your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

She’d awakened the storm, the full onslaught of rains and winds, of an almost vibrant electricity in the air that told you something powerful was coming. It was like that, in the look that he gives her, full of predatory heat. The cocoon of her wings keeping them hidden falls to the sides, splaying out and for a moment he’s tempted to return the favor on those wings as she does to his own, but her gasp draws his attention back to her as she shifts and spreads her legs for him.

He’s half tempted to pause, to watch her face and test her, tease her – but then her hands are on the membranous parts of his bat shift, along the sensitive veins as she splays her hands again and fingernails dragging along the skin there. A low hum leaves his throat, something like a predatory growl and he fights against the arch of his back again to focus on her as she angles her hips for him. He’s flushed, the redness creeping along his shoulders and up his neck, and he reaches for the space above her head to flatten his hand for support, the other moving to cup and tease at her breast and nipple.

And he presses himself down to her again, seeking her lips with the aim of crashing his into hers, burning and burning, aiming to nip at her lower lip. He gives her a second to adjust her legs a small amount around him to make it more comfortable for her before he practically purrs against her lips as he thrusts into her, fast and deep.

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint