02-16-2021, 12:34 AM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
She feels the shift in him, and it is like electricity suddenly comes alive in her veins.
The rest of the world fades away—until the entirety of the world is just them. It has been this way for years now, and still she never grows tired of it. He looks at her in a way that she is certain no one has ever looked at her before, not even Skellig. The way his predator eyes lock on her like she is his favorite prey, with a glint that always makes her heart trip up in her chest, and she never wants it to be anyone besides her fixed at the intersection of those invisible crosshairs.
He pushes against her, and she lets him. The solid feel of his body pressing into hers steals the breath from her lungs, and the feel of him trying to hold back, to try and tame the way his teeth sink into her skin only leaves her wanting more. Her skin does not immediately heal the way it had the first time they had found themselves entangled like this; she had been a newly made angel then, had not even known she possessed the ability to heal. It is entirely within her control now, and she lets his teeth leave their marks, lets her blood streak across the stark white of her skin.
She liked the way his mouth left a trail of blood everywhere it went, liked that she could visually map out all the places he has touched.
Her own lips caress what they can reach—his throat and his neck, the strong slope of his shoulder—but mostly she can do nothing but tremble beneath his needy exploration, her blood blossoming against his lips.
Until he suddenly softens, his tongue warm against her hip, and her name a murmur from his mouth. In the quiet between them there is only her quickened breath, a shudder of skin when she leans her hip into him, and asks with a coyness she can hardly manage, “How much closer?”
The rest of the world fades away—until the entirety of the world is just them. It has been this way for years now, and still she never grows tired of it. He looks at her in a way that she is certain no one has ever looked at her before, not even Skellig. The way his predator eyes lock on her like she is his favorite prey, with a glint that always makes her heart trip up in her chest, and she never wants it to be anyone besides her fixed at the intersection of those invisible crosshairs.
He pushes against her, and she lets him. The solid feel of his body pressing into hers steals the breath from her lungs, and the feel of him trying to hold back, to try and tame the way his teeth sink into her skin only leaves her wanting more. Her skin does not immediately heal the way it had the first time they had found themselves entangled like this; she had been a newly made angel then, had not even known she possessed the ability to heal. It is entirely within her control now, and she lets his teeth leave their marks, lets her blood streak across the stark white of her skin.
She liked the way his mouth left a trail of blood everywhere it went, liked that she could visually map out all the places he has touched.
Her own lips caress what they can reach—his throat and his neck, the strong slope of his shoulder—but mostly she can do nothing but tremble beneath his needy exploration, her blood blossoming against his lips.
Until he suddenly softens, his tongue warm against her hip, and her name a murmur from his mouth. In the quiet between them there is only her quickened breath, a shudder of skin when she leans her hip into him, and asks with a coyness she can hardly manage, “How much closer?”
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —