Disclaimer: I don't own Chain of Memories.
Ashes, Ashes
He thinks he can dominate me. Just because he's Lord of the Castle and he alone can coddle and convince dear, sweet little Naminé to do what he wants he thinks he can control my actions.
Truth be told, I don't mind it. Not really. It's always flattering to know that I'm being fairly lusted after, and it is a rather charming break in the routine whenever he summons me. There are no niceties, no formalities to be expected, from the beginning he'll just slam me into the nearest wall the moment I appear, callused fingers fumbling in my clothes in search of a quick fuck. It's fast and hard and rough, and it's just the way I like it.
It's even more exciting when he allows me to turn the tables, and I'm pushing him down on a pristine white table, cloak opened to reveal taut brown nipples in an expanse of smooth skin. Him facing me, cheeks flushed and that red tongue licking those cherry-red lips in anticipation, thick brown lashes lowered over those baby blue eyes. It doesn't take much to slide the pants off his decadent legs, trace gloved fingers upon twitching flesh, swallow his eager moans and hisses and curses.
He never lets me take him on his stomach, but it makes no difference.
If I was a romantic, I would say that he's beautiful. Long legs. Strong hands. Skin that's the colour of liquid caramel, and it tastes just as sweet when I mark him. I could wax lyrical about how he's almost like the damn flowers he loves, and he probably likes it if I say it out loud, secretly.
But I'm not a romantic, and so I don't do that. This is sex after all, pure and simple, the most basic of power plays between two people. He fucks me and I fuck him, and he thinks he's the one who's holding all the cards, even when he impales himself on me and spurts white come all over his stomach, and I'm the one who's pinning his hands down and biting his throat and drawing blood.
In the aftermath, his laughter and the look in his eyes don't scare me. We're all mad here, after all, even when he sits up again, putting his clothes back to rights in a sick parody of modesty, sometimes pulling me back for a brief kiss and sometimes biting me instead, smiling as if he's been triumphant again.
I don't mind smiling back.
He can believe all he likes, if that brings him the security that his madness can't provide, and I get my appetite sated when food stops filling my belly. It's all a matter of time before this little charade ends anyway.
I should enjoy it while it lasts.
After all, he's flowers, and I'm fire. When the time comes where we'll fight against each other, he's the one who'll become the ashes, blown away and forgotten in the wind.