Warm Bodies (Herobrine X Entity303)

chapter 2

ive realised this story's chapters are a lot shorter than previous stories. not gonna change that just thought id make it known that im aware

Rain pattered the window and grey clouds blanketed the sky, chilling the air. Last night's battle was an intense one and I was still exhausted, even after sleeping for nearly 12 hours, and all I could do was lay in bed and stare out the window in silence.

I thought about him a lot anyway, so with spare time on my hands, today was no different. His strong build overpowered me, feeling like he was towering over me even though I was taller. His physique was giant-like, with thick dark body hair and large calloused hands to pair with it, and his bright white eyes bore holes into my soul with a cold glare. For sure I considered him a worthy opponent, no question about that, but upon reflection I found myself considering him in other ways. He hated my guts and me his, but I could picture him as a good husband, soft and caring, like a giant teddy bear. Although I'd never dream of allowing myself to let him know this, I'd give anything to feel the suffocating embrace of his muscular arms and his broad chest, to let his scent seep into my skin, to crawl into his bones and live in him as one.

But, that couldn't happen. I hated him, he definitely hated me, we battle eachother until one backs out, which was usually me, our relationship to one another was so brutal and violent and blood-soaked we would never work. This isn't something I would ever consider, and I forced those filthy thoughts deep into my subconscious. He mustn't ever find out, or he wouldn't hesitate to kill me where I lay. Besides, it's not that I truly want him, they're just twisted, fucked up daydreams.

Our fights happened once every week or two, so I had plenty of time to relax, to let my injured body rest. The aftermath of a gruelling battle wasn't exactly what one would call comfortable. The gauze and the wrappings itched my sore wounds, and my sliced skin weeped and bled, the deep gashes and stabs screamed with pain, pulsating and twisting in my deepest layers of flesh. Every now and again I would puke, the result of one too many punches to the gut, and the emptied contents of my stomach would be dark and red. Every now and again I would cough a little too hard, or clench my torso in pain, and thick half-dried blood would drip from my nose onto whatever surface was in front of me. My whole body seared and ached, cut up and stitched together like a ragdoll losing stuffing quicker than can be replenished, and I felt so weak and fragile, like any sudden movement could break me apart.

I longed to be embraced and held gently like porcelain. To be cradled by a strong form, and maybe even to trust enough to allow myself to be hurt, to be choked, to be squeezed until my nose bleeds, until I hear ribs crack. I want to be under cosy sheets, wrapped up and warm, cuddled tight by a large figure, whilst my body stings from cuts and bites and bruises. To be lovingly decorated by someone who hurts me the way I want, and who wants a little hurt too, to mark eachother and to pepper the sheets with droplets of blood, to soak clothes with sweat and tears, to explore the absolute boundaries of pain and pleasure and hurt and bliss. To be killed by someone you love, to allow yourself to die, is a most romantic sacrifice, to submit yourself to the hands of your love to rip you to pieces is the most beautiful and ethereal death, and the most paradoxical death.