a kiss on the throat.
* ASTRID & RYKER // a kiss on the throat. [ prompt status: not accepting. ] @lucamarinellii .
somehow even without hands to shove at her, still he manages to make her spine press against the wall. as though there is an intangible fear she cannot shake from her fingers, and it is not the fear of what he might do to her, but what he might not. her hands splayed at her sides, digging into the brick and mortar in the darkened alleyway of the building, the sole light source a street’s light waning fluorescence upon the asphalt across from them. their arguments, building up in a putrid mess in the back of their throats, perhaps that is the intangible, perhaps that is the fear. it is unbearable: how far will either of them be able to be pushed before there is enough? & this is not to say that there are good choices made: indeed, ryker remains to be one of those people, a decision that continues to be bad — & in return, astrid, one of those people who makes it either way, irregardless of how poor it might be. for her mind races at the concept without him — what kind of a world would unfold around her, if his hand did not press to the base of her neck, that slathered-ink of blackened tattoos crawling up his forearm, the night’s breeze rustling the hem of a shirt whose sleeves hang too low upon his torso? what else would be there to look at, if not the lined-lean muscles of his stomach, if not the manner in which his chest rises and falls, when she has pushed and he decides to push back — what would the world be then? emptied out, it is the truth. astrid herself forsaking the remnants of an already-fragile identity for the sake of this painful carving of one beside him, made of stone, the both of them. unstoppable force, meeting an immovable object.
“and what now?” a hiss, seeping out from between her teeth. he remains dangerous and she, a feral, terrible thing. perhaps they are better suited than either which to admit. “are you finally going to kill me?” because that would be the only way this could end, and perhaps then: one of them, trailing after one another into the afterlife, however film-encrusted, however unseen. there would be a ghost of him behind her at all times, haunting her, his hands broad to rest upon her shoulders, whispering against her ear: you’ll never be rid of me. to others, it might be unnerving but to astrid, it comforts her; not a speaker to the dead, for ryker’s own mind is one that does the embrace of such a thing, but she would whisper to the tombstones for one more instance of his hoarse voice, smoke-ridden, life-hardened. he could squeeze around her throat, stare down into her eyes and she would not retaliate. kill him or kiss him or do something. remembering the way his hands slid against her bare shoulders, her bare thighs, pushing aside the shortened summer-clothing ( tailored by her own hand for comfort ) to touch her. moments of weakness, all peppered amongst their angers and emotions roiling high, steam imploding from beneath the ground. he had not kissed her then, only touched her. and even then, he had not touched any of the parts of her that truly craved him — he had put her aside and left the room. and their chase of each other, continuing here and now, culminating in a monstrous story for the both of them. how could it end? what would she do without it?
what would she do without him?
“do something already.” her voice sounds too trembling, too quivering, like her heart within his hands, for her liking. “for fuck’s sake, ryker —”
she fades when he leans forward. his hand, fastened around the base of her neck, and then, so it slides up to her chin, pressing her head to one side, baring that place where the jugular pulse thrums heavily beneath his calluses. he leans down, until the warmth of his breath presses into her flesh, and she trembles, spine & toes curling within their clothing, as they might curl if he is ever to keep her straddling him and press their hips together without clothing at all. she would curl against him, bite her lip, softly moan his name — god, she hates herself for it, and she hates him for it too. and has he ever thought about it? part of her doesn’t even want to ask —
“are you done fighting me?”
“fighting you? —” and then he seals it, marks her. he kisses the side of her neck, and it is an oddly yearning kiss, a soft exhale with his lips parted, and he presses another such as this in the space above it, and then above it, and then above it. he asks it again and she clears her throat and he can feel that rumble against his mouth and it makes him smirk.
she reaches through that resistance. her hands find the collar of that too-loose shirt and she pulls him closer and her kiss to his throat is a grazing of teeth, a reddening of the skin beneath her. one of his fists, pressing into the brick and mortar beside her tousled red hair. “i’m not ever going to stop fighting you on something,” she whispers, right to that place, anointed. “because then you’ll get away with your shit, and if you can’t let me get away with mine, then there’s no way. we keep trying to make it two different roads but we’re going the same way. so don’t keep fucking pushing me, and maybe i’ll stop fighting you.”
but what would she do without him? she hopes the question will remain unanswered.
