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Let her hands be encased in long black net gloves that he bought for her, sheer and yet practical, letting heat and sensation but not much else through.

Let her body be clothed to the fullest, so when their hips meet and she jerks against him, half-dying with shock, he won't reciprocate and complete the metaphor.

But her face, he insists, must be free. Let her lips be naked to greet him, let her neck be free of the thinnest of scarves so he can nip and taste and suckle to his heart's content. Give him that much, he begs her, let there be no barrier when their lips meet, or he will die without the taste of her.

I heal fast, he reminds her. Very fast, if we're careful.

So she gives in to the longing, feeding his need and hers, letting her tongue reach out and taste him, salty sweat and a little musk, drawing back at the newness of it, the sensation of touch, naked skin against hers. He groans and pulls her into him, letting her see how much he wants her to do this. To take his life within hers, till they are one heart, one soul, one mind. It’s a possession more primal than any form of coitus, one where roles are reversed and she is the aggressor.

He doesn’t mind, he tells her with his lips against hers and their soft gasps in the moonlight. He needs this. He wants this. Her skin branded against his forever.

He’ll die for it.

She realises, pulls back panting, as his legs buckle and he staggers. Too late she tries to support him, but he falls to his knees and leans his weight against hers, his arms warm around her hips, his face burrowing into her stomach, the ragged gasp of his breath telling her how far they went.

Too dangerous, she thinks, wondering how to push him away. But then the feel of his kiss undoes her, butterfly soft against her navel, yet with a sharp piercing heat that runs jagged lightning to her heart. He leans into her, holding her, letting her know that
he’s still here, still wants to be here.

She prays God it will be enough.

They’re dancing with death, poor foolish ones, showing Fate a brave finger, but the bargain’s unequal. It’s her kiss that is deadly, and his love that is unearned. He shouldn’t be here at all, but he is, with his lips soft on hers and his strength shoring up her heart.

She prays someone it will be enough.

His breathing slows and his lips grow subtle, tonguing through the soft fabric of her shirt, dipping in to caress. She bites her lip and presses his head against her, wondering how someone can burn and melt at the same time.

It doesn’t seem fair.

He looks up smiling; a trick of the moonlight lending his face an elfish quality. Pan, Orpheus, some demi-god of the woods, on his knees before her, worshipping when she owes him homage.

Maybe they can pretend he’s immortal. Just for a little while.

His hand reaches up to her chin, cupping it softly, his breath indrawn as the sparks catch. She leans down as he caresses the line of her throat, the curve of her jaw and softly, but tenderly learns the texture of her lips.

Fire. Playing with fire.

She sobs and takes his thumb between her lips, biting down gently, sucking on it with all the passion she can’t show. He closes his eyes and sways, her name a lament on his lips.

“Marie…” his other hand draws her down to the grass next to him, till they’re kneeling near each other. She kisses his palm, the sweet sour lines of his hand, tracing them with her tongue. He swears and pulls her into a bone-crushing hug where she feels his heart beat and is reassured that he is here. Still alive and still here.

Dancing with death for her.

Does it hurt, she wants to ask him, wants in turn to feel the red flame blossom in her heart as her life is drawn into his, not the other way around. Do his claws twitch yearningly, nearly reaching out in self-preservation to tear her heart as it’s being torn now, with each breath of his inside her, knowing what she’s doing to him just by being.

Hurt me, she wants to whisper gravely in the moonlight. Take my heart, rip it out still beating and you’ll see how each cell has your name on it. It’s you inside me and no one else. Take me and let us be even.

But he’s gentle with her, kissing her hair now, reassuring her softly, telling her how fast he heals. She agrees. She can see it, the burns fading from his lips, the blisters smoothing back into his cheeks. He heals amazingly fast, even though each second of touch
is another part of his life drawn into her.

But she doesn’t heal that fast, she wants to tell him, wondering if the pain she feels is real or her imagination compensating. Not when it’s him that’s hurting, and his life throbbing inside her. She hates him sometimes for that, for giving her so much of him that all she can touch or taste or feel has his scent over it, his wariness overshadowing her disposition. I used to be happy, she wants to complain, knowing that she’s lying, that she hasn’t been carefree since she took him inside her the first time, not with his voice and heart beating in hers every second of everyday till she could scream with her frustration at how loud he is inside of her.

Oh she’s beyond glad that he loves her, but she wonders how much of that is because of what he’s given her, if she could ever have been whole without it. Yes she needs him, and she’s glad of that, but she’s never had the chance to taste and see someone else, not since he branded her and invaded her, filling her heart and mind with his.

He’s kissing her forehead now, running naked fingers over her cheekbones. Tasting, little pecks as he licks moisture off the high crown of her eyebrows. She gasps and lets him in again, needing his life as much as he seems to need to give it to her.

Does he hate himself that much, she wonders, that he can’t love without pain? Or is she foolish to believe that she could be the answer to his prayers just as he is the answer to hers, her guardian angel with broken wings who fills her horizon and every morning with his gruff clarion call. No, how could she be a reward? She’s a curse, the harbinger of death and he – he likes dancing with death. He always has, and she knows it, has known it from the first time she saw him in a cage in Alaska, taking the blows and loving each moment, each crunch of flesh that tuned his body’s pain to his mind’s.

Would he love her if he could touch her and not die from it? She knows she’ll never know the truth, and is glad, so that she can pretend that this is love and not need, not some twisted thwarted passion that drives him to be gentle with her and tender. If he is
her Raphael, then she is his Apollyon, the angel of death luring him to greater passion with the hope of ultimate destruction. It’s the pain he craves, to make him whole, to banish the spectres of torture by night with the more palatable thought of their star-crossed
love. If he knew what was really inside her, how similar their nightmares actually are, he might not be here, on his knees, kissing her forehead and telling her that he loves her.

“Marie.” He knows she’s not responding and she closes her eyes, unable to tell him why, when she knows him inside out and is dying with the knowledge that it can never be the other way around. “Marie,” and his heart is beating softly in time with hers, but he doesn’t know that because he’s never taken her in the way she has him and it can never, never be equal between them.

“I heal fast,” he tells her, thinking she’s afraid to hurt him, oh and she is, but even more she’s afraid of him hurting her with indifference, with the callousness that comes from not understanding because her life isn’t inside him. And one day she’s afraid
she’ll draw in all his love for her and leave him dry, making him forget why he’s on his knees beside her, why his lips are so gentle as he’s breathing in the scent of her hair.

She hopes to die before that happens. But then she’s wanted to die so many times since, and unkindly he’s always saved her, always pulled her back from the brink.

“I heal fast,” he assures her with his hand on her face and his panting breath giving the lie to that, so she can’t keep back the tears any longer.

“I know,” she whispers, and kisses him softly. “I know you do Logan.”

 And regardless of the fact that he can heal and she never will from the pain he causes – she loves him anyway.

~ End.

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