10-01-2021, 03:38 PM
este
It is indescribable, the way that he touches her.
The way he makes her feel beautiful and worthy beneath his lips, like his mouth can shape her into something strong and lovely rather than the weak and mild girl she has always been. There is something wrong in that, she thinks, to let his touch be where she derives her strength, because then what will she be without it? What will happen when he fades away and takes his night with him, leaving her to crumble to dust at the light of her own dawn?
She knows, in that moment, that she would have let him touch all of her. He could have taken her and she would not think to tell him no, would not have considered how tangled their lives already were and how much worse she was going to make it by not pulling away. He could have laid claim to her in any way that he wished and there is a not so secret part of her that wishes he would.
But he is looking at her now in a way she cannot decipher, staring at her halo and her wings, and she feels regret burning in the back of her throat. She does not fully understand the relationship between this man and her mother, but the way that he looks at her now makes her wish, more than anything, that she was not an angel. She is more angelic than her mother in many ways, though perhaps not nearly as grand in appearance—but there is an innocence and a light to her that Ryatah never could possess, something genuinely pure that the world had not yet defiled. She hates the way he is looking at her, though, like he cannot stand to see the halo above her head, like he had planned to go the rest of his life without crossing paths with another angel.
She is frozen by his molten silver eyes, though, unable to shift back into that doe-like and unassuming girl, and she can do nothing but stare back at him, shining and rose-gold, and when he closes the space between them and presses his lips to her throat she releases a trembling sigh of relief.
Her tongue cannot form answers to his questions, not when her pulse is too busy trying to beat through her skin to get closer to his touch. Instead she tentatively reaches forward, brushes her own soft mouth against his shoulder. What she finds causes her to inhale sharp and soft, and she almost pulls away. She is not sure what she thought he would feel like—she hadn’t been able to properly imagine what night would feel like, but she has been trying to figure it out from the moment she saw him. She reaches for him again, her warm lips again caressing against his shoulder, marveling at the way his skin seems to shift beneath her touch like rippling silk. “I never knew what the night would feel like,” she tells him quietly, heat still burning beneath her skin, afraid to look at him, afraid that he will see how unsure and terrified she is. “It’s just as beautiful as I imagined.” She hesitates, a slow smile on her lips that is kept hidden with her face still so close to his shoulder. “You are just as beautiful as I imagined.”
There is another shudder that takes over her spine when he touches the base of her wing, and she bites back the quiet moan-like sound that builds in her throat at the feel of his shadows twining through her blush-colored feathers. She wants to pull away and wants to press herself closer, she wants to run and wants to never leave. Her mind is a hum of electricity that she cannot think around, a fog that she cannot see through, and she almost does not notice the way darkness suddenly spills from him, suffocating the stars and the stardust and leaving only her gentle glow.
She is afraid, but she is not afraid of him, not even in the dark.
She is afraid how easily he could shatter her apart, and how willing she is to let him, and she thinks, maybe for the first time, that she understands why her mother goes back to her father time and time again.
“Then I guess we will just be in the dark,” she whispers, and slowly her light fades entirely, and she lets his night consume them both.
The way he makes her feel beautiful and worthy beneath his lips, like his mouth can shape her into something strong and lovely rather than the weak and mild girl she has always been. There is something wrong in that, she thinks, to let his touch be where she derives her strength, because then what will she be without it? What will happen when he fades away and takes his night with him, leaving her to crumble to dust at the light of her own dawn?
She knows, in that moment, that she would have let him touch all of her. He could have taken her and she would not think to tell him no, would not have considered how tangled their lives already were and how much worse she was going to make it by not pulling away. He could have laid claim to her in any way that he wished and there is a not so secret part of her that wishes he would.
But he is looking at her now in a way she cannot decipher, staring at her halo and her wings, and she feels regret burning in the back of her throat. She does not fully understand the relationship between this man and her mother, but the way that he looks at her now makes her wish, more than anything, that she was not an angel. She is more angelic than her mother in many ways, though perhaps not nearly as grand in appearance—but there is an innocence and a light to her that Ryatah never could possess, something genuinely pure that the world had not yet defiled. She hates the way he is looking at her, though, like he cannot stand to see the halo above her head, like he had planned to go the rest of his life without crossing paths with another angel.
She is frozen by his molten silver eyes, though, unable to shift back into that doe-like and unassuming girl, and she can do nothing but stare back at him, shining and rose-gold, and when he closes the space between them and presses his lips to her throat she releases a trembling sigh of relief.
Her tongue cannot form answers to his questions, not when her pulse is too busy trying to beat through her skin to get closer to his touch. Instead she tentatively reaches forward, brushes her own soft mouth against his shoulder. What she finds causes her to inhale sharp and soft, and she almost pulls away. She is not sure what she thought he would feel like—she hadn’t been able to properly imagine what night would feel like, but she has been trying to figure it out from the moment she saw him. She reaches for him again, her warm lips again caressing against his shoulder, marveling at the way his skin seems to shift beneath her touch like rippling silk. “I never knew what the night would feel like,” she tells him quietly, heat still burning beneath her skin, afraid to look at him, afraid that he will see how unsure and terrified she is. “It’s just as beautiful as I imagined.” She hesitates, a slow smile on her lips that is kept hidden with her face still so close to his shoulder. “You are just as beautiful as I imagined.”
There is another shudder that takes over her spine when he touches the base of her wing, and she bites back the quiet moan-like sound that builds in her throat at the feel of his shadows twining through her blush-colored feathers. She wants to pull away and wants to press herself closer, she wants to run and wants to never leave. Her mind is a hum of electricity that she cannot think around, a fog that she cannot see through, and she almost does not notice the way darkness suddenly spills from him, suffocating the stars and the stardust and leaving only her gentle glow.
She is afraid, but she is not afraid of him, not even in the dark.
She is afraid how easily he could shatter her apart, and how willing she is to let him, and she thinks, maybe for the first time, that she understands why her mother goes back to her father time and time again.
“Then I guess we will just be in the dark,” she whispers, and slowly her light fades entirely, and she lets his night consume them both.
BUT WHO COULD STAY?
