( he could be content to just stay here and like this for as long as feyre wants him to, gently fucking her prone form, rubbing her down from head to toe while never managing to fully catch his breath. but feyre has other intentions that strike up a curious tilt to his head, halfway to complaining that he can't stand to be outside of her body for even a moment, but — it's not about him. this is her show, her choice. unconsciously, he nods, bending to press a kiss on the root of one wing. )
Yes, High Lady.
( it's obscene, the visual of pulling his cock from her, wet and slicked with her orgasm. he wants to be buried in her heat all over again, tunneling inside her and finding all the parts where they click together, a perfect match. mate. he can't resist sliding his sloppy cockhead against her folds, panting with the need to fuck her again and again, before dutifully, obediently, he listens.
at another time, being obedient would've made his heart ache and his walls rise, so used to it and every lashing under the mountain, but not around feyre. she's light and warmth and clear, so blue they're black, skies. where she beckons, he follows, turning and laying flat on the bed beside, cringing lightly at the poor thread count brushing his wings. sensitive illyrian baby, indeed. his flushed cock lays hot and red and angry and wet against his stomach, and with a snap of rhysand's fingers they're both naked, clothes left in messy piles all around the room.
cockily, a hand tucks behind his head, in wait. on another day he might've stroked his dick to seem enticing, but he's not sure how seductive he'll be, tonight. feyre shouldn't be teased. instead, his free hand reaches for her, wherever he can touch, to brush her heated, soft skin. )
no subject
Yes, High Lady.
( it's obscene, the visual of pulling his cock from her, wet and slicked with her orgasm. he wants to be buried in her heat all over again, tunneling inside her and finding all the parts where they click together, a perfect match. mate. he can't resist sliding his sloppy cockhead against her folds, panting with the need to fuck her again and again, before dutifully, obediently, he listens.
at another time, being obedient would've made his heart ache and his walls rise, so used to it and every lashing under the mountain, but not around feyre. she's light and warmth and clear, so blue they're black, skies. where she beckons, he follows, turning and laying flat on the bed beside, cringing lightly at the poor thread count brushing his wings. sensitive illyrian baby, indeed. his flushed cock lays hot and red and angry and wet against his stomach, and with a snap of rhysand's fingers they're both naked, clothes left in messy piles all around the room.
cockily, a hand tucks behind his head, in wait. on another day he might've stroked his dick to seem enticing, but he's not sure how seductive he'll be, tonight. feyre shouldn't be teased. instead, his free hand reaches for her, wherever he can touch, to brush her heated, soft skin. )