#old drafts

They were faint in the darkness of your shared bedroom, but with the soft light that slipped through the slightly parted curtains, Vil could just barely make out the scars that traveled down your shoulder and towards your spine. Slowly reaching forward, his fingers brushed lightly against the raised markings on your skin. They’d faded somewhat in the years since he’d given them to you, that day at the VDC, yet still remained a harsh reminder of the pain he was capable of inflicting on those closest to him.

Still only partially awake, it took Vil a few moments to realize that his fingers were no longer absentmindedly tracing the unpleasant marks on your back, but had instead been entangled within your own warm grasp. You gave a light squeeze to his fingers, brushing your thumb softly over your lover’s knuckles, an act of reassurance.

“I’ve told you before that I don’t really mind them.” You whispered lowly, your voice rough with sleep. Shifting your body to face your lover, you made certain that his hand remained wrapped in yours as you slowly found his gaze in the dark. “They’re from you after all.”

“You make it sound as if you’d forgive me for anything I’d do to you.” Vil’s eyes momentarily averted from your own in the dark. This wasn’t a new conversation between the two of you.

“Maybe I would.” You replied, pulling his head towards your chest, and resting your cheek gently atop his soft blond hair as you wrapped your arms snugly around his body. The almost sweet, floral scent that lingered from his hair products filled your senses. The additional warmth was almost too much in the humid night but you refused to relinquish your grasp, and somewhat to your surprise, there was no complaint this time of your sweat-covered torso being pressed so closely to your lover’s. Closing your eyes you pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your lover’s head.

“You do know I love you.” You murmured, sleep quietly taking you away once more.

“Always.”

She saw him parading up the front path, composed brutality in his strides and anger whipping his coat-tails.

She scoffed and smiled to herself, hands in the sink, busy scrubbing a pot.

The front door slammed. Her hands left the hot water and she wiped them on her apron.

Gruffing and huffing was heard from the hallway as his coat came off, dropped in a heavy heap. His hat was thrown somewhere across the floor and she heard him wrestle his boots off, one by one with loud, impatient thuds.

Familiar steps approached the kitchen.

Her smirk only grew as she poured him a brandy.

“Lyra!” he boomed.

She turned and held out the glass just as he stepped through the door.

“James.”

He stopped abruptly, heaving a breath high in his chest and frowning at the glass in her hand.

A nodding grunt, then he took it.

Lyra smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter, hands tucked lazily in the pockets of her apron. For a moment she simply watched him breathe. The beastlike rise and fall of his chest. The anger steaming off his powerful shoulders.

James sipped his brandy in silence. Stared out the window.

When he spoke, he held the drink with a lethal squint, forefinger raised off the glass, pointed towards the docks, the tanning factory and the incompetent people he had no use for.

“Know this,” he warned, as if his enemies were right outside the window looking back at him. “That when you say one thing and you doo, another…” He nodded slowly for emphasis. “There will be consequences.”

“Oh certainly, my love,” she agreed with a smile that said whoever angered him would know his wrath in good time, but perhaps for now he should sit down.

He rolled his head slowly to look at her, eyes still narrowed like nothing could cure his foul mood.

“At least I always do what I’m told,” she added, well aware of what he’d make of it.  

James grunted, suddenly drawn to her mouth, distracted by it.

He flexed his fingers around the glass and nibbled his moustache hard enough for the bristles to scratch his lower lip.

Restless eyes scanned the wispy strands around her temples, drifted back to her perky cupid's bow and the way her mouth tugged to the side. He noticed the sheen of hard work down her neck, gathering between her breasts.

“You do… You always do…” he mused in a low murmur, nodding to himself.

He looked at Lyra as if he admired her, or possibly questioned if her words could be trusted. As if he needed to squeeze the truth out of her, one way or another.

A swig of brandy. Eyes on her mouth again.

Oh but he trusted her, for she was his wife.

He trusted her eyes and ears and heart and cunt. He trusted her filthy mouth and the way she screamed his name when he fucked her.

James knocked back his drink, sucked air through his teeth and shook his head to rid himself of burning alcohol and those useless factory workers.

With a slam he placed the thick glass on the kitchen table.

“Sit.” he ordered with a flick of his chin, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Lyra pulled out a chair and sat down, all calm and deliberate, crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap.

James pinched his nose with a grotty snivel then reached for his belt buckle, eyes on Lyra’s dainty hands as he tugged on the leather and let the ends dangle freely at his sides.

Next second he lunged at her, dragging her chair across the floor towards him, stiff legs scraping and struggling over the wooden floorboards.

The chair fell into position and Lyra made a startled noise that rippled into laughter, which James immediately silenced with a violent clasp around her jaw.

Like a curious, wicked snake, he moved in and hovered over her, rumbling at the sight of her lips and cheeks all squished and pouting up at him.

His grip smelled like leather, horse and sharp smoke from the tanning factory.

She wanted to lick his dirty skin.

With his free hand James began to undo the buttons of his trousers, searching her face for signs of fear or lust or that endless fucking patience that could drive him mad.

Lyra just blinked, breathing slow and steady through her nose.

“Spread your legs,” he said and she obediently uncrossed her thighs. “Wider.”

James glanced down between them with a pleased hum, then shoved a hand down his trousers and lifted his cock out.

“Skirts up.”

Lyra kept her eyes on his as she slid her hands up her thighs, bringing the fabric of her dress and apron all the way up her lap. James leaned out slightly to get a better view, forcing back a groan as he gave himself a squeeze and a first few strokes.

She watched him suck his lower lip, then he grit his teeth and the grip on her jaw tightened.