Marcus
'Turn out the light and what are you left with?'
– Something To Believe In, Aqualung.
In the small halo of candlelight, you can pretend that the glow on your skin was put there by happiness. You can pretend that the certain something you want to happen in this convenient darkness is a gift for someone and not a finger in the eye for someone else. You can pretend that his familiar, velvety, gravelly voice didn't make you glad that he was touching you in places he shouldn't. You can pretend that you didn't feel a sense of release at the warm, dry heat of his hand, a flicker of fire deep in your belly when he made his offer.
"Marcus, is that you?"
"Blow out your candle."
His grip is crushing, bruising; you can file this away as a helpful fantasy for when someone else is holding you with much weaker arms. Then it begins – one little taste for re-familiarisation. You pull back, look at each other for a moment, and you wonder what he's thinking – his face is, you're sure, just as unreadable in darkness as it is in light. It's still a shame you can't see it.
There's one heartbeat and you're together, the kisses getting hotter, breathier, and you cling to him as a fresh sheen of sweat breaks out on your already damp skin. You hope he doesn't really think that his false accent has you fooled – he's not as tall as he should be, and his jaw is too square, and you can feel the sharp contours of his face beneath your fingers. Surely he gives you more credit than that.
Despite the obvious implications, you are all too aware that your bed is inches away, and you wonder if that would be letting him win. It doesn't matter, you suppose – one more kiss and you won't care if the entire building falls down.
Then the lights come on, and all hell breaks loose.
Turn on the light and pick up the pieces.
Fin.