Movement
Author's notes: a very quick drabble. Much easier to write than my previous fic!
I want to watch him die. He is a glorious wild mongrel.
He is beautiful and
ugly, and his skin tastes like ash, sweat and blood.
Death is his
constant companion. And his oldest love.
He enjoys what I endure.
And it takes a lot of
pressure to mark him.
His teeth are sharp.
I am a dead man walking, I know that.
I am unworthy of this life I am allowed to continue in.
And she is a small bright annoyance, but my honour binds me to her.
Who knows what keeps
him with us. I can't even begin to believe it's me.
His hands are
sword roughened, and scarred. His back bears the marks of the lash,
and the blade.
He likes the taste of my spider silk scars. I
prefer his, honest and there for all to see.
He wears his wounds on his sleeve, and I bind mine inside.
Watching him kill is like being reborn.
The joy he feels taking life makes the blood on my hands seem so much thinner.
I miss that pride in my
own skills.
I do not know if I could kill him.
I won't be
killed by him either.
I miss feeling love, and the feel of his muscles under me.
He thrashes and groans and it is beautiful to me in ways I can't express.
He likes me with my
hair unbound, spilling down my back to ride his cock.
I tell
myself that this is about release and has nothing to do with love.
I
am enchanted with my own lies.
He moves, he bleeds, he swears,
he farts, he eats, he kills.
I am still.