02-03-2017, 11:11 PM
She is delirious with the closeness, drunk with his nose against her neck, his lips teasing the corn-silk wisps of an impossibly soft mane. There is a sound on her lips, a hum, a whimper, not quite his name – though she had intended it to be, and it seems effortless the way he coaxes it from the pit of her belly. His eyes close when her lips settle against his cheek, and she is struck at once by the way it changes him, the way it softens his face from marble to pine. “Stillwater.” She whispers again, breathes his name, reaches up to push his forelock aside and leave a quiet kiss on the smooth of his forehead.
She is not unraveling like he is, not coming undone seam by seam. Not struggling to pull herself together, to resist the desires that press her so close against him. She has already given in. Already undone. Already unraveled, for him. Maybe it is her youth that makes it so easy to do, her innocence, and the way her heart thrums like bird-wings in her chest when he smiles with her name on his lips. But she is his, her heart halved and buried inside his chest. She won’t tell him though, will not place that burden on his shoulders, that weight on his bones. She is his, and it is enough that she knows it.
She is not above secrets.
He touches her cheek and lifts her chin with his nose so that she is forced to look at him, forced to fall back into those eyes – though she jumps willingly. I already do. He says in a voice like velvet, and she can feel her chest implode, feel her lungs in her mouth. I am already missing you. Her only answer is in the silk kisses she presses against the side of his mouth, the kisses that drift up along his jaw to his cheek and land in the soft hollow beneath his ear. In that instant she could tell him, could whisper a promise into the curve of his ear with as little effort as breathing, don’t worry, I’m yours, but she cannot and she must not, so instead with gentle teeth she tugs at the supple skin near the base of his ear. “I’ll be back, Stillwater,” and those gentle teeth drift up along the thin leather of his dark ear. “You can miss me,” she says, she smiles, she drops her lips to his throat again, “but never worry that I won’t return.”
He stiffens though, from pine back to marble, a body like as sleek as stone, as smooth and dark as gleaming obsidian. When he turns from her she is confused, and those solemn eyes disappear beneath the furrow of a brow and the dark fringe of tangle forelock. When he rises, she is crushed. The sudden cold is so jarring, his absence as sharp as glass, and for a moment she struggles to rise, too, eager to bury herself deeper in the shadow of the cave where he cannot see her and she cannot see the distaste that must but etched into his face. But she is so tired, all used up, and those legs crumple beneath her before she is even off the ground. She whimpers, just once, so soft, so quiet, and turns the flushing heat of her face away from him.
But then there is a moment of silence, a moment where she does not hear the tap of his hooves, and it is wholly reflexive when she turns to find him in the dark with bruises for eyes and a chest filled with glass. Before she can even remember how to breathe, he is back and sinking to her side, crushing her against him and she is like water flowing in and against every hollow she can find. His lips find her skin, her neck, her throat, her face, and they are so much hungrier than before, so desperate and in a way she thinks she can understand.
It aches to be so close to him.
It aches worse when he is gone.
He moans then, a quiet sound, a new sound, and it turns her blood to starlight in her veins, cool and silver and spilling over. Luster, and she is all of the stars in the lonely distance, aching and bright and burning silver just for him. His teeth find her skin, tug careful and urgent against the blue until she is cradled into his neck and breathless, wide-eyed and undone. “Stillwater-” she says and her small voice is a whimper of desire, of longing tethered somewhere deep in her belly. But his sides heave and his heart thunders and it is enough to shatter her, turn her to dust and loose her to the wind, but instead she pushes hard against him, forcing his nose from her skin so that he can see her face again. “Don’t do that,” she says, she gasps, she fingers the edges of a heart ready to break, “don’t leave me like that.” But it sounds different aloud, so ugly, so demanding, and she is filled instantly with a regret that burns holes in her belly.
She tries to breathe again but her lungs feel ragged and her breath finds her in uneven spurts. “I-“ but there are no words left, nothing that will mean anything, and so for a moment she just buries her face against his neck, willing more kisses and more nips from that dark, dangerous mouth. When he speaks, she can feel the rumble of his voice through the muscle and sinew of his neck, come back to me, Luster, and she inhales raggedly against his skin.
But she remembers the sudden rush for the mouth of the cave, the tension in his body when he curled around her, the unfinished sentences left hanging and lost. And this time when she lifts her face from his neck, her eyes to his, she is confused and solemn and so resolute that it crushes her. “You don’t really have to stay here with me tonight, Stillwater.” Her chest aches and her eyes flash with those bruises again, but she is struggling to put the pieces together, remembering how he had first offered to stay outside and conceded only after she had willed him to her side. Remembering the kisses, too, and she cannot understand. But she thinks she might be starting to. Then, whispering, “you don’t owe me this.” It is made obvious in the way she strokes her nose across his neck, in the last few selfish kisses she presses to his face, his cheek, his jaw, his mouth, that she is not forcing him away. She is struggling to understand how the tension fits beside the kisses, how his leaving fits with the urgent way he had curled around her. Coming to the conclusion that she is why, though she has completely misjudged the reason. With an ache in that small blue chest, she closes her eyes and presses her forehead to his dark neck, “I didn’t mean to trap you here with me,” a sad smile, a tremulous sigh, “go, if you need to.”
She is not unraveling like he is, not coming undone seam by seam. Not struggling to pull herself together, to resist the desires that press her so close against him. She has already given in. Already undone. Already unraveled, for him. Maybe it is her youth that makes it so easy to do, her innocence, and the way her heart thrums like bird-wings in her chest when he smiles with her name on his lips. But she is his, her heart halved and buried inside his chest. She won’t tell him though, will not place that burden on his shoulders, that weight on his bones. She is his, and it is enough that she knows it.
She is not above secrets.
He touches her cheek and lifts her chin with his nose so that she is forced to look at him, forced to fall back into those eyes – though she jumps willingly. I already do. He says in a voice like velvet, and she can feel her chest implode, feel her lungs in her mouth. I am already missing you. Her only answer is in the silk kisses she presses against the side of his mouth, the kisses that drift up along his jaw to his cheek and land in the soft hollow beneath his ear. In that instant she could tell him, could whisper a promise into the curve of his ear with as little effort as breathing, don’t worry, I’m yours, but she cannot and she must not, so instead with gentle teeth she tugs at the supple skin near the base of his ear. “I’ll be back, Stillwater,” and those gentle teeth drift up along the thin leather of his dark ear. “You can miss me,” she says, she smiles, she drops her lips to his throat again, “but never worry that I won’t return.”
He stiffens though, from pine back to marble, a body like as sleek as stone, as smooth and dark as gleaming obsidian. When he turns from her she is confused, and those solemn eyes disappear beneath the furrow of a brow and the dark fringe of tangle forelock. When he rises, she is crushed. The sudden cold is so jarring, his absence as sharp as glass, and for a moment she struggles to rise, too, eager to bury herself deeper in the shadow of the cave where he cannot see her and she cannot see the distaste that must but etched into his face. But she is so tired, all used up, and those legs crumple beneath her before she is even off the ground. She whimpers, just once, so soft, so quiet, and turns the flushing heat of her face away from him.
But then there is a moment of silence, a moment where she does not hear the tap of his hooves, and it is wholly reflexive when she turns to find him in the dark with bruises for eyes and a chest filled with glass. Before she can even remember how to breathe, he is back and sinking to her side, crushing her against him and she is like water flowing in and against every hollow she can find. His lips find her skin, her neck, her throat, her face, and they are so much hungrier than before, so desperate and in a way she thinks she can understand.
It aches to be so close to him.
It aches worse when he is gone.
He moans then, a quiet sound, a new sound, and it turns her blood to starlight in her veins, cool and silver and spilling over. Luster, and she is all of the stars in the lonely distance, aching and bright and burning silver just for him. His teeth find her skin, tug careful and urgent against the blue until she is cradled into his neck and breathless, wide-eyed and undone. “Stillwater-” she says and her small voice is a whimper of desire, of longing tethered somewhere deep in her belly. But his sides heave and his heart thunders and it is enough to shatter her, turn her to dust and loose her to the wind, but instead she pushes hard against him, forcing his nose from her skin so that he can see her face again. “Don’t do that,” she says, she gasps, she fingers the edges of a heart ready to break, “don’t leave me like that.” But it sounds different aloud, so ugly, so demanding, and she is filled instantly with a regret that burns holes in her belly.
She tries to breathe again but her lungs feel ragged and her breath finds her in uneven spurts. “I-“ but there are no words left, nothing that will mean anything, and so for a moment she just buries her face against his neck, willing more kisses and more nips from that dark, dangerous mouth. When he speaks, she can feel the rumble of his voice through the muscle and sinew of his neck, come back to me, Luster, and she inhales raggedly against his skin.
But she remembers the sudden rush for the mouth of the cave, the tension in his body when he curled around her, the unfinished sentences left hanging and lost. And this time when she lifts her face from his neck, her eyes to his, she is confused and solemn and so resolute that it crushes her. “You don’t really have to stay here with me tonight, Stillwater.” Her chest aches and her eyes flash with those bruises again, but she is struggling to put the pieces together, remembering how he had first offered to stay outside and conceded only after she had willed him to her side. Remembering the kisses, too, and she cannot understand. But she thinks she might be starting to. Then, whispering, “you don’t owe me this.” It is made obvious in the way she strokes her nose across his neck, in the last few selfish kisses she presses to his face, his cheek, his jaw, his mouth, that she is not forcing him away. She is struggling to understand how the tension fits beside the kisses, how his leaving fits with the urgent way he had curled around her. Coming to the conclusion that she is why, though she has completely misjudged the reason. With an ache in that small blue chest, she closes her eyes and presses her forehead to his dark neck, “I didn’t mean to trap you here with me,” a sad smile, a tremulous sigh, “go, if you need to.”