He knew why he kept coming back. The heat burned into his skin, leaving a flush of purple and blue made from fingernails and teeth. He would moan into the mouth that tempered his rage, and grasp the bed when the warmth overwhelmed him. His mind a blank slate, burning into his skull, a sensation collapsing throughout his body. He wanted so badly, more times than he could count when he pleaded for the other between their fights that were destructive as a storm, and other times when sleep betrayed them, and the quiet of their minds kept them divided.
Why did it have to be this way? He wanted one single thing and it was never enough.
He was pressed into the bed, his heels pushed against the mattress, his mouth falling open, gasping pleasantly when he felt a rush of pleasure, it rolled through his body, pushing and pulling like a wave. He wanted it, the violence, the pain, to scrape and claw and bite to keep what was his. He wouldn’t let him run, not like every other time, he didn’t want to feel that same hollow feeling inside of him.
If he runs, if he hides, he would chase after him, a flame that burns everything in his path. To cut deep, to give an imprint that he was there, that he belonged to him, that they were meant for more than the fear that wrapped around them.
He was divinity staining his fingers, he was sweetness on his tongue, wanting and needing in the dark. His fire burned with only his fingertips upon his bare skin, and he moved with equal precision, moving and moving, tempting him to fall from the edge into the abyss.
Oh, he would fall for him. His love burned him through, consuming his insides, and he screamed it out from his bitten throat blossoming cascades of violet and pomegranate splotches, marks that spoke of possession.
“Stay,” he whispered in the dark against his lips when the room cooled upon their heated skin. He wanted to promise heaven and hell, life and death, his soul and heart, to keep him in his bed.