The space between them disappears when his chest pushes against hers, and the knot that had been building in the space between her ribs is on the verge of unraveling. She is always so easily undone, and she knows that she should try harder to be something stronger, someone that was not so easily led into temptation. But his touch feels like electricity arcing across her skin, and if there is still guilt in her veins, it is swept away in the current of her want.
Because of course she wants him, like she wants all things she should not and cannot have. She wants to let his darkness eclipse her light, the way she has before, the way she always does, because she is just as predictable as she is chaotic. But most of all, she is weak; too weak to resist, too weak to walk away, too weak to recognize that she is nothing and this will go nowhere, because it never does.
Maybe the things that are whispered about her behind her back are true.
His teeth grazing the surface of her skin makes her want him closer, while simultaneously sparking fear that spreads from the corners of her heart. The faint glow that radiates from her is shrouded by the black of his skin, and her lips travel down his neck to trace the lines of muscle on his shoulder. “What makes you think I don’t want to be here?” It’s a rhetorical question, because she knows that he knows – like Carnage knows, like Ashhal knows. There was something so deeply out of place inside of her, but so far out of reach that not even she knows what it is, and not even love – not even Skellig – can fix it. They pick up on it, like a shark to a single drop of blood.
Her pulse accelerates with each small bite, the skin warming in response to where his touch lingers. He pulls away, but only to slide along her hip and involuntarily she shudders.
She can feel the way her mind goes hazy as his breath collides with the sensitive skin of her thigh, right before his teeth sink into the tautness of her flesh. She bites her lip to contain the moan that builds in her throat at the feel of her skin breaking beneath his teeth, followed by the now familiar feeling of blood as it trickles down her leg.
She does not notice the way her body begins to slowly knit the wound back together – she does not notice the difference between the strange, warming response of her healing in comparison to the sensation of wanting him.
“I don’t care what kind of game it is,” she breathes, inwardly fighting to regain some form of control over herself, but failing when she looks back at him and says with an almost imperceptible smile, “as long as I’m your favorite playing piece.”
