01-15-2020, 05:39 PM
Are they all born from the stars, she wonders.
They are all so desperately beautiful with galaxies on their skin.
And that impenetrable darkness at the centers of them.
And she, so ordinary by comparison. But there is beauty, too, in her vicious appetite for destruction. Her crippling taste for blood. She is not beautiful at first glance, no, because she has been kissed by neither stars nor cold nor any obvious strangeness (save for the scales, which are certainly not as exceptional as she wishes they were). But he sees it in her, she can tell it in the way he looks at her.
And oh! How it thrills her to know that she can capture their interest, that she can have them asking her name as if it is something worth knowing. There is power in this, she knows. More power in this, she supposes, than in being beautiful.
I’ve found you, he says and it chases a tremor down the ladder of her spine. And back up again, too. It injects a specific, nameless heat into the very center of her until she shivers with it. The horns remind her of Ghaul, the stars remind her of Stave, but they are very much his own. Draco, he says and she rolls it sweetly across the surface of her tongue and then swallows it. Draco. She imagines what his blood must taste like, wonders if she would find it bitter were she to spill it down her throat.
She licks her teeth.
How she delights in the way he rakes his gaze along the vulnerable plain of her throat. She tips back her head. Just enough. An almost imperceptible invitation. Take me, it says. Spill what you will and leave the rest. But she does not speak, not right away. Instead, she peers at him through a mess of sooty lashes and then grins, slow, the lips pulling back to reveal a flash of fang.
“Oh, Draco,” she coos sweetly, “why don’t you find out?”
They are all so desperately beautiful with galaxies on their skin.
And that impenetrable darkness at the centers of them.
And she, so ordinary by comparison. But there is beauty, too, in her vicious appetite for destruction. Her crippling taste for blood. She is not beautiful at first glance, no, because she has been kissed by neither stars nor cold nor any obvious strangeness (save for the scales, which are certainly not as exceptional as she wishes they were). But he sees it in her, she can tell it in the way he looks at her.
And oh! How it thrills her to know that she can capture their interest, that she can have them asking her name as if it is something worth knowing. There is power in this, she knows. More power in this, she supposes, than in being beautiful.
I’ve found you, he says and it chases a tremor down the ladder of her spine. And back up again, too. It injects a specific, nameless heat into the very center of her until she shivers with it. The horns remind her of Ghaul, the stars remind her of Stave, but they are very much his own. Draco, he says and she rolls it sweetly across the surface of her tongue and then swallows it. Draco. She imagines what his blood must taste like, wonders if she would find it bitter were she to spill it down her throat.
She licks her teeth.
How she delights in the way he rakes his gaze along the vulnerable plain of her throat. She tips back her head. Just enough. An almost imperceptible invitation. Take me, it says. Spill what you will and leave the rest. But she does not speak, not right away. Instead, she peers at him through a mess of sooty lashes and then grins, slow, the lips pulling back to reveal a flash of fang.
“Oh, Draco,” she coos sweetly, “why don’t you find out?”
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
