12-06-2021, 03:08 AM
Este
She is unable to keep herself from looking back at him, even though she is sure it will hurt. She watches him carefully now, perhaps a little too carefully. Her eyes, dark and poignant, are still searching him for the things she thinks he would rather keep hidden from her. The way he likely wants to fall apart at the news; that he might want to push her away, to retreat back into his dark and his stars to grieve for the angel he had loved and not have to deal with the broken angel standing before him. Light starts to sing beneath her skin, a soft glow that doesn’t quite permeate beyond the dove-gray and rose-gold; a defense, as if she is preparing to lock him out before he can do it to her.
She can hear the tightness in his voice—can nearly feel it herself, as if the grief is taking up space in her own throat. He asks her what happened, and she is about to find a response when the words are stolen from her entirely at the way he pulls her into him.
There is a moment where she thinks of resisting.
Where her muscles grow tense because she is afraid he is using her as something to bury his own sorrow into, and she is not sure if her heart has the strength to bear the brunt of both their grief.
And she hates herself the most in that moment, for thinking she does not want to comfort someone else over the loss of her mother—that she must secretly be a selfish, wretched thing to even consider being jealous that this man, who had known her mother long before he ever met her, would of course be shocked and upset to hear that she had died.
But that moment is just that—a moment, a half a heartbeat, a hardly formed thought. Because the weight of him against her doesn’t feel like the anchor she had been expecting and is instead the lifeline that keeps her from drowning.
She lets herself be enveloped by him, finds herself breathing a sigh of relief into the stardust of his neck, and the rose-gold glow ebbs away until it is only dark and him. “Someone killed her,” she manages to whisper, finding it easier to say the words with her head pressed into his chest, and in the back of her mind she wonders if his heart is made up of stardust too. “They ripped her heart out and just….left her there.”
Her skin trembles where his lips touch her, an involuntary response that she cannot control and one that she does not even care anymore if he notices. “I don’t know,” she tells him, quiet and despondent. There is nothing that he could do, no way that he could reverse or rectify the situation, and she already knows that. She lifts her head, and first she brushes her lips against the nape of his neck, before withdrawing just enough to find his golden eyes, her own brimming with a silent plea when she asks, “Stay with me. For tonight. I don’t want you to leave.”
She can hear the tightness in his voice—can nearly feel it herself, as if the grief is taking up space in her own throat. He asks her what happened, and she is about to find a response when the words are stolen from her entirely at the way he pulls her into him.
There is a moment where she thinks of resisting.
Where her muscles grow tense because she is afraid he is using her as something to bury his own sorrow into, and she is not sure if her heart has the strength to bear the brunt of both their grief.
And she hates herself the most in that moment, for thinking she does not want to comfort someone else over the loss of her mother—that she must secretly be a selfish, wretched thing to even consider being jealous that this man, who had known her mother long before he ever met her, would of course be shocked and upset to hear that she had died.
But that moment is just that—a moment, a half a heartbeat, a hardly formed thought. Because the weight of him against her doesn’t feel like the anchor she had been expecting and is instead the lifeline that keeps her from drowning.
She lets herself be enveloped by him, finds herself breathing a sigh of relief into the stardust of his neck, and the rose-gold glow ebbs away until it is only dark and him. “Someone killed her,” she manages to whisper, finding it easier to say the words with her head pressed into his chest, and in the back of her mind she wonders if his heart is made up of stardust too. “They ripped her heart out and just….left her there.”
Her skin trembles where his lips touch her, an involuntary response that she cannot control and one that she does not even care anymore if he notices. “I don’t know,” she tells him, quiet and despondent. There is nothing that he could do, no way that he could reverse or rectify the situation, and she already knows that. She lifts her head, and first she brushes her lips against the nape of his neck, before withdrawing just enough to find his golden eyes, her own brimming with a silent plea when she asks, “Stay with me. For tonight. I don’t want you to leave.”
YOU'VE GOT YOUR DEMONS AND DARLING THEY ALL LOOK LIKE ME
@Illum