Maybe if he closed his stormy eyes, he would be able to remember.
There were dark stains on the satin sheets, and bruises on the flesh of her
leg, writhing around in a quaint mixture of pain and pleasure.
A milky blur and a moan. It was hard to tell who was stammering, trying, climbing, falling. The silk of his husky voice grew deeper as it filled, almost bursting, with desire. He uttered a sharp cry as her fingernails dug into the stark white skin on his back. She raked a design, tattooing herself onto him forever.
Maybe nobody would notice. The candles drew shorter dimmer, as his eyes reflected the cold dark void of the night sky. He was greedy, slick, forceful; lustful. He had her. Maybe she wanted it. Her breaths came quicker and quicker, and her lungs emitted a painful gasp. Maybe the hair on his forehead wouldn't be drenched in sweat, and maybe his hands wouldn't be shaking so hard.
He ran his sturdy fingers over the contours of her face. Maybe her ragged breathing would calm him, lull him into sleep. Her painful squeaks were not loud, just heart-wrenching. He let the maybes drill into him, seep through him, like a powerful potion. And he gave into the maybes. Shards of glass spilled onto the dusty floor.
Now the dark stains were nothing but a memory, and a breeze blew the leaves gently off the ground. And the cry of terror was disguising itself as love. It was such a transparent ploy. It couldn't be true. All they ever had was blood and passion, passion and blood.
A/n: Thanks Sam, I needed the angst.
A milky blur and a moan. It was hard to tell who was stammering, trying, climbing, falling. The silk of his husky voice grew deeper as it filled, almost bursting, with desire. He uttered a sharp cry as her fingernails dug into the stark white skin on his back. She raked a design, tattooing herself onto him forever.
Maybe nobody would notice. The candles drew shorter dimmer, as his eyes reflected the cold dark void of the night sky. He was greedy, slick, forceful; lustful. He had her. Maybe she wanted it. Her breaths came quicker and quicker, and her lungs emitted a painful gasp. Maybe the hair on his forehead wouldn't be drenched in sweat, and maybe his hands wouldn't be shaking so hard.
He ran his sturdy fingers over the contours of her face. Maybe her ragged breathing would calm him, lull him into sleep. Her painful squeaks were not loud, just heart-wrenching. He let the maybes drill into him, seep through him, like a powerful potion. And he gave into the maybes. Shards of glass spilled onto the dusty floor.
Now the dark stains were nothing but a memory, and a breeze blew the leaves gently off the ground. And the cry of terror was disguising itself as love. It was such a transparent ploy. It couldn't be true. All they ever had was blood and passion, passion and blood.
A/n: Thanks Sam, I needed the angst.