05-26-2024, 06:38 PM
Ryatah
WHEN I WAS SHIPWRECKED I THOUGHT OF YOU
IN THE CRACKS OF LIGHT I DREAMED OF YOU
That wretched heart of hers flutters when he tells her she was always meant to be an angel, because she still remembers the way she had felt when the change took place; how she had felt like an imposter knowing that she is anything but heavenly, yet also how she had so desperately hoped that he would like it. To hear him say it felt like a validation she had not realized she had been craving all this time, a question that she had been too afraid to ask, even though she knew if he hadn’t liked it he would have fixed it — would have torn off her wings or demanded that she do it herself, and he would not have had to ask her twice.
Over time that reverent side of her has not lessened, but has instead grown stronger, nurtured by year after year of this macabre romance, until he is like a blade in her chest that she did not know how to live without, afraid that removing him would bleed her dry rather than save her.
But she is changed in other ways, no longer quite so content to walk this world as any of those older, weaker versions of herself. This has nothing to do with him and everything to do with her, because she has never viewed anything he did to her as something worthy of seeking vengeance.
The rules of their game did not make sense to anyone besides them, and the longer they played the less she found herself willing to be a pawn to anyone else.
With every new iteration of herself she is learning that she did not have to be.
Once he touches her, though, all other thoughts slip to the wayside.
She forgets her magic, and almost (almost) forgets that he is displeased. She thinks only of how long it's been since she last felt him, the way he makes her breath catch as his mouth traces a familiar path across her pale skin, the way she forgets to be afraid. It is a reflex to reach back, to run her lips across his shoulder, to recall how he smells of everywhere and nowhere all at once, but also just distinctly him.
“I missed you, too,” she breathes, not caring if he is lying (because she is not). His tone is too saccharine, but she ignores it. He has been sweet to her before, so that in itself does not raise alarms. The honeyed thickness to his voice is what makes her feel as though he is trying to lure her into some kind of trap, but she is too busy committing his touch to memory to pay that stirring of unease in her chest any mind.
But the sensation of him pulling at her threads of magic is enough to rouse her from the haze she found herself in, though she does not pull away from him, does not break contact when she asks, a soft whisper across his skin, “what are you doing?”
Over time that reverent side of her has not lessened, but has instead grown stronger, nurtured by year after year of this macabre romance, until he is like a blade in her chest that she did not know how to live without, afraid that removing him would bleed her dry rather than save her.
But she is changed in other ways, no longer quite so content to walk this world as any of those older, weaker versions of herself. This has nothing to do with him and everything to do with her, because she has never viewed anything he did to her as something worthy of seeking vengeance.
The rules of their game did not make sense to anyone besides them, and the longer they played the less she found herself willing to be a pawn to anyone else.
With every new iteration of herself she is learning that she did not have to be.
Once he touches her, though, all other thoughts slip to the wayside.
She forgets her magic, and almost (almost) forgets that he is displeased. She thinks only of how long it's been since she last felt him, the way he makes her breath catch as his mouth traces a familiar path across her pale skin, the way she forgets to be afraid. It is a reflex to reach back, to run her lips across his shoulder, to recall how he smells of everywhere and nowhere all at once, but also just distinctly him.
“I missed you, too,” she breathes, not caring if he is lying (because she is not). His tone is too saccharine, but she ignores it. He has been sweet to her before, so that in itself does not raise alarms. The honeyed thickness to his voice is what makes her feel as though he is trying to lure her into some kind of trap, but she is too busy committing his touch to memory to pay that stirring of unease in her chest any mind.
But the sensation of him pulling at her threads of magic is enough to rouse her from the haze she found herself in, though she does not pull away from him, does not break contact when she asks, a soft whisper across his skin, “what are you doing?”
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH —
BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
@Carnage