04-24-2024, 01:34 AM
Ryatah
WHEN I WAS SHIPWRECKED I THOUGHT OF YOU
IN THE CRACKS OF LIGHT I DREAMED OF YOU
Her mind wanders to him more often than his wanders to her, but not even she is masochistic enough to count the days that he is gone.
She does not deny herself the pleasure of missing him, though, because there is a perfect kind of ache that only comes from pining for someone that you don’t know when — or if — they’ll ever come back. Romanticizing their own twisted kind of intimacy is a pattern that is easy to fall back into, especially when there is no one else around suitable enough to use as a placeholder. She has been so good about that lately — letting herself remain untouched and sitting with her boredom, retracing old memories and letting her longing build.
But then magic found her, and suddenly missing him morphed into almost dreading him.
She cannot fully articulate why she thinks he will be irritated by the discovery; she only knows that somehow having magic feels like a betrayal, like she is knowingly toying with the power dynamic they have perfected over the years. She tells herself that he must know she would never think she could use her magic against him, but she remembers too how quickly he had bled her out on the mountain just for the simple fact that she had climbed it.
When she feels that long-awaited pull from him, it is fear that leaps into her throat first, and she cannot even recall the last time that had happened.
Outwardly, she is the same as he had last left her: golden halo and angel-wings that spill stardust, radiating that same honeyed glow and looking at him with those same nearly-black eyes that stare at him with both reverence and trepidation. But the magic hums like a current of electricity in her veins, and she knows that he senses it.
She sees the blood that stains his familiar lips, and it is a strange thing, the way jealousy still manages to flare up through the fear. It pulls her focus from his wine-red eyes for only a moment before she shoves the emotion to a far corner of her mind, along with all the other cobwebbed things she doesn’t like to think about.
“Carnage,” she says his name almost like an apology, all too aware of the space between them. This is usually where she would say she had missed him, and likely would have touched him just because she knew he would let her. But she sees the tension in his jaw and instead stays still, her pulse steadily rising like a slow flood. “It wasn’t on purpose,” she says softly, imploringly, yet she finds that she is more afraid that he will not even think her worth punishing and will instead just disappear.
She does not deny herself the pleasure of missing him, though, because there is a perfect kind of ache that only comes from pining for someone that you don’t know when — or if — they’ll ever come back. Romanticizing their own twisted kind of intimacy is a pattern that is easy to fall back into, especially when there is no one else around suitable enough to use as a placeholder. She has been so good about that lately — letting herself remain untouched and sitting with her boredom, retracing old memories and letting her longing build.
But then magic found her, and suddenly missing him morphed into almost dreading him.
She cannot fully articulate why she thinks he will be irritated by the discovery; she only knows that somehow having magic feels like a betrayal, like she is knowingly toying with the power dynamic they have perfected over the years. She tells herself that he must know she would never think she could use her magic against him, but she remembers too how quickly he had bled her out on the mountain just for the simple fact that she had climbed it.
When she feels that long-awaited pull from him, it is fear that leaps into her throat first, and she cannot even recall the last time that had happened.
Outwardly, she is the same as he had last left her: golden halo and angel-wings that spill stardust, radiating that same honeyed glow and looking at him with those same nearly-black eyes that stare at him with both reverence and trepidation. But the magic hums like a current of electricity in her veins, and she knows that he senses it.
She sees the blood that stains his familiar lips, and it is a strange thing, the way jealousy still manages to flare up through the fear. It pulls her focus from his wine-red eyes for only a moment before she shoves the emotion to a far corner of her mind, along with all the other cobwebbed things she doesn’t like to think about.
“Carnage,” she says his name almost like an apology, all too aware of the space between them. This is usually where she would say she had missed him, and likely would have touched him just because she knew he would let her. But she sees the tension in his jaw and instead stays still, her pulse steadily rising like a slow flood. “It wasn’t on purpose,” she says softly, imploringly, yet she finds that she is more afraid that he will not even think her worth punishing and will instead just disappear.
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH —
BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
@Carnage