Warnings: lil angsty, mostly floof
Prompt #27: “I love you, you asshole.”
It had been so long, 88 days. You pretended you weren’t counting, but as you stepped into your living space through the thick metal doors, the numbers added up in your head. He said not to expect for him to return. You had to pretend that you agreed to not think about the harsh thumps of his metal boots that hit the cold hard floor each time he came to find sanctuary in your arms. You had lied, saying that you wouldn’t miss the warm skin of his calloused hands running through your hair.
But you lay awake amidst the cold metal of your bedroom, the silk sheets wrapped around you. You were so close to sleep, one thought away from drifting into the calmness of sleep.
But the metal doors closed with a slam, an echo that bounced around your metal quarters rather violently. The ache in Ren’s his jaw grew noticed from the clench of his teeth. The pain in his back throbbing from the heavy weight of his helmet. His neck stretched out as his gloved fingers jumbled with the buttons below his jaw, a hiss sounding as the grips released form his mask before he grew it across the room with a loud clang.
You stare at Ren’s haunting figure against the hallway wall, dark and elevated as he paced through the living space. His menacing shadow dragged across the floor with heavy steps with tired, dreary eyes. His chest heaved. The air in his lungs dry and cold. And although Ren was more than exhausted, the hum in his ears and the ache in his palms still appeared, the force pounding through his veins.
He felt your heartbeat rise, the covers pull against your body as you sat up to listen to the sound of his thick boots pound against the metal floor. You removed yourself from the warm comfort of your bed. He could feel the chill run up your legs as your feet met the cold floor, making your way towards the doorframe.
There he was. As he fumbled with his tunic he struggled to remove the black, thick fabric. His chest moved rapidly, his breathing through the dampness of his teeth. He growled as he finally removed his tunic and tossed it across the room with a growl. So there he stood in his black tank top, the dampness of his skin clinging to the thin fabric.
His hands gripped his lightsaber at his waistband. The thick metal stinging the palms of his hands as he gripped it harshly. Pulling it from the safety of his waist, he ignited it. The hum echoing across the room, the crackling light casting a shadow over his prominent face. His chest arose and deflated slowly, his nostrils flaring as a sudden eruption poured into the empty slot of his memory. With a cry, his lightsaber flew across the room to meet the viewport window. He screamed, a violent, deep sob that vibrated through his chest. The ache in his back grew noticed and he winced. The lump in his throat and the soreness of his eyes causing his breath to become short spurts of air.
Suddenly, his ears hummed and his heartbeat grew thicker. You were near.
His head shot towards the doorway where you stood in your nightgown, the fabric clinging to your body. His eyes met yours as they were swollen and red. He ran to you. His body colliding with yours as his swollen lips met the nape of your neck.
His arms wrapped around your torso tightly, his finger inching towards your hair as he took in the smell of your freshly washed hair. Your head rested against his chest, his uneven breaths growing noticed as it vibrated against your face. Ren swallowed thickly, glancing to the viewport with dark eyes. He looked back to you an suppressed his seething breaths.
“You didn’t even send a message.” you blinked, tears filling your eyes as your head lay against his chest. “You were gone so long, I missed you so much and you promised me you’d send a message.” you looked up at him. His lips parted. His gaze falling from you to the floor.
“I love you, you asshole.” you say, your voice echoing through the walls as it rang in Ren’s ears.
“I was so cold. I w-” he cut your strained voice off as his chapped lips smacked against yours. His long fingers pulling your hair near the end of your scalp at the back of your head. Your back met the harsh metal of the doorframe, your back straining into the flat surface as he pushed his hips onto yours.
You gave into the heat of him, your lips in time with him own, his managing figure melting into yours.
His lips pulled away from yours, moving to your left ear as he gripped your torso. “Show your gratitude to your commander.” he whispered. Although his words where a slight whisper in your ear, you quivered against him as you melted into his thick arms.
Y'all this is unedited af and longer than I wanted it to be. But I hope you enjoyed it and please continue to send me some numbers for drabbles in my bio! (drabble request numbers in previous posts)
I’ve done some research of my own and I’ve found some interesting information.
Pluto was discovered on
February 18, 1930. @theplutoadministration has a countdown set on March 27, 2018. Those days are exactly 88 years and 37 days apart. What do you get if you subtract 37 from 88? 51, like the area 51 in Nevada. Place known to be the subject of theories that suggest that the US Government is hiding knowledge about UFO’s and alien life from all of us
Feyre, however, knows that this is most certainly bullshit. She was awake too when he was coughing up a lung at two in the morning, and when his nose was so clogged he woke abruptly when he couldn’t breathe normally. Her husband had had such a rough night sleep, in fact, that Feyre woke up before him, and was the first to feel his forehead. It practically burned her hand.
Immediately, she had canceled all of his meetings and obligations for the day. She called upon a healer, who inspected him quickly, quietly, while he was still sleeping, and left after telling Feyre just to make him rest and he would be fine in a couple days.
Feyre had closed the blinds so no light reached Rhys’ sleeping form, allowing him the chance to sleep rather peacefully for many more hours. His wife was completely content to watch over him while he slept, reading her book and brushing his hair back from his face from time to time.
He woke with a start, sitting up and practically trying to jump from the bed, upsetting the damp washcloth that had been sitting on his brow. His legs got twisted with the blanket, however, and he fell to the floor, groaning in discomfort. Feyre had tsked a couple times as she made her way around and helped her mate back to his feet before easing him on the bed again.
Rhys refused to lie down however, insisting that he was completely okay, even as his voice made a scratchy sound every time he talked and snot was currently pouring from his nose. Feyre simply handed him a tissue and pushed his shoulders so he was at least sitting against the headboard.
“But I have so much work to do Feyre. I’m not sick!” He kept saying, though he had just gratefully accepted the cup of tea she offered for his sore throat.
“I already canceled all your appointments for the day. Everyone understands that even the High Lord needs a sick day once in a while.” Feyre calmly explained, brushing his sticky hair off of his forehead. He looked like crap, she had to admit.
Thank you so much, darling.
Oops. It’s not a bad thing, Rhys. It’s actually a little nice to know that you don’t look perfect all the time. She winked at him.
“Yeah, well I can get dressed now so you don’t have to keep looking at me in my less than perfect state.” He said playfully, going to stand but Feyre pushed him down yet again.
“Nuh uh, sir, you are staying in this bed. In fact, I vote today to be pajama day!” She exclaimed. Rhys sighed, smiling slightly as he looked at her fondly. He was so easy to convince
Now, he grasps her hand in his and squeezes once. “What did I do to deserve you?”
Feyre winks again. “I ask myself the same thing everyday.” Suddenly, she stands up and skitters to the door. “Okay, you stay put and get comfy. I’ll be right back with food and stuff for the day. It’s about time we just spent a day together.” Her smile takes his breath away as she opens the door and swiftly departs.
The High Lord shakes his head, blows his nose, and takes a couple sips of his tea. When the cup was almost empty, he stands, stretching his sore limbs and thanking Feyre for getting him out of training with Cassian today. To be honest, he doesn’t think he would be able to do it in this state.
Rhys walks to his closet, going to the bottom drawer and pulling out a pair of footie pajamas with stars all over it that Mor had gotten him as a joke. He decides if he was going to spoil Feyre’s image of him as this sexy, perfect High Lord, he might as well do it comfortably.
About half an hour later, Rhys snuggled halfway beneath his covers, halfway not, warm and cozy in his pjs, Feyre comes back. She drops three bags of groceries on the table, scampers over to the bed to place a kiss on Rhys’ forehead, and then dashes for the closet. Rhys sits up in his bed in preparation, having a slight coughing fit in the meantime.
Rhys is just picking up another tissue when the closet door opens. Rhys drops the tissue. As well as his jaw. However, as always, he recovers quickly. “I didn’t know it was that kind of pajama day, darling. You should have told me and I wouldn’t look like such a dork.” He smirks, eyes freely roaming up and down her body which is scantily covered in a incredibly small black nightgown. He is working to stand and go to her as she holds up a finger.
“We’re not doing that today, not when you’re still sick. Though it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the view.” Feyre grins, causing Rhys to groan and fall back on his pillows.
“You torture me, you know that?” He asks, raising an eyebrow and following the movements of her body as she makes her way to the bed.
“Oh, yes, I do.” She hums, sliding under the covers next to him and peeking at what he is wearing underneath. “Love the footie pajamas by the way, so incredibly sexy.”
Rhys’ smirk comes back as he slides a hand under the covers towards her. “Sexy, you say?” But the act is ruined by a coughing fit that takes over his body.
Feyre rubs his back soothingly until he is done and then gets out of bed to bring him the snacks from the table, ready to settle in for a relaxing day with her mate.
For a couple hours, Feyre and Rhys simply read, eat, and cuddle, content in the silent company of each other. Eventually, Rhys’ eyes grow tired and he can no longer focus on what he is reading. So, Feyre takes the book from his hands, pulls Rhys down to lay his head in her lap, and reads aloud to him. Too many times, Feyre feels a hand start brushing along the edge of her nightgown and each time, with the hand that is constantly brushing through his hair, Feyre pulls at the strands slightly, causing him to growl and stop.
Later in the afternoon, Feyre leaves for a few minutes to make him soup. When Rhys spies the bowl in her hands, his eyes sparkle. She feeds him the hot soup but his eyes never leave hers as he eats, no doubt remembering the first time she made him soup. When the bowl is empty, he once again lays his head on her lap and stares up at her with pleading eyes.
His footsie pajamas have someone become unzipped to the waist, the upper half tied around his waist. Whether this is because he is hot or for some other reason, Feyre can’t be entirely sure. She laughs and shakes her head down at him, causing her hair to fall down in his face. He tugs at the loose strands in a silent question. “You’re insufferable.”
“But you love me.” Rhys reminds helpfully.
“That I do, however you know that I will not make love to you until you are 100% better.” Feyre retorts.
Her husband harrumphs, crossing his arms and sniffing. Feyre watches, however, as his eyes begin to slide shut once more. He snuggles around her, burying his head in her stomach. She smiles and runs her fingers through his hair again, feeling absolutely perfect in this moment.
That is, until she sneezes.
She feels Rhys smirk against her tummy. “Guess we’re having another pajama day tomorrow.”