YOU DO NOT NEED TO MATCH MY LENGTH JFC - Tumblr Posts
Anne burns like a star burns, but not for the same reasons. There’s a fire set in the hole where a heart would go in a normal human being that keeps her running. She knows herself to have been a wildfire in her past, a past now razed by a fire she’d started years ago, and she knows she’s only ever a branch or two of kindling away from burning down her present and her future in much the same vein. Anne burns, always—and now physically, too. Confession has never come easy to her: even now, the words that come out are smoke and ash and not the fiery appeals locked in that hole in her chest. She’s never looked for kind company, or good company, or even basic and decent company; she’s drawn to legend, reputation, competence. She’s fallen on the sword for anyone who saw even a glimmer of those things in her in the past, even when it was a lie they told as they put the blade in her hand. He’s ripped blades out of her hand even while he’s insisted he’s seen those things.
It’s no wonder she burns for him.
She ought to argue against being treated like a fucking dog, but here’s the first man to own her without raising his fist or tying her down, and there’s no sense in arguing against what they both know. Loyal, aggressive, at his side, poised to strike on command—she’s a bitch still. His bitch. His guard dog, finally broken down enough to beg for the chance to sleep at his feet. Burning in ways that ought to embarrass her, that maybe distantly still do. But there’s no need for petty pride behind these closed doors.
She doesn’t stop watching his face until his hands move. Clear invitation. There should be fear in approaching the twisted, scarred remains of the man in front of her—scarred hands and sharp teeth are the least of the horrors he holds, between fractured jaw and cheek and eye socket, one eye staring but unseeing at all times—but there is none in her. The worst of him are the parts unseen, as deep and dark and terrifying as the ocean depths. Unmanned. Unmapped. Unplumbed. Hidden, but never quite out of view. They should twist the stomach into knots until it aches from the tension, but all these half-seen facts have done is further tangle Anne’s senses. They’re a snare and she’s fallen into them. They’ll twist until either she comes apart or twists with them.
COME AND TAKE IT. She doesn’t need to be told twice. Only actually needed to be told she wouldn’t be backhanded for trying to take the risk; she’s willing to bleed for him, break bones and promises at his word, so long as he keeps looking at her.
She wouldn’t know what to do from his lap, how to balance delicately on it and make love to his ego. She’s seen other women in bars and taverns do it, but she’s always felt she lacked their feminine charms, their confidence, their flirtatious quips. When she approaches him, it’s with all her usual lack of tact: she knocks his boots from the desk and settles on her knees between his thighs instead, head down, numb fingers fighting the fastening of his trousers. Anne isn’t sure there’s much she’s good at, but years of consistent feedback have revealed at least one talent she isn’t full-sure he would’ve heard of before.
Hard not to take the chance to ply what talents she has. So long as he keeps looking at her.
@neverhangd said ❝ Use me. Fuck me. Do whatever you want, but god, please touch me. ❞ to Raoul
HE ENVISIONS STARS TO BE HOT to the touch. Flames of burning houses dancing up towards the great sky above. He has seen the way they engulfed the house bearing her husband's body ⎯⎯⎯⎯ just as he has seen the way they burned down all traces of her past now only kept in their memory. SHE REMINDS HIM OF IT ; of the act of burning up leaving only ash once the fight has gone out. Defiant and wretched, pulled apart like a daughter's doll ripped at the seams until limbs were parted from the torso.
Hands do not reach out as he leans back in the chair behind his desk, feet resting on the sturdy oak ( he has placed a knife in it, rather than in a lesser man's eye socket. ) She is the dog begging for a touch, and wretched hands stained with blood still offer no kindness. HOLD A STRAP OF LEATHER and watch it break skin so he might lick up the blood. Dark eyes linger on the curve of her mouth for a moment too long when he watches her.
Scarred hand pats the flesh of his thigh. Invites her to sit. One must make the hound come to him, not the other way around. ❝ Whatever you desire you shall have — ❞ ( their burning bodies, a ship and a star to sail her by, a touch that does not hurt you ) ❝ — but you will have to come and TAKE IT YOURSELF. I am not in the business of handing out wishes unless they are fought for to be taken. ❞