( coldness settles into him once feyre leaves his embrace. blindly, his hands grapple for a female no longer there as she gets up, rhys settling up on his knees as if to chase after her. he — doesn't. wants to, but doesn't. has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and grabbing her.
holding her, forcing her. taking the choice away to run away from him. locking her in a room and throwing away the key.
rhys is not that man and he never has been. he maintains that tamlin loved her too much, the kind of love that veered off the path of pure feeling and into darker territory, the need to own and contain. the same mentality drives illyrian males into clipping their female's wings. possession, having something ready at your fingertips, something that can't leave. rhysand has never understood the thought process, and still doesn't, but he wishes for a moment — just one, where he could force her into his hands and make her understand the turmoil in his chest.
but he doesn't, because he's not the person who puts gilded locks on closed cages. he's the person who smashes them, to see broken wings fly. )
I understand perfectly well.
( he stands to match her, and the morns the loss of his pants so he can't shrivel up and make himself small in his pockets. instead his fingers flex, hesitant, before gingerly reaching out a palm to cup her cheek, thumbing back those tears. )
That's not what I was saying, Feyre. I expect nothing of the sort. ( he stops himself from recoiling at her words, you fucked another female, reminiscent of a time when that other female was amarantha. this probably is the movement of a whore — maybe part of him never left the mountain. maybe he always will be the dog, bending over for whoever doles it out. ) Just ... you're my wife. You're my mate, my mate. That's ( he swallows, biting off his own tears. ) everything, to me. If you need time, of course you'll have that. If you need space, I will give you it. I waited five hundred years for you, and would wait five hundred more, if that's what you needed. Just.
( he gives a hapless shrug. pathetic and small. )
Being apart from you is like cutting a soul from a body. Trust me. If you want me away, I will be away. But if not? I will humiliate and degrade myself to unimaginable lows trying to be near you. I will play the part of every fool, I will get down on my knees and beg for your touch. I just need to know if that's what you want — me, right now, or me later. That's all.
no subject
holding her, forcing her. taking the choice away to run away from him. locking her in a room and throwing away the key.
rhys is not that man and he never has been. he maintains that tamlin loved her too much, the kind of love that veered off the path of pure feeling and into darker territory, the need to own and contain. the same mentality drives illyrian males into clipping their female's wings. possession, having something ready at your fingertips, something that can't leave. rhysand has never understood the thought process, and still doesn't, but he wishes for a moment — just one, where he could force her into his hands and make her understand the turmoil in his chest.
but he doesn't, because he's not the person who puts gilded locks on closed cages. he's the person who smashes them, to see broken wings fly. )
I understand perfectly well.
( he stands to match her, and the morns the loss of his pants so he can't shrivel up and make himself small in his pockets. instead his fingers flex, hesitant, before gingerly reaching out a palm to cup her cheek, thumbing back those tears. )
That's not what I was saying, Feyre. I expect nothing of the sort. ( he stops himself from recoiling at her words, you fucked another female, reminiscent of a time when that other female was amarantha. this probably is the movement of a whore — maybe part of him never left the mountain. maybe he always will be the dog, bending over for whoever doles it out. ) Just ... you're my wife. You're my mate, my mate. That's ( he swallows, biting off his own tears. ) everything, to me. If you need time, of course you'll have that. If you need space, I will give you it. I waited five hundred years for you, and would wait five hundred more, if that's what you needed. Just.
( he gives a hapless shrug. pathetic and small. )
Being apart from you is like cutting a soul from a body. Trust me. If you want me away, I will be away. But if not? I will humiliate and degrade myself to unimaginable lows trying to be near you. I will play the part of every fool, I will get down on my knees and beg for your touch. I just need to know if that's what you want — me, right now, or me later. That's all.