we got that love, the crazy kind
I am his and he is mine
He's so obliging, my feisty flood, stripping off his shirt and giving me a taste. I lean back against the wall, my hips still pressed into his as my fingers explore the changes, lingering on new stains, new scars. It's another bizarre thing, to look at him and see things I know as well as things I don't. It makes me a little uneasy, if we're being honest, because what else has changed while I've been dead?It makes me territorial, too- not that I ever haven't been. Growing up at the bottom of the ladder you have to learn that most things can be taken from you, and fight tooth and nail for the things you want. I remember late nights of stitching up his wounds, resisting those steel eyes and charming words until he wore me down, surrounded me in pouring rain until I had nothing but him to bask in. I remember the scar atop his chest, the one I made that matches mine. "My storm," I growl, meeting his eyes, a wild grin upon my lips.
I feel so wonderfully, terribly alive.
His mouth is on my neck and his hands are on my ass, exactly where they should be. I moan against his bite, letting my fingers claw against his shoulder blades, posessive red welts rising beneath the swiftly slicing nails. Head thrown back, I close my eyes, reveling in the feeling of his body, the stupidly skillful ways he can use his mouth. I never thought I'd feel this again, and gods, but it's good. Again I wonder if I'm dead, but if this is hell I'll take it, so long as he is here.
He tells he he missed me, and I bite back the retort that rises on my mouth: you'd fucking better have. Instead I reach down to the hem of the shift, glad to have the damned thing off, pulling it up over my head. If he's a slashed canvas then I'm a fucking jigsaw puzzle, scars upon scars that I'm not going to look at now because it's already been too much. He'll see them, though; on my wrists where the shackles wore away skin, on my chest where the guards put their cigarettes out, on my back where the whip sliced a game of 5D tic tac toe.
On my neck, but we already know about that one.
Naked, defiant, I drop my hands, staring up at him through eyes like smoke, letting him see the familiar and strange. He missed me, did he? Let's see how much. "Show me."
LUSEA
