[P] the violence in the pouring rain

[Marisol]

YOUR SOB HAS A NAME

Marisol feels like a demon, or a fallen angel—her wings useless now, plastered to her sides, and all the ichor in her turned to filthy mortal blood. Oh it boils, and it wants, and the kelpie in her has its teeth out in a perfect snarl: all it does is take and take, this thing inside of her, and for the moment she feels utterly powerless against it, like it is a weight she simply cannot bear.

The weight of love, the weight of lust. Of holding someone’s hear close enough to touch. Marisol knows responsibility, but not… not like this. (And if she were responsible she wouldn’t be here, she reminds herself bitterly, not doing this, but—she cannot pull herself away, and, more relevant, doesn’t even want to.)

Yes.

She smiles. A sharp, satisfied thing that does nothing to soften the pure darkness of her eyes or the unyielding grip of her teeth against Theodosia’s neck. I could kill you, she thinks, almost satisfied by it, but I won’t. Isn’t that love?

There is a tug at the back of her head, and she almost, almost panics. The sea comes rushing to find her. She smells the salt in the air, feels the water in her lungs, feels Amaroq’s phantom teeth pulling at the close crop of her hair and her breath stops in her chest, like she’s drowning all over again, so painful it almost goes numb—but when Theodosia speaks her soul slams into her body again, and the world is still. 

Marisol shudders, from poll to spine. How much longer can she stand this, the alternating elation and depression, the burning and freezing? It hurts in a way she cannot describe, a way that reaches all the way down to squeeze her thrashing heart in a tight fist. She is struggling to breathe now. All she can see are Theodosia’s bright eyes, and all she can feel is the lightning-warmth between them. It’s worse than a spar in the brutal way it knocks the wind from her lungs.

But she has eons of practice in combat, especially in recovery, and she rights herself with little more than a forced inhale. Marisol’s head pounds like a drum. Her pupils are still blown wide, her chest heaving, blood throbbing loud against the inside of her temples: it’s over, she thinks, and it’s just beginning, and both are as true as the light of the moon shining down from overhead.

The Commander’s pulse clenches in her jaw. “That’s cute. How badly.” Those needle-sharp teeth come just a little closer to breaking skin. Her breaths are coming in sharp pants now, heavy with effort, heavy with ripe-dark want. “How badly do you want that, darling?” 

Her own voice is an alien, too deep and too dark. She doesn't hear the words, even— only feels them as they reverberate through her chest and then her lips, like a drumbeat or a tightly plucked string. Who is this? Why does she want so much? And why does it hurt? Who is this person in her body forgoing duty in the face of something as futile and pathetic as love?

She draws her velvet-soft nose in a lazy line from Theodosia’s jaw to her hip, pauses there, exhales hot-and-heavy on her pale skin. Everything in her is warring—kill or kiss, fight or flee—and it keeps her stubbornly in place, unwilling or unable to move away from the girl who asks her to stay, please stay. And she cannot find a reason not to.

---

@Theodosia <3

aimless | kokovi