09-24-2018, 02:17 PM
She knew better by now than to hope. The sound of approaching footsteps made her heart race anyhow, though a year had come and gone since his promise to come back to her. She stood, eyes closed and heart pounding in her chest like a drum gone mad, a relentless fever pitch that stole her breath with her first taste of anticipation in so damn long she barely recognized it as it flickered to life inside her.
But he was not her Dov. He was something far more dangerous*.
His fire heated her skin before he so much as touched her, flame sizzling and crackling and making a shiver race along her skin. He pressed against her, his touch burning in brand new ways, just a taste of fire searing into her skin, and she bit back a cry of pain, skin shuddering protest at his touch, eyelids lowering halfway as sensation flooded through her for the first time in a year.
Her breath caught, and she turned her face to look at him as he trailed his lips along her neck, gasping at the ugly scars that marred his hairless hide, not quite sure if the shiver that ran down her spine was one of disgust or anticipation. She was disaster. And he could be her undoing. She could almost taste it in the rasp of his voice as he crooned, do it, egging her on, and she wondered. Could he feel her standing at the edge of her own unmaking, destruction thick and heady in the air?
She almost did, almost listened to that ruined voice, almost gave in and stepped out into the water--until he added three little words. You’re not worthy.
Ah, yes. It was, after all, what had stopped her in the first place. She didn’t deserve the out, didn’t deserve the ending. So her feet stayed firmly planted on the ground, and she let the brush of his fire sear her skin, let it burn through her and remind her there were other roads to ruin.
“No.”
She looked at him, brown eyes clashing briefly with grey. “I’m not,” she agreed softly, and started walking toward home.
((*for her mental health, Dov, calm down, nobody’s calling you safe or weak or not super badass, breathe--or show up and prove her wrong, ijs))
But he was not her Dov. He was something far more dangerous*.
His fire heated her skin before he so much as touched her, flame sizzling and crackling and making a shiver race along her skin. He pressed against her, his touch burning in brand new ways, just a taste of fire searing into her skin, and she bit back a cry of pain, skin shuddering protest at his touch, eyelids lowering halfway as sensation flooded through her for the first time in a year.
Her breath caught, and she turned her face to look at him as he trailed his lips along her neck, gasping at the ugly scars that marred his hairless hide, not quite sure if the shiver that ran down her spine was one of disgust or anticipation. She was disaster. And he could be her undoing. She could almost taste it in the rasp of his voice as he crooned, do it, egging her on, and she wondered. Could he feel her standing at the edge of her own unmaking, destruction thick and heady in the air?
She almost did, almost listened to that ruined voice, almost gave in and stepped out into the water--until he added three little words. You’re not worthy.
Ah, yes. It was, after all, what had stopped her in the first place. She didn’t deserve the out, didn’t deserve the ending. So her feet stayed firmly planted on the ground, and she let the brush of his fire sear her skin, let it burn through her and remind her there were other roads to ruin.
“No.”
She looked at him, brown eyes clashing briefly with grey. “I’m not,” she agreed softly, and started walking toward home.
((*for her mental health, Dov, calm down, nobody’s calling you safe or weak or not super badass, breathe--or show up and prove her wrong, ijs))