[ i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you-
there's nothing he can say. no words, no ideas, no thoughts that will ever give her what she wants. (what he wants to give her.) what else can he do? so he steels his heart, and he closes his eyes, and he ignores every last one of those beautiful words tumbling through his ears and eyes and memories.
he's not sure when her shirt came off. a vague memory of tearing at it, ripping it away while she was on his lap; his own clothes have mostly been shed as well, her head resting against his shallow and sunken chest as he carries her to her room. how many marks has he left, by now? enough that she has no hope of covering them. enough that anyone could look at her and know.
maybe it's just a lie, the way he lays her on her own bed - shockingly gentle, with hands that tremble against her skin. or maybe it's a lie, the way he moves to pin her immediately, the way he bites and licks and invades her mouth like the swarm of miserable curses he is. maybe it's a lie, how his fingers drop down, make a show of preparing her even though they've been doing this for weeks now.
if he doesn't let himself think about it, maybe he doesn't have to know the truth. maybe one of them might be real, that way. ]
no subject
there's nothing he can say. no words, no ideas, no thoughts that will ever give her what she wants. (what he wants to give her.) what else can he do? so he steels his heart, and he closes his eyes, and he ignores every last one of those beautiful words tumbling through his ears and eyes and memories.
he's not sure when her shirt came off. a vague memory of tearing at it, ripping it away while she was on his lap; his own clothes have mostly been shed as well, her head resting against his shallow and sunken chest as he carries her to her room. how many marks has he left, by now? enough that she has no hope of covering them. enough that anyone could look at her and know.
maybe it's just a lie, the way he lays her on her own bed - shockingly gentle, with hands that tremble against her skin. or maybe it's a lie, the way he moves to pin her immediately, the way he bites and licks and invades her mouth like the swarm of miserable curses he is. maybe it's a lie, how his fingers drop down, make a show of preparing her even though they've been doing this for weeks now.
if he doesn't let himself think about it, maybe he doesn't have to know the truth. maybe one of them might be real, that way. ]