Fantasies in Red
This was originally going to be titled something else, but I combined it with another idea. The original motif is still present (it's rather obvious) but then I added the new part, and expect an M chapter.
Oh, and it's not quite obvious, but it's Russia/fem!America. Angst and the like.
It's just a game they play at the end of the night, one where she knows she'll lose, because the next morning he'll put on his coat and scarf, walk away, and pretend nothing happened.
He'll lie there and murmur words of love, tell her she's beautiful, tell her he loves her, tell her he'll never leave her. She knows where he's been; she knows he's said the same to so many before her. And she'll swallow the words like a drug, like it's a medicine he gives, and she knows it will hurt her even more, but she takes it anyway. Because she loves him.
It's just a game they play at the end of the night, where they will love each other for the moment, and she knows he never means it. She'll play along, as long as he wants to. After all, it's not permanent, nothing is, even they themselves aren't.
He'll wrap his arms around her, stroke her hair, kiss her before he falls asleep. He'll say her name, the A drawn out, the L rolling off his tongue like honey, the I delicate and blending gently into the soft C, like a sweet incense, curling around her mind, ringing in her ears, wrapping around her like the blankets that pile around them. She'll let him play. She'll let him think he's got the upper hand because really, he does. There is nothing she can do.
It's just a game they play at the end of the night, an unspoken agreement where she knows he'll go on living as usual, and she'll gather up the broken shards of her heart that they've smashed on the bedroom floor.
He'll see her the next day, pretend he doesn't see the shadows under her eyes, and she'll smile back, and she knows he'll never be able to say it to her, because that's who he is; she can't expect him to change just for her, can she? She's nothing special, only a transitory feeling he'll drop as easily as he picked it up. There are so many better for him. She is a streak of bright light, one that will fade across the horizon as soon as he loses interest. She's different from what he's had, but there are many more for him to choose from, all little toys to pick up and discard as soon as their novelty wears off.
It's just a game they play at the end of the night, and as soon as he succumbs to sleep and his grip around her waist slackens, she'll sit up again and close her eyes softly against the tears, fending off the walls of darkness in her own mind, pressing a calloused hand against her mouth, shoulders quivering with each silent, choking sob.
He tastes her blood, bright red, metallic taste seeping into her own mouth, and she cries out in agonized ecstasy, teeth scraping against torn flesh as his crazed eyes glow purple in the semidarkness. The blood is strangely sweet, and he smiles against her skin. She licks tentatively at the wound, the tang of blood flooding into her mouth, but she doesn't dare say a word, does not let another whimper of pain escape her lips.
It's just a game they play at the end of the night, where long after the door slams shut she'll take the soiled sheets and scrub them until only the faintest of pale orange stains mar the sheets. She'll pull out dark red bedclothes (the stain is less noticeable) and curl up into a fetal position, not bothering to bandage the wound because it is her symbol of love, her mark of devotion to him.
But sometimes, just sometimes, she wishes she could win.
I know, more poignant than expected, but it's rated M for what comes next…Ooh, mysterious!