Page 86 of My Lovely Tragedy
He falls into me with such grace andcredence.The very proof that enamored devotionexistsand is not merely a concept derived from those who spend their lives vying for such an impossibility.
Brooklyn’s the freedom that comes from such a tragedy.
And it is as he said; it shall be my favorite. How could it not when he is such a grandiose creature, tailored perfectly for my very own end.
He sighs heavily—a soft, breathless thing. Filled with serenity and vulnerability.
I swallow it as I fall against him, the knife clattering to the floor, long forgotten when it’s him who has every part of me until forever ends. With me until the afterlife shatters and we are lost to the endless void of nothingness.
“‘bias,” he whimpers, the noise ripped from the depths of my soul. My own tears fall between us, soft splashes against his cheekbones. His lashes are dark, wet clumps scraping his bruised periorbital tissue.
The hot warmth of his essence soaks into my shirt with his arms pinned between us. As pliant as he’s ever been. Lost and waiting. Feelingeverything.
My eyes roll back at the sensation: searing and sharp, tinged with heavy copper. And there’s so much. Not deep but many. Slices down and across the length of both arms. Leaving my mark. Lost in his fidelity.
Azure irises blinding with trust—a trust I don’t deserve, but Itake.To see him bleed for me. To see him like this. Desperate and beautiful and more mine than anything ever has been.
“I’m right here,corvus,” I finally manage to answer as I skim my nose over his, dragging along the length and stealing some of his tears for my own.
We are made of resentment and anguish. Need and desire and excruciating admissions.
But we’re also made of what we are in this moment: blood and salt and oxygen. Elements. Cells and atoms, clinging and merging. Never touching butconnected.
A final merge before the wake of desolation.
Brooklyn’s lips part, and small, unintelligible noises escape from between. Sweet, breathless little things. Pleas, perhaps. Or maybe curses. Threats damning me to the deepest pits of an eternal purgatory.
As I lean down, trying to capture the sounds and savor them, Brooklyn’s arms snake around my neck, hot and slick. Stained steel lies heavily over my shoulders as he buries his fingers in my hair and tugs my head down. I fall into the crook of his neck, breathing in salt, and my eyes close in gratification.
His legs tighten around my waist, drawing me closer—further into him until our groins collide sharply, bone against bone. I grunt, hand slamming into the cushion just beside his head. Brooklyn cries out, but his muscles contract, severing the last inch of space I managed to put between us.
Brooklyn’s coxal bones are sharp against my pelvis, and the pressure elicits a harsh throb. I grit my teeth. Flex my fingers into the material below. Breathe heavily into his neck, feeling it blow back into me.
My belovedcorvusshoves his heels into my spine, quadriceps flexing against my waist as he lifts his hips from the sofa and smacks them into mine. Breath punches out of me in an instant at the flare of pain mingled with shocked pleasure.
I try to pull against Brooklyn’s hold on me, but he constricts tighter, chains a veil around our faces. I manage a few inches of space, just enough to put my lips to his cheek, grazing his beard with every word spoken.
“Darling,” I exhale, “what are you doing?” His blood is drying slowly—but itchy and pertinent.I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
His head shakes back and forth, knocking right into mine. I grunt and try to pull away, but the moment I gain traction, he cries out, eyes scrunching shut, sending a fresh wave of tears streaking down his flushed cheeks.
I blink down at him in awe and reverent.
I have never seen him look more beautiful.
More mine.
“Brooklyn…” His name breathes renewed life into me. Confusing and painful and raw. Every inch of my skin is exposed. The air is excruciating, but every point of contact between us brings nothing but comfort and relief.
“Please.Please…I—I just—need.”
“Need?” I echo, gaze dropping to his throat, up each arm as best I can before things begin to blur. Blood streaks each pale arm, a few rivulets still finding their way downward where they disappear beneath him. Wounds open and weeping, not quite gaping but exposed and bare.
Anxiety flames away in my gut, churning upward and into my throat, and I yank myself away from his arms to sit on my haunches. I pull each one into my line of sight to inspect each wound.
They’re deeper than my first cuts, but not enough to cause him to bleed out. They’ll scab over in a few days—maybe a week. Especially with proper care, which I will give him. I let his other arm fall into my lap as I rake my gaze over him. Searching.Panicking.
