( at the end of the day, what bellamy is or isn’t—can or can’t be—is irrelevant. who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things, he said once and it still rings true today. what will staying here cost him? what will survival ask of him now? none of this makes sense to him — from the plumbing, to the electricity, to the kitchen staff to the telephones, and every resource accessible to them as if from a time before the explosions sent civilization into space. he has so many questions, or rather had. his mind is fuzzy beyond this, beyond her.
when hell gives you a goddess, it’s probably a diversion ( see: echo ), and yet, parisa smiles at him, jagged with teeth too obvious behind her lips and bellamy swallows it down because he wants, in this moment, for everything to be simple, to be face value, to give in to something that might cease all else even if it ends with him bound to an altar. she kisses him and he licks the venom straight from the source, drinks it, because her fist is closing around the base of his skull and he wants every fatality promised by her grip and carnivorous mouth.
she spins them until she’s where he was a moment before. he can crowd her against the wall while she pinches his tongue with her teeth, hard but not hard enough on both counts. parisa is lucky that by day three, bellamy has rediscovered hygiene, that he’s changed the clothes he’s worn threadbare. he touches her with calloused palms but clean fingernails, smells vaguely of fresh linen and soap, while he covers her, obscuring her from view with his shaggy curls and his shoulders. his fingers find the other strap of her dress, hold it securely, protectively, even while he mouths a trail around her breast, circles her nipple, takes the peak between his lips and groans when he sucks. he travels between her breasts, nudges silk with his nose and bites between the swell of both, teeth scraping sternum turned pillowy cake. she tastes like honey, something he's savored ( stolen from a hive on earth ) with something bittersweet on the edge — unrefined cacoa beans, maybe.
boldly, he grabs one of her clothed thighs, raises it against him, bunching fabric in the process. is he speaking at her or into her? )
I want to taste more of you. ( which is either an incentive to sample how good she tastes from his mouth or to allow him to mirror where she had been, down on his knees, the thigh gripped over his shoulder or him letting her taste honey on him. )
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when hell gives you a goddess, it’s probably a diversion ( see: echo ), and yet, parisa smiles at him, jagged with teeth too obvious behind her lips and bellamy swallows it down because he wants, in this moment, for everything to be simple, to be face value, to give in to something that might cease all else even if it ends with him bound to an altar. she kisses him and he licks the venom straight from the source, drinks it, because her fist is closing around the base of his skull and he wants every fatality promised by her grip and carnivorous mouth.
she spins them until she’s where he was a moment before. he can crowd her against the wall while she pinches his tongue with her teeth, hard but not hard enough on both counts. parisa is lucky that by day three, bellamy has rediscovered hygiene, that he’s changed the clothes he’s worn threadbare. he touches her with calloused palms but clean fingernails, smells vaguely of fresh linen and soap, while he covers her, obscuring her from view with his shaggy curls and his shoulders. his fingers find the other strap of her dress, hold it securely, protectively, even while he mouths a trail around her breast, circles her nipple, takes the peak between his lips and groans when he sucks. he travels between her breasts, nudges silk with his nose and bites between the swell of both, teeth scraping sternum turned pillowy cake. she tastes like honey, something he's savored ( stolen from a hive on earth ) with something bittersweet on the edge — unrefined cacoa beans, maybe.
boldly, he grabs one of her clothed thighs, raises it against him, bunching fabric in the process. is he speaking at her or into her? )
I want to taste more of you. ( which is either an incentive to sample how good she tastes from his mouth or to allow him to mirror where she had been, down on his knees, the thigh gripped over his shoulder or him letting her taste honey on him. )