You run your tongue along her body, that tiny body that you used to be jealous of but now know that yours is ten times better. Fucking Berry is somewhat of an ego boost; despite her self-assured prowess in Glee, she's not very confident in bed. Luckily, you are. Pinning her down and biting her has never been so satisfying. It's even better when she fights back.

She squeals and bucks under your tongue, gasping with pleasure and pain as you bite her nipple. You love to leave marks on her – to make sure she knows she's yours. You pull her hair roughly as you suck at her collarbone harshly, making a blood bruise bloom against her soft skin. She's already marked with more of your strange kind of love, but she loves it.

She likes to lie beneath you, pulling your long black hair, digging her nails roughly into your shoulders, leaving her own marks. She likes to hold you close against her chest, feeling the weight of your body on hers, feeling and hearing your breathing. You like to slap her face to hear the crack, and taste the salt of her tears when you kiss her cheeks after you slap her.

Tonight, you've got yards of tinsel on the dresser because your mom is decorating the tree downstairs. You wrap it around her wrists, tying them to the bedframe, fucking her slowly with your fingers. The tinsel glitters in the half-light of your bedroom and then you decide to mark her with it, watching the blood come from the sharpness of the strands.

When you're done, she's criss crossed with the silver of the tinsel, parts of her body showing the redness and blood of having it tied tightly around her. She's utterly beautiful, and you abandon the roughness to kiss her gently, to hold her tightly, to tell her in an undertone how much you love her.

It is Christmas, after all.