02-02-2017, 09:39 PM
She is at home in the curve of his dark body, content against the heat of his skin and beside the ripple of hard muscle. In the dark, with her face tucked against the warmth of his arching neck, she cannot see the way his eyes darken and gleam, the way his face becomes harsh and predatorial with a beautiful kind of hunger. She does not understand the war that rages inside him, the resentment that burns at her, and at himself. It is too easy to instead be wrapped up in the way that he holds her, in the way that his scent covers her like starlight – like warm sand and lake-water, cleaner than cold air.
But she does notice the change in him when she touches her lips to his jaw, pale pink against smooth black, and both of them tremble just a little. “Stillwater,” she hums against him, presses quiet longing in the shape of kisses along the hard line of his jaw, smiling softly when he asks her to say his name again. But his lips find her temple before she can, that soft hollow beside her eye, and trail slow kisses along her jaw until she is delirious with the closeness. He is like the sun, bright and hot and consuming, and she is deep oceans, and she cannot understand why she hasn’t evaporated yet.
“See,” she says when his lips disappear from her face, when her skin cools and flushes and she can remember herself again, “see how that isn’t fair?” But she is glad that his name on her lips affects him at least a fraction of the way it had affected her, that she had managed to steal kisses from this stranger with the dark, quiet face. She is still breathless when she pushes her nose against his neck, lingering so close to the soft curve of his throat, still tremulous with the kisses he had left like brands again the oceanic blue of her skin. “Stillwater.” She says again, she hums again, but it is different this time. There is still that urgency, that poorly concealed longing that flashes in echoes at the back of her eyes every time she looks at him, but there is something more, too. More than the unabashed affection she had traced in kisses against his neck, more than the stars she had thrown into a dark sky for him. “Stillwater." She whispers again, pulling back slightly, and it is a promise, possessive and trusting, her heart dropped into his chest.
His nose, his mouth, his lips drop slowly to the place where her skin aches, to the gash in supple flesh that had surrendered too easily, too willingly to the sharp edge of a stone. She is immobile, trusting and too tired to move away from breath that clouds like heat over skin that already burns fever-bright. He is still for so long, waiting through so many beats of her racing heart, and she can feel him stiffening beside her. She shifts and traces her lips uncertainly across the gleaming black, confused to find that every muscle and inch of flesh is as hard and unyielding as the stone beneath them. She is about to ask why when he pulls away, when he answers an earlier question that she had posed in bashful glances and tentative touches to the curve of his neck.
Luster, he says and she lifts her face to him, those dark eyes quiet and solemn and soft for him, go home to your family. It doesn’t matter that this was always the plan, that this was what she had told him, it still hurts to hear it aloud, to hear it from his lips and dark voice. Not even his lips parted against her jaw, the sweetness of breath like sunshine, warm and hungry pressed to her skin is enough to ease the ache, the weight, this awful, crushing pressure in her chest. She laughs – it is almost a laugh if it were not so sad and sweet and carved through with loneliness. “How,” she says, and her voice is softer than a breath, softer than rain when it falls to the earth, “how do I leave this.” A pause and she drops her head across his legs, solemn and soft and refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see the regret etched so deeply into the curves and hollows of such a beautiful blue face, “How do I leave you.”
She sighs and it is the sound of autumn, of leaves crumpled and dry and bent beneath the wind, of things beautiful and desolate, lonely. “That is a lot of maybes.” She says at last, lifting her head back up to where she can find his eyes in the dark. “But one of those maybes is wrong.” Her lips are gentle and imploring, less urgent and more reserved when they move to trace the lines of his face, when they bury kisses in the deepest hollows and a soft smile against his cheek. He is like a shooting star, brief and temporary, and she is desperate to memorize him. “I’m greedy,” she tells him quietly, paints the promise against his skin with that fragile, uncertain smile, “I will come back to you.”
For you.
Always.
There is an ache in her chest putting words in her mouth that feel sharp and unfamiliar, like broken glass from the windows of her eyes. Wait for me. It wants her to say, wants her to etch into his gleaming skin with the soft of her pale, whiskered lips. But it is too greedy even for her, even for the blue girl curled within the curve of his body, the blue girl who stole kisses from dark lips and perhaps, just perhaps, a sliver of the heart beating inside his chest if only until morning. Then, quietly, with her small face upturned to catch his bright and his heat, she says instead, “Will you worry?” A beat and she clarifies, nosing at his mane unhappily. “Will you worry about me when I’m gone?”
She sighs again, the sound of broken glass, and presses so close, so urgently to his side, her face to his neck, and it is impossible to tell where blue ends and black begins. They are like deepwater, like his lake, or an ocean. Unending. She closes her eyes to the dark, buries her sadness in his neck, and promises, “I will worry about you, Stillwater.”
But she does notice the change in him when she touches her lips to his jaw, pale pink against smooth black, and both of them tremble just a little. “Stillwater,” she hums against him, presses quiet longing in the shape of kisses along the hard line of his jaw, smiling softly when he asks her to say his name again. But his lips find her temple before she can, that soft hollow beside her eye, and trail slow kisses along her jaw until she is delirious with the closeness. He is like the sun, bright and hot and consuming, and she is deep oceans, and she cannot understand why she hasn’t evaporated yet.
“See,” she says when his lips disappear from her face, when her skin cools and flushes and she can remember herself again, “see how that isn’t fair?” But she is glad that his name on her lips affects him at least a fraction of the way it had affected her, that she had managed to steal kisses from this stranger with the dark, quiet face. She is still breathless when she pushes her nose against his neck, lingering so close to the soft curve of his throat, still tremulous with the kisses he had left like brands again the oceanic blue of her skin. “Stillwater.” She says again, she hums again, but it is different this time. There is still that urgency, that poorly concealed longing that flashes in echoes at the back of her eyes every time she looks at him, but there is something more, too. More than the unabashed affection she had traced in kisses against his neck, more than the stars she had thrown into a dark sky for him. “Stillwater." She whispers again, pulling back slightly, and it is a promise, possessive and trusting, her heart dropped into his chest.
His nose, his mouth, his lips drop slowly to the place where her skin aches, to the gash in supple flesh that had surrendered too easily, too willingly to the sharp edge of a stone. She is immobile, trusting and too tired to move away from breath that clouds like heat over skin that already burns fever-bright. He is still for so long, waiting through so many beats of her racing heart, and she can feel him stiffening beside her. She shifts and traces her lips uncertainly across the gleaming black, confused to find that every muscle and inch of flesh is as hard and unyielding as the stone beneath them. She is about to ask why when he pulls away, when he answers an earlier question that she had posed in bashful glances and tentative touches to the curve of his neck.
Luster, he says and she lifts her face to him, those dark eyes quiet and solemn and soft for him, go home to your family. It doesn’t matter that this was always the plan, that this was what she had told him, it still hurts to hear it aloud, to hear it from his lips and dark voice. Not even his lips parted against her jaw, the sweetness of breath like sunshine, warm and hungry pressed to her skin is enough to ease the ache, the weight, this awful, crushing pressure in her chest. She laughs – it is almost a laugh if it were not so sad and sweet and carved through with loneliness. “How,” she says, and her voice is softer than a breath, softer than rain when it falls to the earth, “how do I leave this.” A pause and she drops her head across his legs, solemn and soft and refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see the regret etched so deeply into the curves and hollows of such a beautiful blue face, “How do I leave you.”
She sighs and it is the sound of autumn, of leaves crumpled and dry and bent beneath the wind, of things beautiful and desolate, lonely. “That is a lot of maybes.” She says at last, lifting her head back up to where she can find his eyes in the dark. “But one of those maybes is wrong.” Her lips are gentle and imploring, less urgent and more reserved when they move to trace the lines of his face, when they bury kisses in the deepest hollows and a soft smile against his cheek. He is like a shooting star, brief and temporary, and she is desperate to memorize him. “I’m greedy,” she tells him quietly, paints the promise against his skin with that fragile, uncertain smile, “I will come back to you.”
For you.
Always.
There is an ache in her chest putting words in her mouth that feel sharp and unfamiliar, like broken glass from the windows of her eyes. Wait for me. It wants her to say, wants her to etch into his gleaming skin with the soft of her pale, whiskered lips. But it is too greedy even for her, even for the blue girl curled within the curve of his body, the blue girl who stole kisses from dark lips and perhaps, just perhaps, a sliver of the heart beating inside his chest if only until morning. Then, quietly, with her small face upturned to catch his bright and his heat, she says instead, “Will you worry?” A beat and she clarifies, nosing at his mane unhappily. “Will you worry about me when I’m gone?”
She sighs again, the sound of broken glass, and presses so close, so urgently to his side, her face to his neck, and it is impossible to tell where blue ends and black begins. They are like deepwater, like his lake, or an ocean. Unending. She closes her eyes to the dark, buries her sadness in his neck, and promises, “I will worry about you, Stillwater.”