Monsters
It could never be considered making love, this thing that we do together. To call it that would be a gross interpretation of something far less pure. No, we do not make love. But there is something between us. I do not think it could even be considered sex, nor even the raw and animalistic act of fucking. It is too far from any sort of human condition to be placed under any of these names.
We loose all sense of humanity, and even our animal sides dissolve and flee from the what we become. When we collide with each other, in the dark nights where no one else can see, we become monsters. Our hands become claws that tare at each other's skin, our teeth fangs, our bodies twisted shadows of what we once were. We scratch, and bite, and rip at our bodies. All of it a terrifying, exhilarating battle for dominance.
When one of us can finally hold the other in place for long enough, we claim their body in a vicious and almost hateful way. The one to triumph ravages and violates the other until we are nothing but a writhing, convulsing mass of limbs, destroyed skin and monstrous lust. I am often the one to be pinned down, in a haze of pain, and taken. I know well the feeling of his nails digging into my shoulders and my spin as he pounds into my body. Our blood slicks our skin and I can sometimes feel the liquid running along my face and through my hair. It makes me shudder and scream, both from horror and sheer uncontained pleasure.
When he releases inside me I can hear him growl and gasp, his dangerous mouth panting right beside my ear. It makes me arch and scream out my release in response. And then it is all over. In a rush our minds return, and the humanity that has fled floods back into our conciseness.
At the end of the night, as we lay in the remainders of our fight, I hold him. I wrap my arms around him, and his body shakes within my grasp. Tear tracks stain his face, and sobs leak from his bloody, bruise mouth. His body slowly mends all of the wounds created as he lays there, crying in my arms.
What we have could never be call love. Rather, it is a sort of terrible existence. We feel, we breath, we live. Nothing else.