nuzzling into your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair, letting out a tired little murmur before he’s parting his lips. lazy open mouthed kisses down your neck. wet, sloppy, super uncoordinated - seeming more like he’s just trying to satisfy a craving more than anything else. the craving being; the taste of your skin

fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties, a lazy smile curling against your skin. slow and steady, a pleased hum rumbling against your back as your slick coats his fingers. tugging them to the side, pulling you back flush to him so you can feel how much he really wants you.

sinking in slow. ragged gasps against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips just a little too tight. low, sleep-thick words telling you how much he missed you. his movements barely more than a slow grind, and as one hand slips down to toy with your clit

strung out and high off multiple orgasms he’s already yanked from you, and you swear you’re close to just going nonverbal. with the last vestiges of strength you have, you meet his eyes, squinting and letting your brows pinch in a way that is nothing short of condescending. even in your position, lying beneath him with your knees bent and thighs spread wide, you dare to laugh in his face.

“really?” you pant, head bobbing with the force of his already sharp thrusts. “that all you got? I can barely feel it..”

and something inside him just…. clicks. oh. you wanted to play real dirty tonight didn’t you?

with a growled laugh, he shakes his head, and the smile that stretches across his lips doesn’t quite meet his eyes. when he looks up at you from under his brows, his eyes are no longer that bright, cerulean blue you fawn over in the sunlight. the moon is high, and they’re now painted with a tide of dark watered desire only you could string out of him.

“hm. can ‘barely feel it’, huh?” he scoffs, entertaining your obviously baseless, outright stupid taunting. you both know he was already grazing your cervix with each burial of his hips.

suddenly, that threat, that graze of his tip is flush with the deepest parts of you as he roughly takes one thigh in his grip, throwing it over his shoulder. you can only get out a squeak of his name before he’s leaning down, bringing you chest to chest and drilling himself within you, hard and deep. a man on a damn mission.

It haunts her. It’s like she’s being told-

“Hey, remember him? Do you remember the sound of his neck snapping and the blood drowning his shattered stars? How numbing it is… to see his face attached to an innocent mind. Would you drench your claws with a lamb’s intestines to rid the reflection of a sinner? Would you, too, watch without remorse?”