[wip] and after a snap of teeth she licks clean her bloody chops
"I had a dream where I was a monster," she whispers into his ear and in the fog of sleep she sounds frightening, sibilant hiss of her voice in the night. Her lips graze his ear and he flinches, picturing a forked serpentine tongue, bloody fangs that drip with venom. Her hair brushes his neck, a thousand snakes so he shifts, primal instinct telling him to get away from her but he can't so instead he whimpers, squirms. She is undeterred. "I ripped your throat out with my fingers," in his mind, her mouth is smeared with gore, flecks of blood splattered up to her hairline, "and then I plucked out your heart. So small, so warm. I ate it. Tore it apart with my teeth." Claws cup his cheek, trace his jaw. A talon runs over the thin skin of his neck, lingers on his pulse. She laughs. "I love you." She punctuates it with kiss and settles herself once more. Shadows dance on the walls, thin curtains and a poorly placed streetlight working in concert to make monster limbs from tree branches. The murky darkness plays with her features, creating odd hollows, a sunken cheeked and eyed beast ready to devour him.
She sleeps sweetly by his side. He lies awake, sweats bullets and swears that the wall shadows are reaching out for him, ready to grab him and hold him down for their mistress.
Dreams have always lingered for him or really any thoughts he has when his mind drifts and his waking nightmares born from her dreamy whispers and lack of sleep follow him throughout the day. Every shadow is a warning, her little minion. A threat lurks at every turn and he jumps and jerks, a marionette with newly cut strings. She croons to him, pulls him all snug and tight to ask what's wrong with him - the words die in his throat for a long time because he's being ridiculous and crazy but she wheedles and prods and, pathetically, he doesn't wish to upset her right now. He repeats her words verbatim, wishing he could see her face but equally fearful of seeing the monster face from the dark. He is genuinely frightened. This, he decides, is how a rabbit feels when the fox has it cornered.
"Is that really it?" She laughs, breath hot on his ear and he thinks of a she-wolf over her kill. Dripping fangs in a cavernous hungry maw because she nips at the shell of the cartilage and he shudders against her, feels it travel down from his neck, down the back of his knees to his feet, toes curling in his shoes. "Such a silly thing. Dreams aren't real now, are they?"
"Of course not," he is too quick to agree, kicks himself mentally, "just a silly dream."
"I don't even remember it really," she adds and he cranes his neck - oh how vulnerable it is, she with those long, spidery fingers that could crush his windpipe, break the hyoid bone or maybe with the correct application of pressure she could lock him inside his own body while she did as she pleased, taking her time as he lay there able only to blink. "I don't think I could do all those terrible things, do you?"
He looks into her eyes, deep black pools and a monster lurks in them, assessing. He is reminded of cats toying with kills, batting them about, letting them run only to smack them down or place a paw upon a skinny tail. "O-of course not."
He shivers again as she threads her fingers in his hair and tilts his head back sharply and he thinks she might kiss his throat but her mouth hovers and she exhales, hot damp breath and then nips so suddenly he wonders if he imagined it.
She sleeps sweetly by his side. He lies awake, sweats bullets and swears that the wall shadows are reaching out for him, ready to grab him and hold him down for their mistress.
Dreams have always lingered for him or really any thoughts he has when his mind drifts and his waking nightmares born from her dreamy whispers and lack of sleep follow him throughout the day. Every shadow is a warning, her little minion. A threat lurks at every turn and he jumps and jerks, a marionette with newly cut strings. She croons to him, pulls him all snug and tight to ask what's wrong with him - the words die in his throat for a long time because he's being ridiculous and crazy but she wheedles and prods and, pathetically, he doesn't wish to upset her right now. He repeats her words verbatim, wishing he could see her face but equally fearful of seeing the monster face from the dark. He is genuinely frightened. This, he decides, is how a rabbit feels when the fox has it cornered.
"Is that really it?" She laughs, breath hot on his ear and he thinks of a she-wolf over her kill. Dripping fangs in a cavernous hungry maw because she nips at the shell of the cartilage and he shudders against her, feels it travel down from his neck, down the back of his knees to his feet, toes curling in his shoes. "Such a silly thing. Dreams aren't real now, are they?"
"Of course not," he is too quick to agree, kicks himself mentally, "just a silly dream."
"I don't even remember it really," she adds and he cranes his neck - oh how vulnerable it is, she with those long, spidery fingers that could crush his windpipe, break the hyoid bone or maybe with the correct application of pressure she could lock him inside his own body while she did as she pleased, taking her time as he lay there able only to blink. "I don't think I could do all those terrible things, do you?"
He looks into her eyes, deep black pools and a monster lurks in them, assessing. He is reminded of cats toying with kills, batting them about, letting them run only to smack them down or place a paw upon a skinny tail. "O-of course not."
He shivers again as she threads her fingers in his hair and tilts his head back sharply and he thinks she might kiss his throat but her mouth hovers and she exhales, hot damp breath and then nips so suddenly he wonders if he imagined it.