( it's only feyre. every breath he takes, wrestling it out of his caved in chest — it's her, the only reason he's alive, the only reason life has any meaning to it at all. he loves his people, velaris and the inner circle, more than he has words to express it, but what he feels towards feyre is transcendent. he couldn't live without it if he tried, not that he ever would.
his sobs are silent as he presses them against her, tasting the salt of his tears and the salt of her sweat on every muted gasp, indulging himself in staying hidden, buried away, kept safe in his mate's arms. he doesn't deserve this comfort. he never has but especially not now, not after he's hurt her. some part of him feels the claws of rejection sinking into all the softest parts of his mind, saying this was a goodbye romp — that feyre will have decided he's not worth the trouble of keeping around. and here he is, crying pathetically, because he can't imagine letting her go. because he would, if she needed that.
i love you, she says. i see you, every broken piece, every ounce of a lonely orphan leftover from childhood, who didn't have the luxury to be choosey with love, when it came to him. he couldn't hope for feyre. when he knew she was his mate beyond reasonably doubt, he couldn't hope to have her. now? he's so lucky, it's embarrassing. lucky, and stupid, and luckier still.
huffing a wet laugh, he turns his head up, placing his chin on the center of her chest, so he can blink up at her. )
I didn't mean to come so fast.
( a tickle of pink decorates his cheeks. truly, awful form for returning mates.
turning his head up, he beckons her for a kiss, keeping one arm snug around her, while the other skirts between their bodies to find their joining, mapping out her clit with a soft, soothing touch of his thumb. it's slow. memorizing. he has a habit of touching her like it might be the last time, but it's particularly pointed now — if they can only fuck this one last time, then he'll just never come out of her. he'll just fuck her forever. that's the way it has to be.
Don't hide from me. gently, his talons cup the length of their bond, plucking it like the string of an instrument. his hands spread out, palms against her mental shields. asking permission. Please. I can handle it, too. )
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his sobs are silent as he presses them against her, tasting the salt of his tears and the salt of her sweat on every muted gasp, indulging himself in staying hidden, buried away, kept safe in his mate's arms. he doesn't deserve this comfort. he never has but especially not now, not after he's hurt her. some part of him feels the claws of rejection sinking into all the softest parts of his mind, saying this was a goodbye romp — that feyre will have decided he's not worth the trouble of keeping around. and here he is, crying pathetically, because he can't imagine letting her go. because he would, if she needed that.
i love you, she says. i see you, every broken piece, every ounce of a lonely orphan leftover from childhood, who didn't have the luxury to be choosey with love, when it came to him. he couldn't hope for feyre. when he knew she was his mate beyond reasonably doubt, he couldn't hope to have her. now? he's so lucky, it's embarrassing. lucky, and stupid, and luckier still.
huffing a wet laugh, he turns his head up, placing his chin on the center of her chest, so he can blink up at her. )
I didn't mean to come so fast.
( a tickle of pink decorates his cheeks. truly, awful form for returning mates.
turning his head up, he beckons her for a kiss, keeping one arm snug around her, while the other skirts between their bodies to find their joining, mapping out her clit with a soft, soothing touch of his thumb. it's slow. memorizing. he has a habit of touching her like it might be the last time, but it's particularly pointed now — if they can only fuck this one last time, then he'll just never come out of her. he'll just fuck her forever. that's the way it has to be.
Don't hide from me. gently, his talons cup the length of their bond, plucking it like the string of an instrument. his hands spread out, palms against her mental shields. asking permission. Please. I can handle it, too. )