Arthur laid sprawled on the bed, staring in a daze up at the shadowed ceiling. There was no noise in the room at all except the sound of his breathing. From outside, in another room of the flat, the sound of the TV humming and buzzing created a peaceful background soundtrack.
But Arthur was bored. It was an unusual feeling for him; if there was anything his life was, it certainly wasn't dull. Exhausting: yes. Chaotic: yes. Emotionally draining: oh hell yes. But no, never boring.
Yet the feeling was crawling up his spine, like an itch that he just couldn't reach to scratch. A constant, niggling frustration.
Turning over onto his side, Arthur huffed noisily into the pillow. His pillow, that smelt like mellow wine and cologne and freshly baked bread in golden early mornings. What it didn't smell like, however, that was what Arthur found himself pining for. The smell of sex and sweat and tears, the taste of blood and alcohol and kisses that felt like an all-consuming fire.
The things that Francis used to smell like, taste like, they were long gone. He was still here of course, burying those scents and sights and tastes with his soft words, flowers and kisses that felt like spun sugar; sickeningly sweet and barely there at all.
Arthur hated it. He needed those fights that boiled their blood and their passion, he needed that hatred and those screams like he needed air.
He craved those nights of hate-filled passion and lust, biting, scratching and screaming obscenities while he was pounded into absolute ecstasy.
Craved what he once had, not so long ago at all. What he had thought Francis craved too.
Arthur flipped himself over again, tangling his arms into the cotton sheets. He laid there for what felt like hours until he heard another body enter the room. The figure opened and closed cupboard doors, getting undressed and humming to themselves.
The sudden weight and warmth next to him told Arthur that Francis had climbed into bed next to him.
A gentle press of lips to his shoulder blades told him that Francis loved him, wanted to be here.
A caress of his hair and another wiry arm flung across his waist told Arthur that Francis only wanted to sleep by him, not with him.
Closing his eyes with a flutter of eyelashes, Arthur sighed. This was too sweet, too domestic, too kind for his liking. He wanted fights and yelling and punching. He'd rile Francis up tomorrow. Wind him up until he exploded into yells right up in Arthur's face, a mass of hot, sexy anger. Which, of course, Arthur would throw right back at him, until they fell back into bed again as a tangled hurricane of hate and limbs and kisses.
Yeah, thought Arthur sleepily, I've missed that kind of misery.
AN - Just a short drabble type thing with no real plot what-so-ever. It's loosely based on the lyrics of 'I Miss the Misery' by Halestorm. I wanted to write some hot, angry hate-sex but this... crept up on me. I might add some more chapters, but for now, it's just a short one shot.
Sparks