12-04-2020, 04:28 AM
There is something that lives between them, something that halves itself between toxic and romantic; an intangible sort of thing that neither of them seems to directly acknowledge, but then again, there is hardly a need for it. There was nothing to call it – nothing that could begin to encompass all that it is – but the proof of its existence lived in their willingness to keep coming back to each other.
He thinks of her blood on his tongue, and she thinks of the times he shot life back into her veins.
He feeds off her desperate need to please, and he leaves her with an ache in her chest that no one else can fill, and somehow their twisted addictions melt into something that is compatible.
He touches her and it reminds her of the stars coming alive under her skin – that brief moment before they had started to burn and there was only the wonder of stardust in her veins, a marveling at how he could make such a thing possible. He is, to her, the ultimate embodiment of magic, and when he touches her cheek he sparks a wildfire of all the unnamable emotions that no one else can ignite. There is a relief, too, at the familiar feel of him – a sharp inhale followed by a slow exhale – and she cannot help the way that she leans into his touch, and how her lips find his shoulder in turn.
She wants more – always wants more – but her heart twinges against her ribs when he says he had considered not returning.
The desperation already begins to tighten inside of her chest, but she says nothing. She would have deserved it, of course. She is never surprised when someone chooses not to stay, least of all him.
Inwardly, there is a hardened resolve to not disappoint him again, and she recognizes the opportunity at the mention of her eyes.
But she is wary of his offer, remembering how he had wanted her to kill Cthulhu, last time. She did not play the part of an angel very well – she was selfish and insatiable – but there were some things that not even she could bring herself to do (she wonders, though, if that had changed; if faced with the possibility of driving him away for good if she could find a way to succeed). She had been unable to kill the alien creature, but she had also shouldered her punishment in silence – the only thing that she could offer him when she is unable to do as he asks.
Her trust in him though is a bewildering thing, because she, perhaps foolishly, does not think he will ask her to fail at the same thing twice. It will be something new this time, and that thought brings with it another jump of her pulse, another distorted sense of anticipation. “What do I need to do?” she asks, quiet but careful to hide any hesitancy that she might feel.
She is not afraid of what he will ask – not afraid of dying, of hurting, of needing to summon every ounce of darkness that was harbored away beneath this ethereal illusion – but she is afraid of failing, again.
He thinks of her blood on his tongue, and she thinks of the times he shot life back into her veins.
He feeds off her desperate need to please, and he leaves her with an ache in her chest that no one else can fill, and somehow their twisted addictions melt into something that is compatible.
He touches her and it reminds her of the stars coming alive under her skin – that brief moment before they had started to burn and there was only the wonder of stardust in her veins, a marveling at how he could make such a thing possible. He is, to her, the ultimate embodiment of magic, and when he touches her cheek he sparks a wildfire of all the unnamable emotions that no one else can ignite. There is a relief, too, at the familiar feel of him – a sharp inhale followed by a slow exhale – and she cannot help the way that she leans into his touch, and how her lips find his shoulder in turn.
She wants more – always wants more – but her heart twinges against her ribs when he says he had considered not returning.
The desperation already begins to tighten inside of her chest, but she says nothing. She would have deserved it, of course. She is never surprised when someone chooses not to stay, least of all him.
Inwardly, there is a hardened resolve to not disappoint him again, and she recognizes the opportunity at the mention of her eyes.
But she is wary of his offer, remembering how he had wanted her to kill Cthulhu, last time. She did not play the part of an angel very well – she was selfish and insatiable – but there were some things that not even she could bring herself to do (she wonders, though, if that had changed; if faced with the possibility of driving him away for good if she could find a way to succeed). She had been unable to kill the alien creature, but she had also shouldered her punishment in silence – the only thing that she could offer him when she is unable to do as he asks.
Her trust in him though is a bewildering thing, because she, perhaps foolishly, does not think he will ask her to fail at the same thing twice. It will be something new this time, and that thought brings with it another jump of her pulse, another distorted sense of anticipation. “What do I need to do?” she asks, quiet but careful to hide any hesitancy that she might feel.
She is not afraid of what he will ask – not afraid of dying, of hurting, of needing to summon every ounce of darkness that was harbored away beneath this ethereal illusion – but she is afraid of failing, again.
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
but you would still miss me in your bones
@[Carnage]