She's been so good, so responsible, and on such a tight fucking leash that she's ready for something new when she sees him.
Clothes are removed between the clash of lips and tongues and teeth; the door barely closed before he slams her to the wall to bury his face in the crook of her neck. That swipe of his tongue over her pulse sends sparks running through her, and she's switching their positions so that it's his back against the wall.
It's gratifying when his fingers move into her hair, catch the dark strands and then tug none too gently. He's not being careful with her, not treating her like something that might break, and it spurs her on. It spurs her into action and fuels that reckless desire that's been building, relentless in its demand to be acknowledged.
This is it. This is her outlet. The sex, the blood, the violence-- it's in the scratching of her nails down his back, the sting of his teeth in her neck, and the war their bodies stage on the battlefield she calls a bed. Release is the only victory, though neither of them count as winner or loser. They leave destruction in their wake, the tangle of sheets and bits of broken glass from where the lamp went crashing to the floor. She thinks there's nothing like this, no drug that could compare to the rush of adrenaline when you ride it in the face of every instinct telling you to run like hell.
This is how she flirts with intimacy. This is how she puts herself back together time and time again. Peace isn't an option for her, so she steals it in bits and pieces, like a thief.
This is hers, this moment of quiet. It's the moment at the scene of any massacre, when the shock is so strong, so overwhelming, that the survivors can't do more than gape at the landscape in front of them. She lives in these moments... only the one dying, is her. She finds all the ways to kill herself, to run herself down and string herself up. It isn't until you're dying that you have any kind of clarity or know if you were really alive.
They never know though. The nameless, faceless men she brings back. They aren't her future. They aren't anything but a temporary distraction.
Night always ends too soon and then it's over. The time for fun and games is done. Pretending isn't an option when the dawn comes because the truth is exposed with the rays of the sun. She's still the person she's always been.
Even if she doesn't know who that person is.
It's hard to see through the lies she tells herself, and maybe that's a lie, too. Maybe she just chooses not to see, not to face what it is she's really after because that only opens the door for more disappointment. Then again, maybe peace isn't all its cracked up to be. Not when war makes her feel so alive. In the light of the sun she crawls on top of him, and when he slips inside her, there aren't any shadows to hide in.
She'll be herself again come sunset, but in the meantime they'll battle it out until they're both casualties of her desire for more.
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