07-11-2017, 07:59 PM
Stillwater
The give and take was maddening. Was perfect. They never felt like her, she was different. Never tasted like her. Why was she so different? But he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. She’d be gone soon, anyway. He’d give and he’d give. And he’d take. Take until there was nothing left. That’s what he was, what he did.
But they’d never felt like her.
And sometimes he wanted to hesitate. Wanted to stop.
But he never wanted to stop.
Her quiet whispers only barely reached him, incoherent and bubbling in the waving of their water, their unbalanced rhythm of passion and ecstasy. And satisfaction. He drank, and drank, and elsewhere his pleasure intensified, forcing him to pause long enough for his teeth to clamp tighter, refusing to release his hold even enough to smother a moan into her skin. They never felt this good. He wished he could keep her. But they always die, that was the way of things. She would die too, though a small part of him hoped she wouldn’t. Had tried to warn her, hadn’t he?
They each had found their release, but he didn’t stop. Never wanted to stop. She felt so good, tasted so good. Like nothing else. Something rare and valuable and priceless. Something soon to be extinct. He loved every sound she made, though they were growing fainter. The laughter, too, at his taunting and his play, a sound that pressed a helpless smile in his lips. Loved every move she made, though they grew weaker, slower, sluggish. It didn’t matter, she still felt impossibly good, and he made sure she felt it too. She would die lost deep in a euphoria she couldn’t escape. The best way to go, some might say.
She was fading, falling, drifting to the blanket of soft silt. But he didn’t stop, kept rocking into her, pulling from her and savoring this tonic of life that powered her. That soon would power him instead. Almost reluctant, really. Why’d she have to feel so good? Why’d he have to find her so fun and intriguing? Such a shame, such a waste. Why’d he have to push her to do this again. Again, though. She’d lived before, escaped before. Maybe she would again. And not kill him in return.
Her mouth opened, her legs folding, but no sound came out. He smiled, drawing more from her. Shh, he would have crooned to her, but he wouldn’t let go this exquisite tap. It won’t hurt soon. Her face turned, so drowsy in her movements, and he was quietly surprised that she still could. Such a fighter. He’d loved that about her. She pressed a hazy kiss to his cheek, so weak, then to his mouth where he remained latched to her, and her watery words reached him this time. ”I wish you were satisfied.”
The boundless craving for her organs slipped away and he growled. But he wanted it! He wanted to want them, the tissue, the muscles, the bones and marrow, and she stole it away with words. He could have done it himself, could have vowed not to take them and feel the barrier that held him to it. But it wouldn’t have satisfied him as hers did. He wouldn’t have felt like this, the hunger slipping away as though he’d already devoured her. He would have still needed more.
But she faded, and fell away from his mouth. He watched her sink with cold calculation, eyes bright and hard. He could still do it, could choose to. His kind could be gluttons. She was his, though, in some way. And he couldn’t help but want her to live, to always escape from him. He bent to her, his hair waving like ink in the water, clamping his jaw on her and jerking her upward. He slipped beneath her and adhered her to his back, gradually taking them to the surface. She was his in some way.
He lay her carefully on the shore, and stared down at her. He ached to lay at her side til she woke, wanted so badly to curl around her and lick so tenderly at her wound, the damage he’d caused. He couldn’t stay, though. There was nothing he could do that could make this better. Nothing stopping him from taking the rest of her. She would still wake up hating him, and what he was. And he’d still want her anyway.
His head bent, and he brushed his mouth through her wet hair. He didn’t want to leave. Why did he want to stay? He pushed it aside, ignored it. He couldn’t stay, not now. Not after that. She’d released him, removed the chain around his ankle, and he would leave now. He knew he could come back. Knew that she would avoid this place as she had avoided him before. And he intended to. This was home. But first, a bout of freedom, A body or twelve he could take for himself this time. Then he’d come back. And she’d probably be long gone away from him. As she should be.
He dipped to her again, one last time, pressed his lips to hers and closed his blue eyes. She was his in some way. Maybe a part of him was hers too. He felt the words settle there, taunting and mocking, and he changed them. I want you, he promised to her unconscious body. Maybe he always would. She felt so good, tasted so good. They were power and turmoil and dangerous. She wasn’t safe with him, and neither was he safe with her. A threat to each other. Would she capture him again the next time? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t seem to care. He just knew he wanted her.
Maybe he always would.
But they’d never felt like her.
And sometimes he wanted to hesitate. Wanted to stop.
But he never wanted to stop.
Her quiet whispers only barely reached him, incoherent and bubbling in the waving of their water, their unbalanced rhythm of passion and ecstasy. And satisfaction. He drank, and drank, and elsewhere his pleasure intensified, forcing him to pause long enough for his teeth to clamp tighter, refusing to release his hold even enough to smother a moan into her skin. They never felt this good. He wished he could keep her. But they always die, that was the way of things. She would die too, though a small part of him hoped she wouldn’t. Had tried to warn her, hadn’t he?
They each had found their release, but he didn’t stop. Never wanted to stop. She felt so good, tasted so good. Like nothing else. Something rare and valuable and priceless. Something soon to be extinct. He loved every sound she made, though they were growing fainter. The laughter, too, at his taunting and his play, a sound that pressed a helpless smile in his lips. Loved every move she made, though they grew weaker, slower, sluggish. It didn’t matter, she still felt impossibly good, and he made sure she felt it too. She would die lost deep in a euphoria she couldn’t escape. The best way to go, some might say.
She was fading, falling, drifting to the blanket of soft silt. But he didn’t stop, kept rocking into her, pulling from her and savoring this tonic of life that powered her. That soon would power him instead. Almost reluctant, really. Why’d she have to feel so good? Why’d he have to find her so fun and intriguing? Such a shame, such a waste. Why’d he have to push her to do this again. Again, though. She’d lived before, escaped before. Maybe she would again. And not kill him in return.
Her mouth opened, her legs folding, but no sound came out. He smiled, drawing more from her. Shh, he would have crooned to her, but he wouldn’t let go this exquisite tap. It won’t hurt soon. Her face turned, so drowsy in her movements, and he was quietly surprised that she still could. Such a fighter. He’d loved that about her. She pressed a hazy kiss to his cheek, so weak, then to his mouth where he remained latched to her, and her watery words reached him this time. ”I wish you were satisfied.”
The boundless craving for her organs slipped away and he growled. But he wanted it! He wanted to want them, the tissue, the muscles, the bones and marrow, and she stole it away with words. He could have done it himself, could have vowed not to take them and feel the barrier that held him to it. But it wouldn’t have satisfied him as hers did. He wouldn’t have felt like this, the hunger slipping away as though he’d already devoured her. He would have still needed more.
But she faded, and fell away from his mouth. He watched her sink with cold calculation, eyes bright and hard. He could still do it, could choose to. His kind could be gluttons. She was his, though, in some way. And he couldn’t help but want her to live, to always escape from him. He bent to her, his hair waving like ink in the water, clamping his jaw on her and jerking her upward. He slipped beneath her and adhered her to his back, gradually taking them to the surface. She was his in some way.
He lay her carefully on the shore, and stared down at her. He ached to lay at her side til she woke, wanted so badly to curl around her and lick so tenderly at her wound, the damage he’d caused. He couldn’t stay, though. There was nothing he could do that could make this better. Nothing stopping him from taking the rest of her. She would still wake up hating him, and what he was. And he’d still want her anyway.
His head bent, and he brushed his mouth through her wet hair. He didn’t want to leave. Why did he want to stay? He pushed it aside, ignored it. He couldn’t stay, not now. Not after that. She’d released him, removed the chain around his ankle, and he would leave now. He knew he could come back. Knew that she would avoid this place as she had avoided him before. And he intended to. This was home. But first, a bout of freedom, A body or twelve he could take for himself this time. Then he’d come back. And she’d probably be long gone away from him. As she should be.
He dipped to her again, one last time, pressed his lips to hers and closed his blue eyes. She was his in some way. Maybe a part of him was hers too. He felt the words settle there, taunting and mocking, and he changed them. I want you, he promised to her unconscious body. Maybe he always would. She felt so good, tasted so good. They were power and turmoil and dangerous. She wasn’t safe with him, and neither was he safe with her. A threat to each other. Would she capture him again the next time? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t seem to care. He just knew he wanted her.
Maybe he always would.