Note: A short update, for now. I thank everyone who is following this and enjoying this. I hope I do not disappoint with my late updates as well as the story flow. This seems to be taking a route of its own, a slightly different one than I had planned, though I don't know yet if that is a bad or good thing. Hmmm... Again, I appreciate all your reviews and feedback. Onwards.
The Breaking
Chapter 8
"Scream for me, love," the pirate harshly whispered on his skin. Sparrows scoffed because he had done nothing else but scream throughout the night. There were scratches stinging his back as the pirate scraped his nails over the same red welts he had caused. Marks of claim. There were bites on his neck, vicious and relentless as they nipped at the softer flesh there. In the mirror, he saw the trickles of blood flowing from the bites. Red trails marked his chest. Red fingerprints stained the many odd places on his skin. They only served to emphasise his glowing paleness, like he was a tainted canvas short of a masterpiece. There was a tight grip around his length which tightened with each hard thrust into his willing body. Sparrow was indeed screaming, only they came out like breathless moans because his throat felt raw and torn. How long had it been? Hours? He felt like he had been screaming for hours, begging for the madness to stop, begging for more. He choked on a breath when rough fingers wrenched his hair back to bare his long column of throat.
"Look at me when I pull off your feathers." The pirate's eyes bore into his in the reflection of the mirror. Evil. That was the only way to describe the piercing gaze. Sparrow narrowed his eyes and glared only to get lost in the sudden pleasure that racked through his body. He whined pathetically as his body lurched forward from the rough handling. Breathless. The coils of pleasure lazily danced in his navel, tugging at him almost cruelly. The grip on his hair loosened but the same fingers dug into his waist when the momentum sped up. He was still…they were both still very painfully aroused. Watching them both reflected in the mirror was too much and Sparrow released over the glass, over the fist that held him, his mouth open in a broken scream.
"Beautiful," was uttered almost reverently in his ear before he felt scorching warmth fill him, then spill over the back of his thighs as Reaver jerked haphazardly against him. Desire rippled up his muscles at the feel and the sight. It was then that soft, gentle kisses made its way up his spine and to his cheek. Sparrow closed his eyes tight as he felt the cord around his wrists loosened and dropped to the floor. He, himself slumped down and lay spent on the rug on the floor, twitching as fever crawled up his skin.
There was something strange in the air when he opened his eyes. It was still very dark.
He thought he heard a voice. He thought he heard Theresa calling him.
Frozen for a moment longer, he realised that it actually might have just been Reaver whispering things as he slept. Sparrow was horrified to find it strangely endearing that the pirate was talking even while asleep, yet Sparrow did not expect any less. The pirate's warm breathing ghosted over his chest and Sparrow unlaced his own fingers from the other's hair. He felt sticky and sore with rushes of pain running up and down his back.
Last night happened, evidenced by the state of disarray this whole room was in, the state of disarray the both of them were in. What they did was… filthy. The whole room was bathed in it. Every sniff was almost cloying because it filled him with the realisation that once again he had let himself be used in such a sickening manner. His body, though, revelled in the scent of their utter abandonment. He wondered how this person, this pirate could tear him apart so easily, so simply. Maybe the breaking that Reaver did had a long lasting effect on him and his body… and his voice. He might try his hardest to forget but the flesh remembered. His reactions to Reaver would forever be ingrained in his whole being. His throat was burning now, like he had been screaming himself hoarse for days. A sharp pain shot up his spine as he pushed himself off the floor. Reaching for the bottle of wine, his hands shook as the red liquid swirled into the always available fluted glass on the table. He drank. He froze.
There it was again. The wispy voice that called to him. It did not belong to Reaver.
Spinning around, his eyes fell onto the spire statue. He had forgotten that it had stood there as witness to their savage coupling. The ethereal light from within it burned bright, casting a bloody glow over his bare skin. The spire statue seemed to be more lifelike now than it was before, with its jagged edges; it even had a ring of mist at the very top. The spire was calling him. He placed the glass onto the table as he gingerly made his way to the statue. Again, he traced the edges with a finger. He did not anticipate the cold, clammy darkness that enveloped him.
