You used to love the fairytales , but it was the cold you were afraid of. Sharp cold shivers as you uncovered the cold body of little red riding hood's granny , sweeter trembles when the snow white awoke from the prince's kiss over her own pale and...
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Trigger Warning: sexual themes , mentions of sucide.
She shouldn't have done it. She shouldn't have initiated round two. And, okay, she shouldn't have initiated round one either, but round two was a hard line. The plan–if you can call it that if she made it up as she went along–was one last time. Before she ends the deteriorating piece of drama , called life with pricey vodka and illegal cyanide, because in the moments before her death was when she really felt the most alive. This was her vivacity ,her source of destruction and her one last distraction , one last fu*k , one last kiss , one last touch , one last moan , one last pretense of the love she never had. One last time.
One last time.
Not two.
But she hadn't expected the one last time to be like that. She hadn't expected the slow roll of Lucas's hips into hers, the agonizing pace he set, the way he clung onto her curves and vocalized his pleasure , into her neck. And she hadn't expected to respond in turn by ghosting her hand and nails down the delicious muscles of his back, by clutching a hand onto the back of his head, pulling him closer and closer into her, as close as she possibly could and then even closer still, wanting as little space between their bodies as she could get.
And then he'd lingered. He'd stayed on top of her while he hardened inside her again , nuzzled into her neck and softly kissed along her shoulder. And then he'd pulled her onto his chest and stroked her hair and she'd just gotten too swept up in the Goosebumps that arose from her gentle touch on his chest and she hadn't had it in her to break the moment just yet.
And when she'd lifted her head from his chest, planning to put on her clothes and tell him she was out and done, and then shower off the intimacy and the dread clinging to the inside of her lungs because she knew this would be the last time she sees him but the , he'd squeezed her waist and held her there for a second before letting go.
And when she'd looked down and met his eye, he'd been looking at her like—
The look he was giving her was-
It was like this was-
Like she was-
Well like this moment, at least, was some sort of bliss for him. Like the two of them togetherlike this meant something so important to him.
So she'd placed a hand on his chest, leaned in, and kissed him. Softly at first before licking into his mouth, wanting to consume that look, that moment for safekeeping later on when it all would be in the rearview.
And then all of a sudden they were in the midst of round two and she was straddling him with two hands on his chest and it was hard to regret what she was doing when she was sinking down onto him and their moans were in perfect harmony.
All those harmonies coming back to her , in tunes of her eroding sanity , in the pages of history shared and touches unfelt.
The way he'd pulled her waist closer to him when his late arch nemesis , Thomas Hudson watched in the ball , the way his touches hung around for just another second of closeness , the way he'd threaten to kill his own brother to protect her , the way he'd always admire her when she was dripping in sweat and scarlet of her kills , the way he'd ever so gently kiss her forehead on occasions that seem very unlikely for affection , the way he would know. He would always know.
