song_tra_bong | (no subject)

Entry tags:

oom,
ruin

(no subject)

Mary Anne doesn't move when she sleeps--no tossing and turning, no kicking or flailing of arms. She tends to wake up in exactly the same position she drifted off in, at least when she's sleeping alone. Some training dies hard.

And some not so. The need to wake up ready to fight has eased in her somewhat; she's harder to wake and the process of waking is slower. It hasn't been a problem yet, so now she sleeps, curled on her side with her hands tucked beneath her chin.

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She meets his gaze, much as she doesn't want to.

"Yes."

It may, in fact, be the answer to an earlier question.

He releases her hair and stands, crossing his arms.

"You lust after the friends you love," he says simply.

(this is why you should never love love never helps anything never leads to good ruin never leads to good ruin and love hand-in-hand)

Painful or no, she misses his hand in her hair.
wHorE
"Not all of them."
pretty ruined fool
The words sound small and stupid and weak, but she can't come up with anything stronger--not while she feels small and stupid and weak.

"This isn't working," he says again. "I don't want monogamy, I'll admit that, but there are paths..."

He's seen other paths.

Many, many paths.

And he doesn't like most of them.

"What are you saying?"

It hasn't been a month (couldn't even make it last a month) and already he's talking about (leaving her)...she's not sure what he's talking about, not sure she wants to know.

"I fucked up, I fucked up bad and I am so goddamn sorry you have no idea, but what the fuck are you talking about?!"

"I'm talking about--"

He sighs and shakes his head.

"Don't you ever draw your cards?" Ruin kneels on the bed, hands on her shoulders (shake her), is grip bruising in its strength. "Do you ever see what the hell you do to those around you? You ever think about how the things you do make me feel?"

Because, gods of the multiverse help him, he loved her and to think she loves someone else was far more than he could deal with. Fucking around was fine and dandy, but this didn't feel like simple fucking around.

"Námo. Ramon. Santino." He taps her temple before moving his fingers down to brush at her throat -- where Santino had fed.

It's part of her (charm curse) problem.

She loves (not wisely, but too well) easily and has yet to get the knack of falling out of love.

Bruises in the shape of his hands, but she doesn't wince. The place where teeth had been (would be), where she should have scarred but didn't.

"I asked you if you wanted me to stop. I was going to try, but you told me to forget about it."

She pauses, drawing a breath. "Santino is about blood and flattery and sex. If you ask me to cut him off, I will. The other two are friends about whom I care very much...but have not and will not fuck. So explain to me what it is that I'm doing?"

"Not sure. Just... something."

His hands latch onto her upper arms, a slight shake, then he brings their faces close.

"Are you still married to me cause you're stubborn or cause I don't chain you to me through sworn oaths?"

Another matched set of bruises (his hands are warm, burn them into your skin).

"I'm married to you because I love you like I don't love anyone else. Because you asked it of me."

A moment's hesitation before adding, "The best way to lose something is to hold onto it too tightly."

He remembers when he spoke those words.

He releases her.

"True words, but I also spoke far more truthful words that night. I am not to be trusted. I am not to be loved. I am not to be remembered when the storm passes, Mary Anne. Remember? You even agreed -- no trust, not love." His voice has the hard edge it once had, during the trials Gorlim faced.

Promised to never love you.

"I told you I'd remember you," she murmurs.

as if I could forget

"And some promises are made to be broken."

He smirks faintly.

"Are they?"

in that damned bedroom (fourth door on the left) in this damned bedroom (second floor, first on the right) in the woods in the dirt by the lake in his room in the castle in the hotel room faith in the faithless

"No," she manages, voice choked.

"Promises bind. Doesn't mean some shouldn't have been made to start with."

"Promises are important, which is why they should be carefully made," Ruin says softly. He pulls her shirt down low, exposing the scar above her breast. "Some promises are written in flesh."

His other hand goes to her hip.

"Kept in flesh."

"It was a gift," she whispers.

"They don't mean the same thing."

"Perhaps."

He doesn't think so.

Ruin leans forward, pressing his lips to her throat, knowing where Santino had been. It's a simple touch of lips as his hand moves from her hip to her hand.

Miho's mark speaks about her, no one else. It has never ached or itched for no reason. It doesn't run so deep.

Not the same.

Her head lolls to the side, exposing her throat (like with Santino). Her fingers brush against his, almost afraid to take hold.

He sighs against her skin, his eyes closed.

"I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone. I... don't know what to do with it all. Sometimes I think I can be a man again. Love and live like one. But I don't think I can. I want to hurt you. Taste blood and hear you scream."

Like he once did with her before he saw her as more than a conquest.

It's not such a hard choice to make, really.

"Then do it."

He chuckles, his hand encircling her wrist.

"Just like that."

The grip tightens. He squeezes. Lifts his head to hover his lips above hers.

Her lips part (bruises like a bracelet, now where have I heard that before), but she doesn't cry out.

"Yes."

Penance.

But also a thing she needs.

Ruin kisses her, hard and forceful, while his arm slides around her waist and pulls her into his body. Nails dig into her side, under her shirt, while his other hand continues to hold her wrist. It's a steady pressure now, but he doesn't squeeze anymore. Risk breaking bones. Pain and blood and sex was fine, but he would never harm her.

Ever.

She whimpers against his mouth, pressing closer.

She has had violence from others these past months, but not from him. It was better from him; it was always better from him.

Ruin releases her wrist so he can bury his hand in her hair, gripping at the base of her neck and tugging as he leaves her mouth in favour of her throat.

Sharp teeth, meant for tearing not piercing, move against soft skin. His nails scrape from her side around her back. Just enough to draw blood while he teases her neck with his teeth.

Sighs and soft moans result as his teeth move over her throat; she cries out from surprise more than pain when his nails dig in.

She brings her hand with the bruised wrist up to rest on his hair, while the other settles on his shoulder. She shifts, trying to straddle his leg without interrupting his work.