Disclaimer: I don't own the Court of Thorns and Roses series.

Summary: The moonlight peers through the windows, casting its glow on Feyre's sleeping form, and Rhysand has never considered himself a luckier man than in this moment. RhysandFeyre, set during ACOMAF, oneshot

Oh my god. I don't remember the last time I was this obsessed with a book series - probably when I first read ASOIAF a few years ago. But my muse for writing has been nonexistant, and then I marathoned ACOTAR and ACOMAF in January and I just didn't know what to do with myself. Then ACOWAR came out and I devoured that sucker on its release date. I need more of this world in my life, and then I found myself writing again. And, as you can see, IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAVE WRITTEN SOMETHING. It's amazing how things like that happen. I definitely plan on writing more, because I adore these characters and just everything about what Mrs. Maas has created. Please enjoy!

While the Stars Witness

She has slipped into the darkness of sleep. A part of him is relieved she is able to do such a thing, but a part of him wants her awake, so he could look into her eyes, hear her voice. The morning is too long to wait for such a luxury.

But Rhysand stamps that selfishness down deep and lets her sleep, of course. Not allowing her the peacefulness of sleep is something that would be unforgivable, considering everything she has been through, been through and come back from. Her strength astounds, but never surprises.

The newness of their now-consummated bond thrums through his body, potent and deep. If there was a time when Rhysand ever thought this was possible for him, he cannot remember. However, he cannot imagine this not being the end result, as if those first hundred years without her were background noise, and as soon as he envisioned that delicate hand painting, he started seeing with brilliant clarity.

Her breathing is even, soft, unencumbered by the nightmares that plagued her for so long, the nightmares that went unnoticed by the Spring Court. Unnoticed, or uncared about. The very notion is enough to make the hair stand on the back of his neck, his fingers curl into talons. This moment is not for those thoughts, however, and Rhysand finds himself relaxing just by looking at Feyre as she slumbers.

Every now and then she makes the soft sighs of sleep, and it causes him to smile. He reaches out a finger and traces her bare shoulder, even this slight touch enough to send him back into the mating frenzy. Heat trickles along his spine, and his mind wanders through that first coupling. Her harsh breath on his neck, the way her legs wrapped around his waist, her fingers digging deep into his shoulders, into his his hair.

Inside him, something primal stirs, the need to have her here, right now, with only the stars as witness.

But, no. No. She needs her rest.

She moans and turns, giving him a better view of her face and the generous swell of her breasts. He finds himself smiling, yet again. There is nothing on this plane of existance that compares to this moment, to finding his mate, and finally - finally - having her realize what they had, what they were destined to be.

He almost scoffs. So melodramatic.

Although, Rhysand has always had a flair for drama.

Such a flair for drama, Feyre's aggreement came through the bond.

Rhysand cracks a grin, white teeth bright in the darkness of the room.

"Did I wake you?" he says, softly, yet that grin never leaves his face.

Feyre smiles softly in return, mocking, "Hard to sleep when you have a vulture staring down at you."

He looks faux-surprised. "A vulture!" He laughs, genuine this time. "Maybe more akin to a gargoyle."

She pushes him lightly with a hand and, quick as darkness, he grasps her hand. Rhysand brings those precious fingers to his lips and presses a light kiss to her knuckles.

Feyre blushes a beautiful red, deep and rosy. He marvels at her for a moment, marvels at how lucky he is to have her by his side, marvels at how everything just feels right, marvels at the fact that he feels as if he is no longer constantly searching for something - for the owner of those paint-smeared hands in that vision so long ago.

"Go back to sleep, Feyre darling," Rhysand says.

Feyre pushes her lips out in an endearingly sleepy out. He doesn't fight his smirk. Can hardly fight any of these feelings when it comes to her.

And he won't have to, not anymore.

"Only if you do the same," she chides, the red still on her cheeks. Her fingers wind around his from where he still has a grip on them. She tugs him gently to the bed, and he complies, too wrapped up in the magnitude of her.

Rhysand turns to face her, cocooning the both of them with his wings. Feyre runs an idle fingertip along the outline of them, causing him to shiver. His eyes flash to hers, and yet there is nothing other than fascination in her eyes. She meets his gaze and smiles softly, and he sees that sleep is minutes away from taking her once more.

"I love you," she whispers, soft as a ghost's sigh.

Rhysand pulls her closer into his body, never close enough, never.

"I love you, too."

End.