( but it's the truth. even hard and ugly as it is — feyre will always receive that from him. he would die, without her. he'd want to. if being up here in space is even an inkling of what living in a world without feyre in it would be like, then he has no interest in it whatsoever. she's the sun, the moon, the stars. the sky at night. she's why illyrians fly, why high lords hold court.
she's — everything. every little thing.
without her, there's no reason. he pushes that into her, gasping wetly on her mouth before he crushes them together, their lips red and angry and biting. he can prove it to her the only way that he knows how, whining into her mouth and bending down, enough to slide his hands under her thighs and lift her up, pulling her legs tight around him. this is the reality. there is no moving on from this. feyre is the only person in the world as far as his blinders can see, and rhysand is willfully stuck in her orbit. even if she doesn't want him — even if that grows tired and crumbly with age. he'll always circle her, always belong to her.
I'm yours. I love you so much.
pining her to the wall, rhys surges his hands up her waist, dipping under her sweater to brush her heated skin, shuddering at the feeling of it. but — he seems to rethink it, presses his forehead to hers with a grumble of almost pain, like being parted from her mouth is some sacrifice that costs him greatly.
It's a lot all at once, I know. If you need time ...
no subject
she's — everything. every little thing.
without her, there's no reason. he pushes that into her, gasping wetly on her mouth before he crushes them together, their lips red and angry and biting. he can prove it to her the only way that he knows how, whining into her mouth and bending down, enough to slide his hands under her thighs and lift her up, pulling her legs tight around him. this is the reality. there is no moving on from this. feyre is the only person in the world as far as his blinders can see, and rhysand is willfully stuck in her orbit. even if she doesn't want him — even if that grows tired and crumbly with age. he'll always circle her, always belong to her.
I'm yours. I love you so much.
pining her to the wall, rhys surges his hands up her waist, dipping under her sweater to brush her heated skin, shuddering at the feeling of it. but — he seems to rethink it, presses his forehead to hers with a grumble of almost pain, like being parted from her mouth is some sacrifice that costs him greatly.
It's a lot all at once, I know. If you need time ...
he'll give it. of course he will. )