05-30-2021, 09:13 PM
Ryatah
She knows, because it is impossible not to know, that the things that existed between them—the spark and the flame, the heat and the want—were not things that could just go away. The sun had disappeared from the sky faster than love would ever disappear once rooted in her heart; even if she kept it where light may not ever reach it, it could never die entirely.
The feel of his breath on her face when he speaks in the quiet gravel of his voice creates a tight, aching feeling of longing inside of her chest, coupled with sorrow and all the other things she tried so hard not to feel. The way that it spreads and grows feels like something is physically about to break her ribcage apart, like the love is trying to crawl its way out of the grave she attempted to bury it in, unable to resist the gentle touches and kisses that he caresses her with. Instead of withdrawing away she pushes closer, pressing her forehead against his neck as she tries to speak around the knot in her throat, forcing a light tone of teasing despite the anguish that lives there. “You say that now, because you haven’t met her yet.”
It is only at the unusual sharp way that he calls her angel that she withdraws, drawing her nose towards her chest in the passive way that she is so accustomed to doing when she feels she has done something wrong—when Atrox’s tone becomes edged because she pried into something he had not want her looking at, or when Carnage was clearly displeased with a task she did or did not do. The obedience and the apologies are ingrained into her, carved into her bones so deeply that she does not even notice that she does it, does not even notice the way she breathes out a soft, “I’m sorry,” with her eyes on the ground, though her lips still tingle with the the feeling of his satin-soft feathers.
When she steals a look upwards he is no longer looking at her, staring instead to the horizon, and in the dim light between them she can see the tight muscles of his jaw, and the hard gold of his eyes. She wants to reach for him again, not just because she is selfish (wanting things that are no longer hers), but because it has always been the way of her, to want the things that try to push her away. But his words somehow feel like a reprimand and so she doesn’t, her own expression still subdued and her tone cautious when she says, “I have a daughter that isn’t doing well in the dark. I just….I didn’t think you would want to hear about that. About her.” Her wings shift and resettle, the way that they do when she is agitated in a quiet, subtle way that only she can be—a tension that only surfaces in the dark of her eyes but otherwise does not shadow her face. How did she explain to him that she did not want to pain him with all the details of her family—her family that was not him, her children that were not Illuminae and Radiance; the things that she had essentially left him for.
But the way that he suddenly softens, the way that he looks at her with eyes that are both intense and warm all in one, is enough to make her momentarily forget Este, or the fact that they are even in Hyaline. He reaches for her, and though he stops, she does not. In an instant she is closing the small space between them, reaching to run her nose beneath the thick strands of his mane to the soft skin beneath, an unusual kind of intensity to her voice when she tells him, “I will never regret saving you, and I would save you a thousand more times.” She does not give him the chance to avoid her eyes, fixing his gaze with her own as her heart beats erratically inside of her chest, the love and the pain burning and bright within her veins and reflecting in the near-black of her eyes. “No matter what happens between us, Illum, I would rather watch you belong to someone else than for you to be somewhere that I could never follow.”
The feel of his breath on her face when he speaks in the quiet gravel of his voice creates a tight, aching feeling of longing inside of her chest, coupled with sorrow and all the other things she tried so hard not to feel. The way that it spreads and grows feels like something is physically about to break her ribcage apart, like the love is trying to crawl its way out of the grave she attempted to bury it in, unable to resist the gentle touches and kisses that he caresses her with. Instead of withdrawing away she pushes closer, pressing her forehead against his neck as she tries to speak around the knot in her throat, forcing a light tone of teasing despite the anguish that lives there. “You say that now, because you haven’t met her yet.”
It is only at the unusual sharp way that he calls her angel that she withdraws, drawing her nose towards her chest in the passive way that she is so accustomed to doing when she feels she has done something wrong—when Atrox’s tone becomes edged because she pried into something he had not want her looking at, or when Carnage was clearly displeased with a task she did or did not do. The obedience and the apologies are ingrained into her, carved into her bones so deeply that she does not even notice that she does it, does not even notice the way she breathes out a soft, “I’m sorry,” with her eyes on the ground, though her lips still tingle with the the feeling of his satin-soft feathers.
When she steals a look upwards he is no longer looking at her, staring instead to the horizon, and in the dim light between them she can see the tight muscles of his jaw, and the hard gold of his eyes. She wants to reach for him again, not just because she is selfish (wanting things that are no longer hers), but because it has always been the way of her, to want the things that try to push her away. But his words somehow feel like a reprimand and so she doesn’t, her own expression still subdued and her tone cautious when she says, “I have a daughter that isn’t doing well in the dark. I just….I didn’t think you would want to hear about that. About her.” Her wings shift and resettle, the way that they do when she is agitated in a quiet, subtle way that only she can be—a tension that only surfaces in the dark of her eyes but otherwise does not shadow her face. How did she explain to him that she did not want to pain him with all the details of her family—her family that was not him, her children that were not Illuminae and Radiance; the things that she had essentially left him for.
But the way that he suddenly softens, the way that he looks at her with eyes that are both intense and warm all in one, is enough to make her momentarily forget Este, or the fact that they are even in Hyaline. He reaches for her, and though he stops, she does not. In an instant she is closing the small space between them, reaching to run her nose beneath the thick strands of his mane to the soft skin beneath, an unusual kind of intensity to her voice when she tells him, “I will never regret saving you, and I would save you a thousand more times.” She does not give him the chance to avoid her eyes, fixing his gaze with her own as her heart beats erratically inside of her chest, the love and the pain burning and bright within her veins and reflecting in the near-black of her eyes. “No matter what happens between us, Illum, I would rather watch you belong to someone else than for you to be somewhere that I could never follow.”
EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES
just posting my super old reply from our google doc so this can be ~canon~