A/N: I've figured out the differences between my stories and yours; yours follow a plot. Mine are sorta just jumbled thoughts xD I do hope you like it anyway! I wasn't entirely sure of this one ;w; You're stories are just so... Gaaaaah... I'm failing you! *sobs*

So, I'm keeping you with me

pretty, and chaste

under lock, and key

until the snow melts at last

She thinks this is fine—this hunger, this yellow inking in her eyes, these tears on her skin. It makes her feel wanted, needed, and just for a moment, she feels worthy. Under her scrutinizing gaze, her searching hands, her warm breath slowly mingling, melting with hers; chilling, and heating up her core all at once.

She is fragile, and pale; black tresses spill down her waist, and across her shoulders; her tongue flicks out to lick red stained lips; her bones protrude, and stick out underneath fabric, and lace—there are some things she can't hide. But in this light, her paper thin skin seems to glow. Cast beneath this artificial sky. Every cut magnified. Blossoms of black, and purple make patterns on her hips. Bloody notes she's written her.

They're beautiful.

She remembers the burning taste inside her mouth, the air dissolving around them, the lingering smell of rust amongst the fog, and red, and curtains of her castle. Cheap perfume, and hushed words; nails rake down her back, drawing more. More red. More love. She's feeling breathless. Lips brush over her collarbone; hands trail up her sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She tells her she looks good in red, tucks some hair behind her ear. The corner of her lips upturn in a smile. She had such a pretty smile.

Makes me feel safe.

So, she lets her do what she wants. Her body is her instrument for play. To bend to what she wants; to paint until she is covered in her own crimson. To kiss, and hold. To steal her breath; fix the broken mess she's made.

She wonders if forever feels this way.

Their torsos are one; her heart beats against her chest as they kiss. She's writing her name across her skin, marking what is rightfully hers. She needed her. She depended on her; no one else could see her the way she did; no one else understood her the way she did.

She was so good for her. She was perfect for her. Pressing her fingers against her; watching her squirm, and thrash, and whine.

Her body reacts automatically—hips raise to meet hers, moans bubble up her throat, hands tangle in her hair, her lips whisper her name, "Chie." Such a pretty sound.

Broken was a beautiful sound.

"You're mine," Husky, raw, her voice washed over her. She shivers in delight, her body aching.

"Forever," She finished, pulling her down for more.