HOTARU
She tells herself the same; that this will be a bright spot to get her through the mourning, a bandage hastily slapped over an open wound. But will it be? Or will she trace the fresh patterns of his teeth alone in bed and muffle the sounds of her tears into a borrowed pillow, hiding her grief in a home that's not hers? Will she be able to feel any sort of arousal without remembering the warmth of the water around them, the salt on her own lips and the scent of iron in the air? Hotaru already knows he will haunt her after this. Even if he moves on, his afterimage will stay, tethered at her side by a leash made of her own damnable love. Not enough rope to hang herself with, but enough to chafe. To tie her down. Merely another obstacle overcome and forgotten in the wake of perfect union that she had not been able to provide.
But this? She can provide this. Her body, if nothing else. Nothing more than a last hurrah, a cheers, and it burns as surely as any alcohol would if they'd done this the acceptable way. She gasps as his hands are replaced, and yet she remains suspended smoothly, his grip never faltering as he travels down her neck. Marking her in ways she has always wanted, but which come too late; ephemeral and bound to fade. How fitting. At least as she tilts her head back beneath his guiding grip, the tears fall into her hair instead of down her cheeks. As if her body refuses to forget the torment beneath the pleasure, and seeks to taint even this.
At least there still is pleasure. Her legs come to embrace his hips, to pull him close in the same instinctive way he moves against her, despairing anew that she cannot return the favor in any meaningful way. Hotaru gasps, voice twisting midway into a crooning cry of pleasure as his hand pinches and gropes on the right side of pain, back arching to press both shoulder and breast further into him. "Please," she begs, though she's not sure what for. And even if she does, at least the true meaning is easily concealed behind the variety of other answers this moment could create. Please, more. Please, don't leave me. Please, forgive me.
But this? She can provide this. Her body, if nothing else. Nothing more than a last hurrah, a cheers, and it burns as surely as any alcohol would if they'd done this the acceptable way. She gasps as his hands are replaced, and yet she remains suspended smoothly, his grip never faltering as he travels down her neck. Marking her in ways she has always wanted, but which come too late; ephemeral and bound to fade. How fitting. At least as she tilts her head back beneath his guiding grip, the tears fall into her hair instead of down her cheeks. As if her body refuses to forget the torment beneath the pleasure, and seeks to taint even this.
At least there still is pleasure. Her legs come to embrace his hips, to pull him close in the same instinctive way he moves against her, despairing anew that she cannot return the favor in any meaningful way. Hotaru gasps, voice twisting midway into a crooning cry of pleasure as his hand pinches and gropes on the right side of pain, back arching to press both shoulder and breast further into him. "Please," she begs, though she's not sure what for. And even if she does, at least the true meaning is easily concealed behind the variety of other answers this moment could create. Please, more. Please, don't leave me. Please, forgive me.
Pull you in, but don't you get too close
Love you now, but not tomorrow
Love you now, but not tomorrow
