"There must be more to life... than this..."
You look out the window, Alien Sex Fiend playing in the background (is that trendy retro, or just a misalignment with modern society these days?). First day (night) of summer. It's dark, it's raining... perfect for your mood...
"...more to life..."
Loss doesn't even describe it. It's more of... an absence. Absence of feeling, absence of care, absence of life. Like everything's fake. It never was. All a fantasy engendered by the frenetic pace of Saturday morning cartoons, the expectations of others. Enough. The only good fantasies seem to be fictional. Real ones fall apart.
You disregard the flash of light behind you. Optical illusion, power surge, doesn't matter. Probably something dramatic on the flickering phantasm of TV that serves as an umbilical cord to the outside world for far too many. The only reality is your dark reflection in the window, mirrored against a world of stars, both landbound and distant.
Like the strong arms that are (aren't) embracing you now. Not with love. The hurt is too recent. With the need of rage, of hurt, of those cold stars beyond the windowpane. The need to *feel*.
You lean back into the embrace, not needing to turn around. You know what he looks like, this dark god. Loose curls the colour of rich espresso falling to collar-length, eyes darkly burning, body perfectly muscled but imbued with catlike grace, so different but so fitting to your own.
You lean back, and hear words soft-spoken, reflecting your pain, reflecting your rage, harsh and understanding but in a fuck-me tone that offers silent promises of pleasure. And being only human, you respond to that tone, to those powerful arms around you, all cruelty and pleasure.
Strong teeth work their way up your neck, the bites making you remember you're alive even as the fleeting lave of tongue in their wake reminds you of times you *wanted* to be.
Darkly reflected in the window, you can see the fire of passion in his eyes, in yours. But still too enraged, too vulnerable, you play victim to his victor, willing partner in conquest, not resisting, but as yet not participating.
His hardness presses insistently against you, and you feel yourself responding in kind. Not yet prepared to voice your increasing change of mind, you settle for subtle movement, a physical semaphore. In response, one hand twines in your hair as the other snakes around your waist, pulling you more closely against the as-yet-unleashed heat of him.
You tell yourself the response is involuntary, though your hips respond wantonly to his wordless encouragement.
As the hand twined in your hair holds you captive to the ministrations of that talented mouth, moving from throat to ear to tug teasingly at an earring, the other has an agenda of its own, moving to loose the fastenings of your jeans, gently, teasingly, the very lightness of it an exquisite torment that again finds your body treacherously responding despite the funk you'd decided you were in. While unable to resist what you so deeply desire, you resist responding out of some odd perversity that demands you cling to what you now know was an artful depiction of depression.
It appears he wasn't fooled. Nails rake down your back, electric shivers following in their wake, and you welcome it as loosened jeans slide down your hips. Skin against straining leather. Nice, but you find passivity is no longer satisfying.
Reaching back, you grip hard muscled, leather clad thighs, pulling them closer as your head leans willingly into the insistent nips and kisses. Capitulation, but not of will. Rather a capitulation to life. Still you don't turn; there's something otherwordly about your reflections in the night-dark window that's transcendent.
Again he feels/sees the difference, smoothly freeing himself from the confines of the form-fitting leather while keeping you occupied with tongue, teeth and nails, and now you can feel his hardness pressing against you, no lie here, just a need that matches your own.
You move against him, feral now, encouraging, watching the dark fire of your reflection in the windows.
There are some practical advantages to godhood. Slicked with lubricant that wasn't there a moment ago, he slowly opens you, first one finger then two then three, moving expertly until you're all but screaming for him, brief disappointment of withdrawal, then you feel the heat as his cock replaces the preparatory explorations, brief stab of almost-pain then molten pleasure, all the preliminaries just shadows now in comparison.
A moment of awkwardness that's bliss on its own before you find a rhythm, you leaning back against powerful thrusts, hands playing over thighs and ass, feeling the play of flexing muscles as his hands rake your torso, no longer teasing, then down to your centre, reciprocating even as his urgency increases, and in near-perfect synchronicity (he is a god, after all), you find release.
Voice even deeper than usual, his sweat beading on your back, he whispers words of rage and beauty to you, then another flash of light and a sudden emptiness tell you he's gone.
And sated, depression banished, you suddenly realize the implications of the dark reflection you've been watching in the window...