There could have been so much that wasn't. Hatred where once there was
passion, if not love, crude defiance where knowing submission once dwelt.
A swelter of needy, wanton voices, voiced with so much unneeded breath. A
century of lust and pain and belonging.
There could have been no bright, ruthless girl, with the power to unmake all that had been created. Nothing to stop them from taking that beautiful, fragile boy, marking him and making him theirs.
There could have been so much burning desire, such deep, aching despair. They could have bent him, broken him just enough to see the joy behind so much agony. A consort for Miss Edith, a plaything to be used and cherished.
But there will be no tangle of tan limbs in pale, no desperate pants and pleas for release, no sharp rip of pain and pleasure, slide of blood across warm, trembling lips.
There will be no happiness snatched from the void, and they will all love others, and lose.
But there is so much that could have been.
There could have been no bright, ruthless girl, with the power to unmake all that had been created. Nothing to stop them from taking that beautiful, fragile boy, marking him and making him theirs.
There could have been so much burning desire, such deep, aching despair. They could have bent him, broken him just enough to see the joy behind so much agony. A consort for Miss Edith, a plaything to be used and cherished.
But there will be no tangle of tan limbs in pale, no desperate pants and pleas for release, no sharp rip of pain and pleasure, slide of blood across warm, trembling lips.
There will be no happiness snatched from the void, and they will all love others, and lose.
But there is so much that could have been.