Alternate Realities

Champagne and Regret (prompt)

Prompt (via tumblr): "We danced in the moonlight, the midnight air chilling around us. He pulled me close, radiating enough heat to keep me warm. I could stay like this forever. 'But I can't' I thought. 'This would never last.' I tried to slip out of his arms only for him to pull me closer. "Don't go. Stay with me," his eyes pleaded. I wanted to more than anything be here in this moment. Perhaps I was deceiving myself, but I thought I could see the same longing I had for him in his eyes. I hoped this was all real."

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Gets a little NSFW...

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Champagne does wonders for betrayal. That first dinner, light years ago, it had tickled my nose and helped me enjoy some of the pageantry around me. It helped me muster through the creeping jealousy every time Evangeline had touched his arm. Of course at the time, I wouldn't have admitted that it was jealousy. But today, watching them enter the room together, her hand gripping his forearm, it was all I could do not to pop every light bulb over her head.

I remember her in the bowl of bones, she yelled, "He was supposed to be mine." So maybe its not just for the comfort of his familiar touch, but also to sink another sign post into his skin for her to find. Because while she claims him for the title, he was actually mine. And I'm drunk enough to be petty.

He likes it when I trace my tongue along the tendons where they attach to his collarbone. I helped him discover it in the woods, in the mud, on a carefree day when the thunder pushed us deep into the bushes and the rain covered our trail. Beneath my lips, I pull his skin between my teeth and he arches into me. His hips sink me deeper into a mattress much softer than any red has ever imagined. The feel of his heat almost burns.

He pulls away, bracelets falling before his shirt. And I see the mark, pale and round, my mark. I give into his hands. Into his lips. Into his head pushing my face to the side so he can tease my ear. I recover and force his chin up, another shudder of pleasure under my marking mouth. I repeat it, over and over, little by little, the same two places. She will know I was here for weeks, unless he gets healed.

The rest is a foray into dangerous territory. He pushes and pulls and there's an animal unleashed somewhere between two sheets, but I don't keep up long enough to know which of us growls hungrier for the other.

I can't take the heat.

I can't take the reality.

I can't spend the night in his bed daydreaming on the last time. And this will be the last time–I swear it when I turn him over. I grind it into fact between us with the swivel of my hips. I feel it in my lungs when all I can do is gasp. And I recognize the betrayal of my body because it will never stop wanting this, needing this, begging for this. Just as it begs the moment I leave him sleeping in bed.