They were accustomed to nightmares. Visions of the past that were never to be unseen only left to be re-lived by them each and every night. The two of them together have enough memories of death and despair to cause one person a lifetime of numbing sorrow.
But in the dark of the night, witching hour to most, they search for someone to hold. Someone who understands why they wake up in a cold sweat, names of those deceased in incessant whisper on their lips. The hole of depression pulling, yanking stronger and stronger on their soul, but together they fight it off.
One of them had seen death and grief in ever form imaginable, the other saw a sick bastard kill innocent people for no seeable reason. They've both made friends with death; it is now respectfully leaving them alone.
They find comfort in their naked, slicked skin rubbing against each other in a passionate tango. Every horrible feeling they experience during the day hours, they disappear when the lights go down and they crawl into their bed at 12 Grimmauld Place.
Moans fly from their mouths, releasing the bad and taking in the good. When they finish they settle under the covers in a warm, loving embrace; finally they dream again.
Prompt give by Fluteorwrite. Hope you like it.
I've been meaning to ask...do you actually play the flute?
I play the Bass Clarinet :) 3