In the hush of twilight, in the purgatory between night and day, Marcellus turned against his back as he peered over to side of the bed that nestled closest to the pockets of incense.
She was asleep, still; kitten spine curled into velvet, and her small shoulders undulating as she breathed, waiting for the night. The incense had left a heady spice in her hair, and he indulged himself as he neared her ear, swallowing the scent, and kissed her through the weaves of gossamer.
"The night has come, my sweet. If it is tiefling you wish for breakfast, you better grab him now."
Breathing was a vice. Remnant of habit rather than necessity, for those of her ilk needn’t oxygen to stay functional. Yet still, still, romance inhabited in the illusion of life… how something so entirely dead could still masquerade as living—in the dusted flush upon her cheeks she hadn’t been granted the leisure to see herself rid of, and in the soft parting of her ever-crimson lips, left just ajar to welcome breathing her body did not require.
In its saturnine silence, sleep has always been Astaria’s most merciful state. Only then did the hurricane of her thoughts storm away. Until waking called to her. In a timbre so familiar, so intimate her heart would’ve doubtlessly skipped a few beats if it still could.
Astaria’s return to consciousness was announced by a sigh. Low and languid. Instead of the moon’s benediction to greet her eyes as they peeled open, not one, but two suns met the ruby gleam of that weary stare. Oh, how they kindled without burning… only sometimes they did. Not in any way to harm her so much as worship.
Desire was always its own burning flame.
Once, the sight might have stolen her breath away, were it hers to lose. Now, there was danger in its familiarity, in how fondly her undead heart took to him.
“Mhm…” She intoned, draping an arm—heavy with exhaustion from their earlier indulgences—over the gladiator’s midriff in response to the tingles his caress invited. “Breakfast in bed? My favourite.” Moon-touched strays clung damply to her naked skin and, despite herself, nostrils flared.
Aspectual instinct breathed him in. Musky sweat, divine masculinity… Veins that pumped with vigour after every delicious heartbeat. Scooting near, ivories claimed his midnight skin, but only for a lazy nibble. Their legs entwined in a messy tangle of flesh and fabric, his tail rustled amongst the sheets and her saliva cooled on his skin.
With Marcellus this close, impossibilities were made of many things—keeping her hands to herself, not picturing how his warmth was the closest to the sun she would ever get, and above all else: staying asleep.
Because the way his scent unfurled upon her tongue, like fermented grapes permeated vineyards, had her stomach fussing in response. At first, softly, but the crescendo of the sound betrayed her with all the graceless honesty her mouth had yet to string together words for.
“Mmm... You smell positively divine.”
