This is a bit of a dark story. If you don't want to read it, I don't mind. Thank you!
I watch his mouth. I watch it twist and sneer, curl and spit, arching around words like knives, like the pierce of a bullet to the chest. I watch him catch the edge of a heart in his hands and dig his nails in, those long, elegant, gorgeous fingers tearing in with the kind of cruelty only men like him can muster. The kind of cruelty that comes with dragons, with lions. Ripping and clawing and drawing gashes across unblemished skin, reveling in the marks, in the claiming.
I watch him. And I wait. I wait to tear his walls down. I sit in the shadows as he plays and pushes and kills and taunts. Then, I let him put his hands on my hips and his lips on mine and his heart in my palms.
I love letting him. I hate it, too.
I wonder, sometimes, why he trusts me. It’s not a question I can answer, and, even though I know he’s a twisted, terrible creature, guilt spills through my fingers. I cannot let go. I can’t.
My hands twine at the nape of his neck. My head holds his secrets. My chest holds his heart. God, his heart. I can’t, sometimes. I can’t remember the last time I told him I loved him. I can’t—I can’t. I just can’t. He’ll rip me apart like everything, everyone else he’s held. I’ll be thrown to the side faster than old parchment.
Didn’t I say my chest holds his heart? Maybe he doesn’t have one. He’s so beautiful all he needs is his face, ice cold and chiseled. I’d give him anything.
But this time, I can’t.
He whispers my name.
I shake my head. Extract myself from his lap.
Grey eyes are pleading.
I look away. Walk out.
I can hear him sobbing. He knows. Of course he does.
It doesn’t matter. We both know who’ll be more hurt in the end.