01-15-2020, 06:47 PM
He does not plunge razors into her flesh.
The teeth he skims across the surface of those scales are ordinary, dull.
But it still thrills her to know that he could rip the throat out of her, should he choose to.
Because the darkness has other weapons, she knows. Because there is more to violence than fangs and drawn blood. She had felt death wrapped around her throat, had felt it choke the air out of her lungs, and he’d never touched her at all.
She trusts him, Draco, to destroy her, though he does little more than skim his teeth across her skin.
His demand echoes loud in each hemisphere of her brain. It sinks into the meat of her chest. And she imagines Ghaul, how he had resented the demands she made of him. She thinks of Stave and how he, too, had rejected her. She imagines the power in it. She could deny him. She could grit her teeth and make him pry open her mouth.
But she is young still, Gospel. She is young and impulsive and she wraps herself around him. She reaches for him, sinks her fanged teeth into the meat of his shoulder. And oh, the ecstasy that spirals heady through the network of her veins! Oh, how she quivers with her want to let flow the venom that courses through her! But alas, she finds some semblance of self-control. She lets loose just enough to numb the flesh there in the immediate area and then pulls her mouth away, licks his blood from her tongue.
She drags in a staggered breath, exhales some guttural thing that speaks of a dark pleasure she has caught only brief glimpses of in her short life. She shudders with it and then grins her bloody grin.
“You taste,” she murmurs, throaty, sultry, her eyes half-closed as she studies him, “just as good as you look.”
The teeth he skims across the surface of those scales are ordinary, dull.
But it still thrills her to know that he could rip the throat out of her, should he choose to.
Because the darkness has other weapons, she knows. Because there is more to violence than fangs and drawn blood. She had felt death wrapped around her throat, had felt it choke the air out of her lungs, and he’d never touched her at all.
She trusts him, Draco, to destroy her, though he does little more than skim his teeth across her skin.
His demand echoes loud in each hemisphere of her brain. It sinks into the meat of her chest. And she imagines Ghaul, how he had resented the demands she made of him. She thinks of Stave and how he, too, had rejected her. She imagines the power in it. She could deny him. She could grit her teeth and make him pry open her mouth.
But she is young still, Gospel. She is young and impulsive and she wraps herself around him. She reaches for him, sinks her fanged teeth into the meat of his shoulder. And oh, the ecstasy that spirals heady through the network of her veins! Oh, how she quivers with her want to let flow the venom that courses through her! But alas, she finds some semblance of self-control. She lets loose just enough to numb the flesh there in the immediate area and then pulls her mouth away, licks his blood from her tongue.
She drags in a staggered breath, exhales some guttural thing that speaks of a dark pleasure she has caught only brief glimpses of in her short life. She shudders with it and then grins her bloody grin.
“You taste,” she murmurs, throaty, sultry, her eyes half-closed as she studies him, “just as good as you look.”
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
