this was who they were. they were not born to be soft, they were not created to be delicate with one another. no. they were hard, they were rough around the edges. they were sharp to the touch. cause that way it would be harder to get close to them. it would only take a masochist and someone willing to get close to them, to touch them, to hold them. they were not known to be speechless. they were loud. they were growls and they were hisses. when it was just them, it was not a symphony it was a cacophony of sounds. of two forces coming together and colliding. “ say my name . “ he growled as he pressed his body against hers. they were not fragile. they were steel and ivory. they were forged from the best marble, from the best metal–they were-
two scared individuals that never understood what love could be like. they were two people that knew nothing of what they felt for each other. from the start, even before lottie, they were passion, they were anger, they were fire. they ignited something in each other, they were rough and fought nails and all. and when she growled an i hate you as her nails clawed against his skin. a sharp inhale through his teeth as he pulled back that red hair of hers, pulling her teeth away from him. “i know.” and he would take it. for it was always better to be hated than not cared for. that wasn’t them. they would always think of one another, they would always be a part of one another. they were simply two beings that were meant to collide. pushing her down harshly against the wall, he looked at her and tore at the uniform they insisted on dressing her in. like everything in this room–it was not her. “ i can still leave. i can still go. tell me you want me to fuck you. tell me you want me to kiss you. tell me you want to feel my skins against yours, pressing into you, making you feel things that no one else can ever give you because no one tries to get to know what you like. because no one here cares about you like i do. tell me to fuck you like the russian you are. like the woman you are.”
“Say mine.” There is something about the feeling of his body against hers that nothing can quite match. They are like electricity, currents flowing from one side to the other (and finding each other, no matter what). Her breath gets heavier as he presses her body against his, and her nails dig in deeper. It’s not love. Love is for children, she knows that well, she has always known that. It’s more of a need, a necessity, something that she can’t quite live without. Not that she’ll ever admit that. Not to herself, not to anyone. It’s not love.
Does he know, she can’t help but wonder, of the dreams she had of him, in the KGB? Does he know that even before Melody, in the back of her head, he was always there? His hands marking her waist, his fingers digging in deep. His fingers pulling her hair away, losing themselves in the uncombed mess. She can’t help but smirk as he pulls her hair away, taking a deep breath. Her chest moves up and down as she takes her shirt of, needing to feel his skin against hers, to have the most contact as possible. She doesn’t think of the new scars that are now on her waist. They don’t matter right now. She’s not quite sure of what it is that burns inside of her, only that she has no intent of controlling it. Not right now, anyway. “You talk too much.” She says, before pressing her lips against his bare neck and sucking on the skin. Maybe she’ll leave a mark. Maybe she wants him to remember. Here’s the catch: she wants to feel wanted. She wants to feel like there is more to her than death, like there is more to her than an empty shell. She wants his hands to run through the curve of her hip, to mark her, to have a bruise that hurts good. She wants it. She needs it. “I want you. I want you.” It’s a breathless whisper, but it is anyway.