Title: A Dark Design
A/N: Snippets in italics from the Rumour Said Fire's song; The Balcony.
So your mouth tastes like sunshine baby
but your eyes are all cool buried in my arms ...
And the breeze takes us deeper and further into the heart of a moment that is gone
…
Her eyes are dark, dangerously dark, and the merciless twirl of midnight blue in the depths of her glare, pains him. The signature sparkle of mischief is gone, replaced by a cold, calculating glint that sends electric shivers down his spine and buries his hearts in a bitter storm of winter.
Her dark blood-red lips parts and the whimper that escape – the utter heart wrenching sound – travel across his skin in an assault of painful prickling, entering his veins and making his blood scream with the cruel despair. It aches.
He watches her hair flying in the wind, the strands painted crimson in the light of the descending suns.
She shakes her head, the curls hopping with delight. Her laughter is cold, and her dark eyes shimmering with something indecipherable, something sinister.
Their lips crash against each other and he can taste her. The dark, bitter taste of red wine and coffee. It stings and burns his throat.
He can hear the erratic beat of her heart, her pulse hammering in her veins and the dark taste of her mouth has a flavor of anguish in its depths.
The painful feel of her teeth biting down and drawing blood sends his own pulse throbbing and he feel himself slipping away from rationality and reason.
He bites back and another sound escapes her mouth then. Another whimper – this one settling into his body like an extra set of skin, burning and smoldering with sharp, piercing bursts of chills.
No going back.
Her nails are clawing and he digs his own fingers into her flesh, scratching and grazing in order to bring her pain as well.
He rips her black dress and he hears the sound of his own clothes being teared apart.
No going forward.
And he fucks her, drawn in by her whimpers and the scent of darkness in her soul.
Salvation. Redemption. Hell.
...
And the scent of your heartache baby
and the taste of your blood run within me
And there are red flowers in your spit when you enter my mouth under the bed
down on the floor
…
Random, angst-ish attempt at scribbling something down while listening to the aforementioned song.
/Iso