( it seems incomprehensible that there should be any more space left inside of her, any room he hasn't filled, any inch he hasn't touched. silly, in hindsight — when alina starkov says enough, the world demands she do more, be more, give more, pressed past the precipice of what should be possible. more than a girl, less than human. so when paul says take it,, she forces herself beyond those same mortal boundaries, reshapes herself to take the power of each rutting thrust — even as she whines, even as she kicks her thumping feet like dying, twitchy prey. even as she thinks she might break, her cunt split around the seams like a pink, watery wound.

and still — she tightens her walls around the flared swell of him, bears down like it's an affront of nature to feel his cum dribble down, a personal failing rectified each time paul fucks it back inside of her. like she still needs to conquer impossible odds; like she has something to prove. the right choice for ravka, the right choice for paul. it's not even a question of whether she'll obey — it's the when, the inevitability of a solar implosion, no preventing a cosmic event, no time to prepare for its arrival. she comes with a burst of soaking wet — her drenched cunt, his blood pouring on her tongue, a shine of starry tears staining her cheeks.

it isn't a clean kill, lacking the necessary violence that both is and isn't in alina's nature, better left to things who don't have to merely pretend to have sharp teeth like paul, like alia, fanged as shai-hulud. it makes her effort worse, makes it bloodier, makes it brutish as she teeths and tears at paul's neck. not an expert butcher, not a hunter with a single arrow to take down prey, but death by a thousand cuts, before she manages to break the skin on his mating gland — nursing the trickle of red that leaks from it with kitten flicks of her tongue, licking the wound clean. )

You're going to fill me up again? ( a wrecked gasp, like she doesn't know, like she can't feel him pulsing inside of her, like she isn't begging for it, urging him along — the storyteller of a twisted fantasy, weaving the threads with her panting words. her fingers twist, nails biting into the ridges of his knuckles, desperate to be unbound, just to touch him. she giggles, breathless. ) Poor Daddy. I thought you could control yourself, but you can't stop, can you? Can't keep yourself from coming in me for even a minute. I bet you would keep fucking me even if I wasn't awake to take it anymore. That's so — mean. You're so greedy, Paul.