Rating: T for suggestive themes
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen
His dark, dilated pupils swallow you whole and maybe this is wrong but it feels good, addictive and necessary. You've had your taste and it's never going to be enough now, his skin on yours and his soft grunts, his feral smirk and strong arms. He is everything and anything you never dreamed of, the antithesis to your hero but never quite a villain. He's Goya's dark, star-less night against Van Gogh's starry sky. He is everything black to Will's everything light.
And, in the midst of his darkness, there you are.
You are small, insignificant in his grandeur. You are a tiny mob of hair below his chin, a cheek on which he presses his, a neck he nuzzles when sleepy. You don't consider yourself any more than that, and he doesn't tell you to. You have more important things on which to concentrate, too, so it doesn't really bother you as much as it would in another situation. You are happy, and satisfied to have him those few moments a day; it is enough for now.
He's no hero after all, no Will, so you shouldn't even be doing whatever it is you are doing. You feel a little guilty for going behind his back on that, because he's your best friend, your ex-boyfriend, but this… This is private. This is Warren.
This is lustful eyes on swollen lips.
(And, sometimes, his trembling hand on your cheek. His lips soft and hesitant on your forehead, the way he breaths you in like you're oxygen to his flame.
The way he speaks your name, like a reverence, a "Layla": a broken, pious hallelujah.)
A/N: small drabble. Nothing big, just wanted to test out a new writing style, though I probably won't use it consistently, I kind of suck at sticking to only one way of writing.
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