AN: Just a little BD honeymoon drabble and fluff. :)


Feathers


Soft, billowy ivory feathers.

She is covered in them.

They cling to the curves of her body and settle in the sweetest of places.

Tangled in her hair.

Nestled in her palm.

Around the curve of her breast.

Along the valley of her thighs.

My eyes linger there a bit too long, but then I remember I am her husband now, and I don't have to be a gentleman anymore.

More feathers are scattered along the mattress. Some are even drifting in the air, seeking a soft place to land. Like gentle magnets, they eventually land against the curve of her naked back as she sleeps peacefully against the one pillow that survived the night.

My fingers carefully stream through her hair as her soft snores echo in the stillness of the bedroom. The house is so quiet now, and I can't help but smile because it is such a stark contrast to last night.

If I live to be a thousand years old, I will never forget the sounds we made last night. I have heard them before, of course. It was unavoidable considering I had lived for decades with a house full of loving, affectionate couples. But when those sounds come from you, and you are the reason your mate makes those sounds in return…

Besides your love, it is quite possibly the greatest gift you can give each other. The greatest gift you can share as man and wife.

I understand now.

I will never forget the way she whispered my name. I will never forget the sound of splintering wood as it disintegrated beneath my fingertips. I will never forget the echo of the headboard as it finally gave way, falling to the floor below us. And I will never forget how she was oblivious to everything because she was swept away by the pure pleasure of it all.

I wish I could be as oblivious. I wish I could drown in it. But I cannot allow myself to be completely consumed. I have to be mindful of every touch.

I have to be so careful.

For now.

In a moment of selfishness, I allow myself to imagine how it will be when I won't have to be so careful anymore. When I can love her without fear. When I can make love to my bride without having to demolish furniture in an effort to channel my emotions.

That day will come, and I am not sure the house will survive it.

She sighs deeply, and I know she is exhausted. She's hardly moved a muscle and she isn't talking in her sleep. Besides the beat of her heart, it is these moments I will miss the most. These quiet moments when she dreams, and I am given a glance at her deepest, darkest desire. I know it well. It has been the same desire since the first night she slept in my arms.

She wants to be my mate in every sense of the word.

I am powerless to deny it any longer.

She turns to her side and hitches her leg around mine. Feathers scatter, giving me my first glimpse of a small, violet bruise that is beginning to form on her thigh. It isn't the first bruise I have seen on her body, but it is the first that has ever been placed upon her by my hands. I know it is from my hand, because I carefully place my fingers over the shadows on her skin, and it is a perfect fit.

I swallow.

I rage.

I close my eyes.

I open them again, and the blessed feather has hidden the evidence.

Despite my best efforts, I bruised her.

I can recall with startling clarity the moments she begged me to hold her tighter…a little harder…a little rougher. Driven by my own desperate craving that had lain dormant too long, I had happily and greedily obeyed.

I can deny her nothing.

It is for this reason that I will ultimately grant her heart's desire.

For the rest of the morning I wallow in moments of shame for marking her fair skin, but I also know – down in the hidden depths of my soul – that this is not wrong. We are now husband and wife, and in spite of my anxiety and regardless of the bruises, I cannot deny her. I will not deny us.

A lone feather falls, and I hold it between my fingers. Gently, I trail the feather across her eyelashes and down along the bridge of her nose. She crinkles her nose, and I laugh lightly. I continue my trail until the feather tenderly traces the outline of her lips.

I pause there, leaning closer and kissing her softly before allowing the feather to continue its exploration.

The downy feather trails along her collarbone before dipping lower, and I gaze in fascination as her skin pebbles under the softness of the feather's assault.

The weeks leading up to our wedding had been filled with innocent practice sessions, and I had learned just how responsive her body can be. The slightest touch from me can emit the softest whimper from her, and knowing that it is my touch – and only my touch – that can bring her pleasure fills me with feral pride.

She is my mate.

She is my wife.

I never imagined that she existed. But she does, and by some miracle, she loves me as irrevocably and as irrationally as I love her. I know it's true, because she lies here so peacefully. She trusts me completely, even when I cannot trust myself.

She never doubts. She never fears.

Her absolute faith makes me whole.

She smiles in her sleep, and I allow the feather to drop from my hand. It covers another blemish – this one a bit darker as it forms against her rib cage. Shame threatens to ruin the most perfect morning of my existence, but I focus on my mother's ring on her hand, and I drown in my happiness.

I close my eyes and remind myself that bruises fade, but true love never dies.

She awakens, and I watch as her tempting body stretches across the mattress. I hear her muscles softly crack, and I hear her drumming heart as her eyes find mine. She blushes shyly, and I chuckle as we both remember the night before. Her eyes then fall upon her naked body, and her forehead creases.

"Why am I covered in feathers?"

I show her why, and I kiss each and every purple blemish.

Her voice is a whisper as she begs me to make love to her again.

And I do.

Because I am her husband, and she is my wife.