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separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

You're So Gorgeous

I can't say anything to your face- because LOOK at your face

Summary: When Feyre breaks up with her boyfriend, there is only one person she wants to see- her best friend Morrigan

Note: NSFW, Morrigan x Feyre pairing

beat'd by @tired-potter

Read on AO3 HERE

He didn’t like how close they were.

Feyre had heard her boyfriend say it time and time again, those pine colored eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What are you and Morrigan laughing about?”

“Why are you always hanging out at her place?”

“Is Rhysand there?”

Tamlin couldn’t fathom Mor being any sort of threat to him—it must be her handsome cousin that Feyre went over so often to see. Must be Rhysand that fascinated her. His laugh, his mouth, his smile. She knew what Tamlin thought, overlooking what was right in front of him.

He was too busy fucking the other girls on campus to realize Feyre wanted to be, too.

She knew it—he’d gotten drunk their sophomore year of college and asked her to invite Morrigan over.

“Make me happy,” he’d whispered, sliding his hand up her thigh. “Let me fuck you both.”

She’d swatted at his chest and pretended the thought didn’t fill her with jealousy. Feyre didn’t want to see Tamlin’s mouth on Mor’s perfect skin, didn’t want his cock in her mouth.

Mor belonged to her.

Even when Mor went over to see Helion or Cassian or whoever else she spent time with, Feyre thought Mor was hers. She wasn’t naive. She understood why she felt that way, why Tamlin, with his sunlit hair and his tanned skin was so easy to fantasize about when her eyes were only half open.

She could have gone on forever that way–had she not caught him.

The sight was less a breaking and more a release. Finally, her chest seemed to scream. I don’t have to pretend anymore. What scared Feyre, as she watched him pack his things, pleading and begging and yelling all in equal measure, was what her best friend would say when Feyre explained why she wasn’t really sad.

Mor came that night with wine.

“Fuck Tamlin,” she said by way of greeting. She looked immaculate, her long, blonde hair carefully curled. Full lips were painted the silkiest shade of red—a match for the tight dress she wore.

Feyre kept her eyes on Mor’s stunning face, trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t watching the way her breasts moved with each graceful step.

“Let’s drink and then let's go out dancing. Find you a new man.”

And Feyre, who’d carefully chosen the lacy underthings beneath her tiny, tight black shorts and equally form fitting tank top, began unbraiding her hair slowly.

“Let's stay in,” Feyre said instead, hoping Mor’s brown eyes were darkening with interest and not disappointment. Feyre couldn’t take another night watching her best friend sway on the dance floor while every man in the room stared, wishing and hoping and fantasizing.

Mor was hers.

Mor kicked off her heels, making them almost the same height. “You cooking?” she teased, eyeing Feyre’s now threadbare kitchen. Tamlin had been the chef and he’d taken all the dishes on his way out the door.

“Why don’t I order in? We can eat on the couch?” Feyre asked, hating how breathless she sounded. Mor bit her bottom lip.

“Sure. Your choice.”

Feyre smiled, wondering if she was misreading the tension that seemed to have settled like a thick haze around them. Reaching out a hand, she laced her fingers with Mor. They were always touching—this was nothing new. Mor came, lips parted, those mascara coated lashes fluttering with wonder.

“And a movie,” Feyre declared, plopping Mor onto the white fabric couch in the living room. While she ordered take out on her phone, Mor scrolled through the offerings on the television, picking one of their favorites before pulling one of the thick, dark blankets from the side of the sofa to drape over their laps.

“I’m sorry about Tam,” she murmured when Feyre tossed her phone to the glass coffee table–splattered with the residue of paint from months before. “Fuck him.”

“Never again,” Feyre said with a dreamy smile, scooting a little closer to her friend.

“You don’t seem sad,” Mor commented, resting her head on Feyre’s shoulder.

“It was a long time coming,” Feyre admitted, reaching for Mor’s hand again. They weren’t even looking at the movie, too engrossed in the way Ferye was holding Mor’s hand. Her fingertips pressed against Mor’s marveling in the softness of her skin. Each new touch made Feyre feel electric, brand new and older than the world itself.

It was natural, to rub her thumb over Mor’s palm, to map out each little line like she was reading her fate.

Am I in there?

“I never liked him,” she murmured, her breath catching in her throat. “He was…he was all wrong for you.”

“Yeah,” Feyre agreed, wondering if she should just tell Mor what made Tamlin wrong was more than just his personality.

He wasn’t you. No one is. I want you.

“There will be someone else. Some other…guy…” Mor continued, swallowing so hard Feyre could hear it. She dared to look up, stunned to find Mor’s face so close she could just kiss. It was impulsive.

Dangerous.

Feyre did anyway, deciding if Mor rebuffed her at least she’d been honest. Mor’s mouth was soft and tasted sweet like sugar, like whatever perfume she was wearing, like the flavored lipstick on her mouth. For one moment, neither of them moved, lips pressed to lips.

And then Feyre pulled back, looking closely at her friend just to see.

Mor exhaled softly. “I…Feyre, I…”

“Should I be sorry? Or should I kiss you again?” Feyre asked her, still holding Mor’s hand.

“You should kiss me again,” Mor replied, her voice the softest whisper.

Feyre didn’t need to be asked twice. She’d been dreaming of this moment for years—since she’d first met Mor, drawn to her like everyone else. Now Feyre was practically climbing in her lap, hands on Mor’s face, fingers raking through her satin hair. It was better than every dream, every late night imagination. Nothing and no one compared to the woman beneath her snaking her arms around Feyre’s neck. Feyre was electric and alive, heat frazzling through her veins until every new touch made her practically squirm with desire.

It was Feyre, greedy and so sure the moment would end with a pointed laugh, with Mor rejecting her outright, who deepened the kiss.

And it was Mor who moaned when their tongues met, who gripped Feyre so tight that Feyre could straddle Mor’s lap and rub herself against Mor’s body. Mor rolled her hips, sliding her hands down Feyre’s sides. Skimming—not touching, though Feyre wished she would. Feyre had made this first move and decided that if all Mor wanted was to kiss on the couch, Feyre could live with that.

Mor was the one who palmed Feyre’s breast through her tank top. It was so careful, not some clumsy plucking and groping but a sensual touch, rubbing the sensitive flesh the way Mor suspected she liked it. Feyre moaned softly, arching her neck without even meaning to.

Mor took the opportunity, eyes opening, fingers pulling Feyre’s shirt up over her head.

“You don’t need this,” Mor whispered, noting the black lace covering Ferye’s upper body. “Take it off.”

Feyre had never removed a piece of clothing quicker. Mor stared for a moment, her hair tumbling around her flushed face. “Wow, Ferye.”

Feyre stood, nervous and excited all at once. She wanted more than just the touching after a lifetime of waiting. Feyre held out her hand and Mor took it, rising from the sofa so Feyre could lead her down the hall. All Feyre could hear was the sound of her heart pounding, her slick palms betraying her attempt at confidence.

What was she doing? She didn’t know where to even start with someone as beautiful and wonderful as Mor. Feyre almost backed out, right up until Mor closed her bedroom door quietly, bathed in the warm light of the lamp pushed in the corner of the room. She reached for the zipper of her dress and tugged. It wasn’t the first time Feyre had seen Mor naked, but somehow it was.

Her smooth, tanned skin emptied out all other thoughts Feyre had. She couldn’t stop and she couldn’t move, not when Mor also took off her pretty bra, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Toned legs drew Mor closer, until their bodies were a mere whisper apart.

Mor carded her fingers through Feyre’s hair gently. “You are so beautiful,” Mor whispered, pressing a feather soft kiss to Feyres mouth. Feyre exhaled softly, reaching for Mor’s equally lovely face. No one had ever been this way with her—it had always been rough hands and claiming kisses. Consuming to own, to possess. This was different. Softer.

“I’ve never…” Feyre admitted as Mor gently pushed her back to the bed. Mor nodded, crawling up just behind her.

“There’s no rush,” Mor reassured her. “But you can’t do anything wrong.”

And before Feyre could say a word in protest—not that she meant to—Mor kissed her again. Feyre laid against the bed, still in her leggings. Mor meant it when she said there was no rush. Feyre waited, kissing softly, for Mor’s hands to yank down her pants so she could crawl over her. It wasn’t the usual mad dash to finish. It was exploration and once Feyre realized that this was about more than just coming, she relaxed. She focused on her senses, tasting the sweetness clinging to Mor’s tongue as it stroked her own, and the feel of her breasts rubbing against Feyre’s chest.

She wanted to touch them like Mor had. She reached out, gripping softly and was rewarded with a breathy moan. Everything about Mor was soft and smooth, well cared for in a way Feyre wasn’t used to. They were silk on silk, rubbing as they kissed with no hurry at all.

Mor’s fingers slipped to Feyre’s leggings. “Can I?” she whispered as Ferye thought no one had ever asked. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and yet there was something erotic about knowing what was coming next. Of knowing that someone was planning how they wanted to touch her, maybe even to taste her and getting a say in when and how that happened.

“Yes,” Feyre panted, arching her hips off the blanket so Mor could help pull them down. They removed all of it—panties and all, until Feyre was laid bare before Mor’s hungry brown eyes. Mor didn’t linger, though she settled between Feyre’s parted thighs so she could press her body against Feyre’s. Feyre gasped, tangling her fingers back in Mor’s hair, passion and need rising in her throat. Every little brush of Mors body against her own was a wildfire. Feyre couldn’t stop touching—Mor’s silky hair, her smooth back, the swell of her ass. She needed to map out Mor’s body with her fingertips first, though she wanted to trace each soft curve with her tongue next.

So did Mor, it seemed. She nipped soft, hot kisses down Feyre’s jaw, her ear, her collarbone. And when Mor dragged her tongue over one of Feyre’s aching nipples, Feyre’s whole body came off the bed. Mor didn’t care, letting Feyre grind herself against her leg instead of pushing her back down.

Feyre gathered up Mor’s pretty blonde curls with her fingers, holding them off Mor’s face as she sucked and licked at her pebbled breasts. Feyre had to remind herself to breathe, gulping down air she immediately expelled when Mor continued her descent.

“Tell me to stop,” Mor breathed, pushing Feyre’s legs further apart. “If I do something you don’t like.”

Feyre’s brain had stopped entirely. All she knew was Mor between her thighs, her finger slowly exploring the wet expanse of Feyre’s aching, tender flesh. Feyre had expected her to lower her mouth—or maybe she’d hoped, at any rate—but Mor was content merely to watch and touch, drawing forth Feyre’s undeniable arousal. Mor kissed the insides of Feyre’s legs, moving slowly upwards towards the thatch of trimmed curls just above her pussy.

Mor was utterly waxed head to toe. Feyre felt mildly self conscious when Mor dragged her nose through it. Did she hate it? Tamlin always had.

“You’re so pretty,” Mor whispered into the hair, kissing there, too. “I like this.”

Maybe Mor had guessed Feyre’s insecurities. Maybe she genuinely did like her body hair. Whatever the case, the last vestiges of her fear slithered into nothing, leaving Feyre floating weightless beneath Mors approval.

Mor took a steadying breath. Was she nervous, too? Feyre almost asked, but then her face was against Feyre, tongue licking and Feyre moaned, the only form of language left to her. Mor exhaled again, her warm breath fanning against Feyre’s overheated pussy. Feyre felt overstimulated already, keyed up and excited. Every fantasy she’d ever had of this exact scenario paled in comparison to the real thing. Every touch was soft and precise, the benefit of knowing what women liked because Mor was a woman.

Or maybe it was because Mor actually liked women. Not what women could do for her or how a woman might make her feel, but genuinely enjoyed and appreciated women. Feyre swore she could feel the difference in how Mor licked at her. Not hurried, trying to get it over with so it could be her turn, but because she enjoyed the act.

Enjoyed letting Feyre feel pleasure and be the cause of it. Feyre, who had always kept her eyes closed during sexual acts, couldn’t stop staring at Mor, who, in turn, was watching her, too. She wanted to swap places, wanted to be the person making Mor feel this good. Wanted to taste her best friend, to know what it was like to feel her come on her tongue.

Mor’s finger rimmed around her opening, offering the lightest pressure without penetrating. Her tongue stayed firmly on her clit, slowly increasing the speed until Feyre was panting and tugging at Mor’s hair, needy and desperate. She was so close, was practically flying off that edge into nothing.

“Oh God, Mor—” Feyre choked out her release, arching so hard her toes curled and white hot spots bloomed in her vision. Every muscle in her body was taut and she felt nothing, was nothing but the pleasure rolling through her.

Feyre sat up the very first moment she was able, reaching for Mor to put her in her lap, their legs tangled, bodies rocking together and Feyre kissed Mor hungrily. She could taste her own arousal on Mor’s mouth, her tongue chasing after it greedily.

Feyre slid her hand between their bodies, delighted to feel Mor was practically dripping wet.

“You don’t have–”

“Please?” Was all Feyre could think to say. She wanted to reciprocate like she’d never wanted in her life. Mor kissed her again and again, each kiss sliding one to the other until Feyre was dizzy and needy again. Feyre forced herself to focus, repositioning them so it was Mor back against the pillows and Feyre straddling her body.

Feyre could still feel the remnants of that orgasm throbbing through her, prompting her to rub against Mor even as she mimicked everything Mor had done. Feyer was clumsier, too nervous to be half as sensual as Mor had been. Still, Mor whined when Feyre reached for a nipple, rolling it between her fingers until it was stiff and rosy red. The same color as Mor’s lipstick stained mouth.

Feyre experimented, grazing her teeth just a little. Mor had told her about this–she remembered a giggling conversation about it. Mor moaned, eyes rolling upwards in her skull as her body undulated against Feyre’s. It was enough to keep Feyre going, to suck and nip and lick until Mor was practically panting, her tanned skin flushed the prettiest shade of pink.

Every inch of Mor was a dream—smooth, lush curves were soft beneath Feyre’s wandering hands. She marveled as she slid lower and lower, suddenly eye level with Mor’s glistening, pink pussy.

Fuck she was beautiful.

Feyre stared a beat too long before she couldn’t stop herself from spreading Mor open wider, parting to truly look.

“Tell me if I do it wrong,” Feyre whispered.

“You can’t do anything wrong,” came Mor’s trembling reply. That was the confidence Feyre needed to lower her mouth and take that first taste.

It was nothing like she’d imagined and better than she’d ever expected. Her whole body lit up at the musky sweetness of Mor’s body and the way Mor’s thighs trembled around Feyre’s head. Feyre enthusiastically swiped again, licking only for herself in that first moment. Just to know, to become accustomed to the wet, slick, soft feel of Mor’s pussy and how it made her own body feel.

Her arousal sharpened when Mor dragged her long nails over Feyre’s scalp, holding her hair while watching with intensely dark eyes. Feyre focused, thinking of what Mor had done for her. She swirled her tongue over the trembling nub of flesh and was rewarded with a breathy, “Oh God, don’t stop.”As if Feyre could. She replicated what Mor had done with her finger, pushing just against the opening of her pussy and circling, her tongue steady and hot. Mor writhed against her face, coating her in the slick release building in her body. And when Mor came with a breathy cry, Feyre felt it reverberate in her chest.

It was Mor who reached for her this time, dragging her up to lay on her side so they could press their bodies against the other and kiss. Feyre tangled her arms around Mors neck while Mor caressed her face, their combined release erotic in Feyre’s mouth.

“That was…” Feyre didn’t have words for it.

“A long time coming?” Mor suggested, still touching with a tenderness hadn’t known she’d been missing.

“Everything,” Feyre added, holding Mor close. “I wish I’d known sooner.”

“You know now,” was Mor’s sweet reply. She pressed a kiss to Feyre’s throat and slid a bare leg between Feyre’s.

She didn’t know how long they laid like that. Touching and kissing.

All Feyre knew was she never wanted it to stop.

#jesus christ if you dont like wlw pairings just do not read this #thats my literal only warning about it #not canon compliant #feyre x mor #i trust the right people to find this #but given how homophobic people were over gwynlain i wont be tagging it #im v proud of this

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