she tastes like cherries all over, he realizes. lips, skin, even the smell of her hair as he twists his fingers through the thick blue-black locks for access to her neck. she hums in pleasure and he nips at her collarbone, reveling in the scent of life that rises from her skin.
or at least she used to.
until she burned.
screams and fights and broken feelings and broken hearts littered the expensive floor of his flat. tears glistening in the city of light, reflecting abortive sorrows and dead dreams being clung onto past their time.
he burned her at the stake and she made him into a martyr.
so he lays awake in the morning, cold and gray, at his side alone with only the lingering taste of cherries on his lips.