God. The idea that Amo can’t ever move past what happened to her physically, how those types of physical affections and forms of intimacy are tainted. But here comes this other damaged kid, Rudo, always asking to be near her, just standing there. She kinda falls for this dork, and maybe, her heart cracks just a little when he asks her if they could kiss for the first time. Its cute guys trust! Amo’s knees are up to her chest, his hands are on her boots as he leans in and her own hands are holding his gloves as their eyes close — AUGH ITS CUTE
Its awkward as fuck though cause he doesn’t know shit and this is the literal closest he’s ever been to someone in this way. But thats as far as it goes for a while, he finds he likes holding her hands more than kissing her even if she’s soft, in fact he kisses her more because she insists on it. Amo for her part is happy that he never pushes, never asks for too much, and when he does she actually feels like she can say no, She does say no! They date for a while, and they get older, and she starts to fear he’ll ask for more but she doesn’t think she can ever do more for him.
That conversation is filled with tears, and shame, and she’s scared he’ll leave her but he doesn’t care as long as he’s allowed to stick around.
Apparently i failed to share this with y’all jajaja.
@eleim
|Wont you let me drink your blood?|
He’s had his encounters, some quick, some a night of passionate love and excitement; none ever do last as long as his current flame. Wondrous, a real thrill, the ribs he breaks, the fingers he bends, the way Jabber’s girls slide against his pretty boy skin, fair like those rabbits in fantasy books he scrounges up when he’s bored.
Jabber wishes he could slow it down, capture it the way Zanka’s skin rolls along his jinki’s blade like butter; he wishes he could inject himself with the feeling every-time they ain’t together, feel that passion burning hot like poison.
That isn’t a possibility, and dear Zanka hates him as much as Jabber adores their flings of enchanted love making; they speak through their jinki, his Assistaff biting, calculated, a powerful tool that clings to Jabber’s clothes like a girl would to his man, and he can’t help the high he gets from her.
Each time they meet, its more gruesome than the last, and each time Zanka looks a foot from hell swallowing him whole, that doesn’t stop him from giving his girls blood, the euphoria too great to stop their destructive relationship from furthering.
“Come on hot stuff! That can’t be all you got left in ya’, we’ve gone on for longer before!”
Jabber’s face is caked in blood, his blood; he’s sure something’s ruptured and crawled back up to spittle all over himself and Zanka’s. It smells rancid, the staff Jinki is wedged hard against his groin, and Zanka has his face in a grip that pulls his skin taut and opens the small cuts more.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Here i thought you liked me.” Jabber grins back, letting his tongue lick the iron from his lips, “Lovley Assistaff seems too.”
He shifts down, firm wood kissing him through his clothes and Zanka scowls, only too wince as Jabber’s Jinki shifts within the shallow wounds in his side, blood oozing down the metal and making Jabber’s fingers sticky.
“You like that?”
Zanka only manages to spit in his face, his own split lip adding to the eager shade of Jabber’s face; his discontent is apparent, but Zanka can’t seem to help himself with leaning in, letting the knives of Jabber’s jinki slide deeper into him, groaning through grit teeth. The blood comes more profusely, and Jabber rocks his hips against Assistaff and up against Zanka as well.
Nails bite into Jabber’s face, his fingers flex and Zanka nearly lets a moan through pink teeth. Its hot as all hell, it makes him lightheaded; he’s lucky to ride the staff, and Zanka better be grateful to bleed for his own girls.
Zanka wedges a thumb into his mouth, forcing it open and pressing hard against the back where the gum line ends. The nail rakes against the wet flesh, scratching before settling onto the pink muscle, far enough to force Jabber to gag; the noise makes Zanka pull the staff closer, painfully pinching, his own hips settling against Jabber’s sloppy thrusts.
Each edge of Mankira slides in and out with a muted squelch of blood, Zanka’s parlor turning pale with the motion, the flush on his face more pronounced.
“I like your jinki,” he finally says, “Shame she’s stuck with you.”
