03-27-2020, 12:38 AM
she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
In the tense moment that stretches between them she finds herself wondering why she had told him anything at all. It would have been so much easier to keep this to herself, to harbor it away in some dark corner of her mind and heart and never call upon it again. To let the memory collect dust until she forgot that she had done something so reckless and foolish, even by her standards. And for what reason? She hasn’t let herself dwell on it. That was something that she was afraid to acknowledge.
It was easier to pretend she felt nothing; it was easier to pretend that she could discard someone just as easily as they could her, to pretend like her heart wouldn’t break itself a hundred times over just for a glimmer of approval.
But telling him what she had done erased all hope of that; she doesn’t think she can pretend anymore after this. She had, regrettably, opened the window to her soul, had given him a glimpse at the idea that he meant more to her than most did, but the sharpness of his words and the hardness of his eyes has her drawing the curtains again. She would rather be in the dark than face rejection, and when he reaches for her she steels herself for the feel of his teeth breaking her skin.
When his lips find the corner of her mouth, her breath hitches.
When his touch traces up the side of her face, her heart finds an all new rhythm.
And when his teeth graze behind her ear, she presses back into him with the promise of a moan in the back of her throat.
“Atrox,” she whispers on a breath, and though her voice is soft in comparison to the roughness of him there is an undeniable hunger to the way she says his name, and to the way she presses a kiss into the groove of his jaw. In a step her chest is pushed against his, and when she slides her nose along the slope of his neck and breathes in his achingly familiar scent she already cannot bring herself to be worried that this, in its entirety, might end horribly for her.
It was easier to pretend she felt nothing; it was easier to pretend that she could discard someone just as easily as they could her, to pretend like her heart wouldn’t break itself a hundred times over just for a glimmer of approval.
But telling him what she had done erased all hope of that; she doesn’t think she can pretend anymore after this. She had, regrettably, opened the window to her soul, had given him a glimpse at the idea that he meant more to her than most did, but the sharpness of his words and the hardness of his eyes has her drawing the curtains again. She would rather be in the dark than face rejection, and when he reaches for her she steels herself for the feel of his teeth breaking her skin.
When his lips find the corner of her mouth, her breath hitches.
When his touch traces up the side of her face, her heart finds an all new rhythm.
And when his teeth graze behind her ear, she presses back into him with the promise of a moan in the back of her throat.
“Atrox,” she whispers on a breath, and though her voice is soft in comparison to the roughness of him there is an undeniable hunger to the way she says his name, and to the way she presses a kiss into the groove of his jaw. In a step her chest is pushed against his, and when she slides her nose along the slope of his neck and breathes in his achingly familiar scent she already cannot bring herself to be worried that this, in its entirety, might end horribly for her.
ryatah