Chapter 55 of A Court of Mist and Fury - A Man-Fic Retelling.

CHAPTER Fifty-Five - Grubs up

It was a long story. A bunch of stuff that was frankly hard to believe. The war. The near-death experiences. The fact that she was a pretty average chick, alone in the midst of some magical fairy kingdom was, in the end, probably going to take some expensive meds and serious overtime in therapy to untangle. But she thought of none of that now. 

Rhys was back and had accepted her bowl of 'consent' soup. Which meant that any minute now she was going to be knee deep in that fairy bod of his. Or more to the point he would be knee deep in her bod. Rawr...

She caught herself before her involuntary groan was too audible and noticed that it had been totes silent for like ages. She began to wonder why people didn't bring her pre-fuck buffets on the reg, but she stopped herself before drifting off on another train of food-sex related thought.

Finally, he finished eating, which was great because just watching him slurp quietly at his bowl had her twitching in her knickers.

There was a back and forth between the two. It was ok. She never found males that articulate when they had massive hard-ons (god she hoped it was massive), but she preferred any old words to complete silence. Wait was he crying?

She smacked her lips firmly against his. She didn't want this to get all emotional before he got the job done.

This seemed to work because next thing she was flat on her back against the table and he was getting all handsy with her tits. The cardigan came off pretty deftly thereafter and he was doing stuff with this mouth and hands to her upper torso, while she appreciated the fact that it wasn't too cold in the kitchen.

There was a tonne of paints on the table which had started getting up in everything. Hair, clothes, not-clothes. Rhys found his hand covered in paint and stopped to draw some childish shit or other on her stomach, accompanied by an equally childish line. Why was it so hard to keep a man on task?

She lost her train of thought again as Rhysand relieved himself of his shirt. Those tensing chest muscles scored by winding tattoos while the apex of wings crested high over his enormous shoulders. I mean yes, he was a dude with fairy wings. But a hot dude. So thoroughly covered in tattoos and leather it just worked. Like an angsty teenager had taken a sharpie to her MyLittlePony collection... and then wanted to shag it.

The socks and stockings were the usual grunt-accompanied hassle, but she was distracted enough by his tensing arm muscles as he struggled that she didn't mind. Besides, he made up for it pretty quickly as apparently the soup wasn't quite filling enough, if you know what I mean.

She must have been experiencing more anticipation than even she realised, because after an incomprehensibly short time on the Tongue-Train, her lady parts arrived in Electric-Station. The shuddering orgasm wracked her body and she swiftly called her man to attention. It was dick-o'clock. But Rhys, lost in his own world of sweaty-thigh ear-muffs, did not hear her over the rhythmic nom-nom-nomming. Moments later, Feyre met yet another mythical creature, the multiple orgasm. 

The swirling storm in her loins contorted and mixed with that involuntary feeling of oh my god touch my sensitive clit again and  oh my god stop before I stab you in the eye! She limply manoeuvred Rhys' head and body upward and imagined him entering her right there, sprawled as she was on the shambolic table. But he instead grabbed her body and in one swift motion lifted her, legs wrapped around his waist, into his arms. Fucking woooof! 

Take me, thrust my back against the wall and pin me to it like a roster to a caulk-board, she thought. Realising she should have said it as she was disappointingly carried past the kitchen altogether, to her soft bed. Man, there were a lot of different emotions to knocking boots.

Despite the intensity of his tattoos and bulk of his knotted muscles Rhys was determined to be gentle with her. That would have to do... this time.

She lay there, legs contorting and probing at his standing body, as crab's claws grabbing and directing their prey into her hungry aperture. Rhys unbuckled belt, and brace and sheath all in one dexterous motion and his pants and weapons slid to the floor. Feyre made a mental note to get back to those skilful hands in the future. Then she saw it. She let out a deep, guttural sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was a big'un.

He teased at her. Prolonging each second before he made his throbbing deposit into her velvety love purse, as she in-turn, tightened her leg-snare. The gates were forced. Again and again her slippery castle was stormed by his rigid horde. Play-time was over, this was battle. 

Sweat glistened over Rhys' body and mingled with her own. The scent of hot skin, sex and hard pounding combined from each into their own united fuck-funk. She had already orgasmed twice, her body and mind were completely rewired. Now all she could think of was mastery over Rhys' massive manhood. 

It's size seemed a challenge. How could a petite thing like her control such and immense thing. Her own excitement, her own pleasure turned on how quickly and how intensely she could unleash the potent love-seed from within it. And she was not disappointed. His last thrust threatened to cleave her in twain as he gave her everything to the hilt. He twitched and convulsed as inside her, he put the mmmmmm in mate. Collapsing into each other they lay there, no one thinking about the mess they made in her kitchen. Or, the mess they made in her kitchen...

Importantly, there was a bunch of cuddling and talking after this. Which is good because no matter how insatiably lusty she felt, deep down, Feyre knew that if there wasn't this lengthy bout of limb-origami and platitudes, the whole event would have been ruined. Like eating the most amazing meal at the most romantic restaurant and finding out later that your waiter is super racist. So again, Rhys was a cuddler and talker.

The End.