Disclaimer: Don't own anything ya see here but the words. :
Short Jonda one-shot. Enjoy.
She is passion.
She is sensuality.
She is love.
With her slightly parted red lips, icy blues eyes peering at him through half-open lids, dark tresses just covered enough of her face to make her a mystery.
He knows he cannot control her. He knows she is a passionate being.
She doesn't try to be sexy or flirty. She doesn't have to try. The moment her blue eyes flicker towards him, he melts with want for her. The way her dark hair shifts when she looks down darkly gives him an uncontrollable desire to run his hands through it, and feels the short locks slide through his fingers.
She is the most sensual and dark woman he has ever known.
Her passion rules him as nothing else can.
He knows she doesn't love him. When she slams him against the wall, lips hard against his own, he knows it isn't love in her heart. He knows it isn't lust either. It's a dark passion, a sinister sensuality.
She will never love him, despite his own love for her.
He knows he isn't the only one in love with the beautiful witch. Others watch her with the same longing he feels in his heart, but he knows no other can take his place. Even if she does not love him, she will never use that sensuality against another person. His sarcasm and wit has captured her, forced her rage into powerful sexuality that no other could hope to repeat.
Pietro would kill him if he knew. But she very likely will never tell a soul; she is a closed book and even he cannot read her emotions. He doesn't know for sure what she feels for him. He assumes it is a mixture of spite and curiosity. He can handle her cruelty, just as he can handle her passion.
Now, as she stretches across the couch, she is still the same mystery to him. When her brother protests that she is taking up too much room, her eyes slide toward him and he feels his breath catch in his throat.
No man could see her like this and not be moved.
She wouldn't put up with another anyway. She does not love. It is as simple as that, and he knows it. No other person could possibly understand as he does that she never will, never can, love him. She doesn't know how to love, doesn't want to know how to love, because it will hurt her in the end. So he doesn't mind so much that she doesn't love him, because he is sure she feels whatever is closest.
Besides, he wouldn't love her this way if she could.
There is something indescribable about her. He knows because he has tried, a thousand times, to capture her essence and has found it impossible. He has burned a dozen half finished novels, all based on her, all trashed because no one would read them and understand. All trashed because they do her no justice, and he cannot bear that.
She doesn't know she has this effect on him- or, if she does, she simply cannot make herself care. She only comes to him when she is hurting, when she needs a dark distraction. Then, his lovely and violent witch takes out her passion on him, leaving long scratches, biting so hard it bruises, and egging him to do the same.
When her memory returned, the memory he helped to alter and ruin, she began this strange affair. Somehow, her plan for revenge went off track and she ended up beneath him on a bed, biting at his lips, scratching long ravines into his arms. Since then, any time she is upset or lonely or angry, she finds him.
He doesn't mind being used. He wouldn't have it any other way, really. Perhaps he's a masochist. He isn't sure.
At all other times, she cannot bring herself to be civil to him. She mocks him, she sneers and laughs at all his ideas. She is cool and collected, above them all, and all the while they can see that burning core of passion within her somewhere, see that sensuality she makes no attempt to hide. She is not exactly an enigma, because she doesn't hide anything as far as he knows.
Perhaps it is more that she simply feels no need to tell them what she is thinking. Perhaps she truly believes them to be far too dull to understand the thoughts that work behind her icy eyes. He doesn't mind it, though, because she reads his novels. She claims that they are stupid, ridiculously romantic. She claims to hate them, and only read them to laugh.
But he knows she will be pleased to see a dedication to herself one day, once he has captured her essence and tamed her passion. He cannot finish the story like this; lovers, violently passionate lovers, but nothing more. No true feeling on her part, even as he pines for her. Perhaps, in the end of the book, his character will die and, though she will mourn him, she shan't ever confess to love.
But then he trashes the idea without a second thought because it does her no justice.
She and her brother are shouting about something. Without a sound, he stands and goes to his room, lights the cinnamon candles she likes so much, turns off the light, and sits on his bed. Ten minutes later, his door opens and slams (as if she is entering her own room), and he looks with warmth at her glowering face.
They say nothing. Nothing needs to be said. She pushes him down, biting kisses on his lips. Already, her sharp nails trace little lines on his arms and neck. He revels in the moment, his hands tearing through her beautiful short hair, just as he wants to do all the time.
They will not go past this, not during the day like this when everyone is around.
But her passion rules him, and he happily gives her dominance, gladly offers submission to the sensual witch. He doesn't seem to mind, and she obviously feels no guilt at her treatment of him. He loves her this way, so selfish and angry and violent. Her long nails run under his shirt, tearing open his skin, and he smiles against her lips.
He may be a masochist.
And, then, without warning, her warmth vanishes. His door quietly opens and shuts, and the candle burns on. He can see little drops of blood soaking into his shirt. He can feel the tingle of bites on his lips, and he lets out a contented sigh.
He loves her.
She does not care at all about him.
It's okay, he supposes.
With a sigh, he sits up and blows out the candle. Whatever fire can do is nothing in comparison with her. Something about her, something about her, something about her. He cannot put his finger on it, he cannot fathom what it is, but even when she breathes in he wants her.
Everything about her is so damn sensual.
With a groan, he turns on his side.
She is more than passion; she is his passion.
She is more than sensuality; she is the only sensual thing in the world to him.
She is more than love.
She is his only love, his true love, his darling and perfect love.
And she cannot feel the same, or will not, and it makes no difference to him.
Because, despite all this, he is happy.