02-24-2021, 12:14 AM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
She lived in fear of the day that he would grow tired of her.
It was not a new fear for her by any means, but it was a new version of it. She has spent her entire life being afraid of being cast aside and forgotten; by Dhumin, Skellig, Carnage, or anyone else that gave her the attention she craved, no matter how brief. She let herself be broken and remade to their liking, she twisted every part of herself to fit what she thought they wanted. It was never enough, and she did it knowing it would never be enough.
But this fear—it was something different, something with a mind of its own. There had always been a careful divide kept between herself and the rest, a guard that while invisible and clearly able to be seen through was still solid and impenetrable. It was what kept her from falling apart when Dhumin did not follow her back from the afterlife. It was what allowed her to brush aside every time Carnage killed her or ripped her eyes out, the guard that kept Ashhal’s scathing words from actually leaving scars.
There was no such divide between the two of them.
He could end her with a glance and then heal her with a touch. If he left, she would be entirely undone in a way that could not be fixed, in a way that she does not even want to imagine.
When he pulls her beneath him, she doesn’t have to.
There is only the feel of him and the hunger in the touches he leaves on her neck and back, the feel of his breath on her skin. He consumes her, ignites every part of her, and she does not even care if he were to reduce her to ashes. He pulls her closer and it is not enough, just as he said; it will never be close enough. No matter how she presses into him, no matter how many times his name is an involuntary moan on her tongue, there is that endlessly aching, coiling feeling that she is afraid will last forever.
Until she unravels entirely, and she is left glistening in sweat and trembling, still gasping.
The cool air touches her damp back where he had just been, but she wastes no time pressing into him again once he is again alongside her. She has learned that she could tangle herself around him in the minutes after and that he would not resist, that instead, she could steal more moments of this side of him. Her pale cheek rests against his neck, her dark eyes half-closed when she murmurs without even thinking, “I love you, Atrox.”
It was not a new fear for her by any means, but it was a new version of it. She has spent her entire life being afraid of being cast aside and forgotten; by Dhumin, Skellig, Carnage, or anyone else that gave her the attention she craved, no matter how brief. She let herself be broken and remade to their liking, she twisted every part of herself to fit what she thought they wanted. It was never enough, and she did it knowing it would never be enough.
But this fear—it was something different, something with a mind of its own. There had always been a careful divide kept between herself and the rest, a guard that while invisible and clearly able to be seen through was still solid and impenetrable. It was what kept her from falling apart when Dhumin did not follow her back from the afterlife. It was what allowed her to brush aside every time Carnage killed her or ripped her eyes out, the guard that kept Ashhal’s scathing words from actually leaving scars.
There was no such divide between the two of them.
He could end her with a glance and then heal her with a touch. If he left, she would be entirely undone in a way that could not be fixed, in a way that she does not even want to imagine.
When he pulls her beneath him, she doesn’t have to.
There is only the feel of him and the hunger in the touches he leaves on her neck and back, the feel of his breath on her skin. He consumes her, ignites every part of her, and she does not even care if he were to reduce her to ashes. He pulls her closer and it is not enough, just as he said; it will never be close enough. No matter how she presses into him, no matter how many times his name is an involuntary moan on her tongue, there is that endlessly aching, coiling feeling that she is afraid will last forever.
Until she unravels entirely, and she is left glistening in sweat and trembling, still gasping.
The cool air touches her damp back where he had just been, but she wastes no time pressing into him again once he is again alongside her. She has learned that she could tangle herself around him in the minutes after and that he would not resist, that instead, she could steal more moments of this side of him. Her pale cheek rests against his neck, her dark eyes half-closed when she murmurs without even thinking, “I love you, Atrox.”
there on 's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —