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𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐞. (𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭).
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CONTENT : Blood Kink | P in V Sex (Fem Durge) | Violence, Violent Language | Durge being a freak, Gortash eating it right up | Pre-Tadpole Durge & Gortash
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˚ ✧.
“If I didn’t love you so, I’d drown in your blood. It’d be pretty, I bet. I can see it.” She says, as she lays – naked, head upon his chest, pointed nail tracing his chest hair. Disturbing it, coercing it into haphazard patterns. She has a habit of this, accompanying tender, gentle movements with deranged words spoken in her pretty, pretty voice. It had never frightened Gortash. Surprised him perhaps, when she had first enlightened him toward the notion – she was rolling her hips into his, palms cupping his jaw with an uncharacteristic softness, completely unbefitting to her, and the tandem of her hips.
“I wish I could slit your throat, and drive my tongue across the slash. Taste you, in ways I haven’t before.”
A minx, he’d called her, with a shake of his head – a tut, and a huffed chuckle.
“I am no General Thorm, dearest,” Gortash replies, finally, his hand trailing down to her thigh – repositioning her. She whines. “Cut me too deep, and I will not be resurrected.”
Silence, for a moment.
And then, a compromise.
“Let me cut your tongue, slice it.. I want to sup the blood as it spills, as we kiss.”
There was always a breathiness to her voice, a shuddering undertone of unadulterated, unhinged, excitement. Carnal desire, urge. There’s a tremor, in the very tips of her fingers, as she grips the blade – like a vice, furthered well beyond its limits. Gortash pretends to consider, pretends to have his debate – internal, between yes, and no. He pretends, and pretends, before simply sticking out his tongue.
She grins, giggles, raises her blade. Her blade was always close, always near. Within arms length.
She then shifts, onto her knees – resting on her heels, eyes flickering with want. Need.
“Only a little cut,” She specifies, and she’s honest, “I don’t want to ruin you..”
A half-tease. Gortash raises a brow.
True to her word, she makes the slit – immediate in tangling her tongue with his, succumbing to the sickly, sweet taste of iron. Copper, intermingling with the heady aftertaste of wine on his tongue. On hers. They always drank, always fucked. Always talked, always kissed. Bled, burned.
The downfall of one another, the detonation to one another’s ticking time bomb.
“Incredible,” She gasps, breaking them from their saliva stricken embrace – a string of desaturated red still maintaining a shred of connection between them. “You’re incredible.”
Gortash shakes his head, pinning her beneath him in one push – a press of his hand, fingers curling around her crisscrossed wrists, burying her bones in the mattress beneath them. “You are the incredible one, my dearest, dearest pet.”
“I hate it when you call me that.” She lies, spreading her legs – sinfully wet.
He pries her apart, sheathes himself inside of her – the fluttering of her walls greeting his cock, accompanied by her hellish, flaming heat. Her constrictive tightness, mouth falling open with a wiggle and a squirm. “No you don’t,” Gortash replies, with a grunt of effort, as he fucks into her hard. Harsh. Abusive and abrasive.
She moans, upon each thrust, thighs tensing and untensing, only to tense again.
“Bleed me again,” Gortash pants out, gaze dark – voice, low. Despite its strain.
His grip upon her hip, with his free hand, is blissfully bruising. “Kiss me,” She demands, commands, pleads – all at once. “Kiss me, and I will.”
And so kiss her he does. She bites his lip, drawing blood –letting it dribble, down, down his stubbled chin. She drags her tongue, efficiently cleaning up the mess. Her mess.
Gortash finishes, inside of her, not long after. She’d squeezed his throat, their first time together, thumb pressed hard – “You fill me up. Everytime. Don’t waste your seed, lordling. Don’t go claiming anyone else. No, you’ve claimed me now.”
He’d lost count, this was perhaps their third time of the night. Fourth, fifth, even.
Though, she finally seems tired – small, curled in his arms, nestled against him. He knows she doesn’t sleep much. Doesn’t like to, doesn’t want to. She’ll be up again, in the midst of the night – naked, hands buried in some poor unfortunate’s innards. He’ll cling to the smell of her skin, imprinted on the linen sheets.