Her teeth catch at his skin, her fingers curling at his back to graze him with her nails because not even then, not even when she was surrounded by more warmth and want than she’s ever known in the whole of her remembered life does she know how to be truly gentle. She wants to mark him with her teeth, wants to suck at his skin until the salt of it lingers inside her mouth, wants to feel his panted breaths and rough noises beneath her lips because they are hers to take, to love, and that seems very important.
She has been raised almost a wolf, and the little she knows of love narrows down to a wispy memory of a pretty woman with red hair that fed her warm milk and sang her songs at night and now this – this act of love, which seems to have so very little to do with the emotion itself. Love to Natalia has always been an exploitable point of weakness, a snug little underbelly in which her knife will always find its home. But now, now she understands, even if her understanding is only rudimentary at best. She is going half mad for this, for him. She will do it again and again and again if she can and will think nothing of the consequences as long as it meant she can have more of this. Death, in that moment, seems but a small price to pay.
When his fingers shifted down between them and over her, she jerks and shudders beneath him with no slow build up, no crescendo. She comes hard and takes his mouth as he covers hers, her tongue slipping along his teeth to mute her own cries as she shivers and clenches at him, her legs rising from the floor instinctively to lock around him and hold him deep inside her. When he comes, she wants to feel it inside her. That seems important, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-10-05 07:11 pm (UTC)She has been raised almost a wolf, and the little she knows of love narrows down to a wispy memory of a pretty woman with red hair that fed her warm milk and sang her songs at night and now this – this act of love, which seems to have so very little to do with the emotion itself. Love to Natalia has always been an exploitable point of weakness, a snug little underbelly in which her knife will always find its home. But now, now she understands, even if her understanding is only rudimentary at best. She is going half mad for this, for him. She will do it again and again and again if she can and will think nothing of the consequences as long as it meant she can have more of this. Death, in that moment, seems but a small price to pay.
When his fingers shifted down between them and over her, she jerks and shudders beneath him with no slow build up, no crescendo. She comes hard and takes his mouth as he covers hers, her tongue slipping along his teeth to mute her own cries as she shivers and clenches at him, her legs rising from the floor instinctively to lock around him and hold him deep inside her. When he comes, she wants to feel it inside her. That seems important, too.