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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

He pulls away with a growl so he can yank her tank top off to expose her chest. Ruin pushes her back, a knee between her legs, and drags teeth along the swell of her breasts while his hands claw at her hips.

She yelps, the fingers on his shoulder digging until they hurt.

missedthismissedyouloveyouloveyou

All the right pain in all the familiar places--she opens her mouth to speak but ends up just breathing raggedly against his hair.

He doesn't speak, and his mind is silent, but his hands and mouth move with freedom. His teeth rake over a nipple while he presses his knee up against her. He loves the sounds she makes, the pain in his shoulders where her hands grip, and his face grows hot with lust.

She moans, shifting her hips down against his knee. One hand drags up his neck, through his hair and back down, nails biting into skin.

Her other hand slips beneath his shirt, nails and fingertips dancing up his ribs before trying to pull him closer.

He moans before latching onto her breast, biting and suckling. His hands span her waist (delicate but so strong pale white), thumbs rubbing lightly near her navel. Ruin sets a slow rhythm with his knee, loving the feel of her against him and the scent of her blood. Not much, yet, but enough to bring the predator forward in him, eager to taste more.

Slowly, moaning shifts into wordless pleas. She hooks a foot behind his leg, trying to get him to speed up his pace.

She tilts her head to rest against his, murmuring a continuous string of 'please' into his ear.

Ruin sits up enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. He grasps her hands, rests them on his chest. His eyes shine brightly, yellow-tinged and wild. "Hurt me, Legs. You used to be real good at it."

Then he bends over to kiss her deeply, sharp teeth tearing at tender lips as he tastes her blood on his tongue finally. He shudders, his heart pounding, savouring the taste in his mouth, between their kiss.

She her lip curls at the pain in the kiss, paying it back to him by raking her nails over his chest. In a second strike, one hand scores a set of lines down his throat, the other along his shoulder, before meeting back up to run parallel scratches down his abdomen to the waistband of his pants.

She works her hands beneath the fabric without undoing the fly; nails tease over buttocks and thighs, almost but not quite moving around to the front before she pulls them free.