A/N: Good morning children. I did try and make the story description as clear as possible, but just in case; yes, this fic contains blood and violence of a sexual nature. This is something I've wanted to do for a long while now, but am aware that a lot of readers for my longer fics may not want this kind of subject matter introduced in those stories as it isn't to their taste and wasn't what they signed up for. So, this may seem a little different from my usual writing, but I hope some of you like it as it's been eating away at me for a long long long time now :)
Oh, and it may not seem like it right now, but yes, this is Swan Queen.
I've uploaded this first part as a prologue/ teaser as I typed it up on my phone and that's the easiest for me, but the chapters will be longer, and you'll get one tonight :)
Enjoy! And please review!
Scarlet painted fingers clutch needfully at blood red leather; roaming and exploring the chilled, unyielding fabric, before slipping deftly into the warmth promised beneath.
A paper white dove reciprocates; playing distractedly through the coarse fur lining of a crimson hood, only to journey north to get lost within thick waves of dye-streaked chocolate that look almost black with night.
All further movements are harried- desperate- and both women will discover a fair litter of bruises come morning, as each seems set on having her way with the other.
The slight clumsiness that taints their rapidly heating display speaks of liquor, and, when the blonde hooks an arm around the younger woman's neck as the latter turns them fully to back her up against the wall, an amber glass bottle dangles perilously from between slim fingers.
A slow trail of a pointed tongue down pallid flesh and the bottle falls; shattering into a glittering pattern of cruel shards.
A hand dips into a fur lined pocket- unmindful of the damage-and retrieves a gleam of silver that catches the glow of the streetlights maddeningly.
Finding the slot she seeks by touch and memory of her time spent boarding above the Diner alone, the Sheriff fumbles the keys into the lock and twists; never once breaking contact with the woman that lavishes her lips with her own while skilled fingers offer up sweet attention elsewhere.
Finally achieving success, the heavy door of the old building swings softly open; swallowing blonde and brunette into darkness.
The scattered remains of the forgotten bottle tremble just once as peeling paint comes once more to a close.
Across the street, full lips form a thin line.
The sharp clicks of black stilettos on rain washed tarmac resonate like gunshots, disappearing into the distance.
And then all is still.