and Feyre both sighed contentedly as they fell into bed. She turned on her side to face him and he cracked a violet eye open. She smiled at him and then felt a pulse of warm love down the bond. She giggled, and soon the room was filled with the sound of their soft laughter.
“Come here,” he murmured. Rhys pulled her against his chest and kissed the top of her head. Feyre settled into his arms and let his steady warmth rock her to sleep.
They were both out cold within seconds.