Work Text:
When he curls his hand under her knee, she doesn't shiver so much as the shelves shake. When she tilts her chin up to meet his mouth he hears the sounds of glass breaking. When he lifts her, bare back to the brickwork, hands skimming under what’s left of his shirt, books older than he scatter across the floor, spines arching backwards with pages ripping along seams. And as his teeth find her neck, he catches sight of lit candlesticks rolling up the walls, leaving burning trails of soot towards the ceiling, reminiscent of her nails scraping down his back.