Post by Incapability on Jun 17, 2007 20:46:16 GMT 9.5
There you have it. Constant prodding, hinting and nagging in combination with abominable weather and work-avoidance has led to a creative blast as I haven't had it in weeks. Well, you asked for it, you suffer the consequences.
I'm not all that fond of it, but I'll wait for what you have to say about it.
******************
Every night, she is his’.
Every night, he gets to look into her eyes, into those eyes that can kill a man with a single blink, and no one is there to disturb them.
He gets to run his hands through that silky black hair, and he gets to marvel at its softness, at the way it flows through his hands like spider’s webs.
His fingers get to graze that moonlight skin, and he can feel her shudder beneath his touch.
He wanders up that slender throat, each moment worshipping the gentle curve. He moves on to her chin, to her fragile cheekbones, and like every night, he thinks that he could crush her with a single hand. How could that delicate skin, those air-light bones, ever resist the brutal strength she has given him?
And every night, when he thinks this, he bends forward and breathes a kiss against her chin. Her soft sigh is enough to drive any man into madness, and it takes all the strength he can muster not to devour her at that very moment.
He takes her hand and covers it with fervent kisses, the way he has seen that blonde git do it to his mother, remembering how she always breaks into that radiant smile she reserves for this kind of worship alone.
With one last kiss, he breathes his soul onto her hand, and when he looks up her face is not flushed, her eyes are not closed.
Somehow, he is relieved to see it. How could anything his mother enjoys ever be good enough for her? He is glad that she does not want his soul, though he would gladly rip it to pieces at a blink of her eyes. A need for anything that he could give her would only make her usual, and to prevent that, he will gladly suffer unfulfilled passion for the rest of his life.
He does not want a woman that he can hold in his arms. Women grow old and fat and ugly.
He wants a Goddess that he can worship, a Goddess that will stroke his hair one day, and tell him that he is her favourite, and that will show him his own imperfection the next second.
He wants to close his eyes, just like now, and feel her fingers run over his face ever so lightly, leaving a trace so light that he wonders whether they were actually ever there.
He wants his breath to hitch when she is leaning forward and brushes his lips with her own, and he does not want these lips to feel warm and soft. He wants them to be made of ice, because his skin is on fire, and he could not stand anything else.
He wants her to touch him, and he wants her eyes to hold that scornful spark beneath the passion.
But most of all, he wants her to find her way out of his dreams and make him hers.
Every night.
I'm not all that fond of it, but I'll wait for what you have to say about it.
******************
Every night, she is his’.
Every night, he gets to look into her eyes, into those eyes that can kill a man with a single blink, and no one is there to disturb them.
He gets to run his hands through that silky black hair, and he gets to marvel at its softness, at the way it flows through his hands like spider’s webs.
His fingers get to graze that moonlight skin, and he can feel her shudder beneath his touch.
He wanders up that slender throat, each moment worshipping the gentle curve. He moves on to her chin, to her fragile cheekbones, and like every night, he thinks that he could crush her with a single hand. How could that delicate skin, those air-light bones, ever resist the brutal strength she has given him?
And every night, when he thinks this, he bends forward and breathes a kiss against her chin. Her soft sigh is enough to drive any man into madness, and it takes all the strength he can muster not to devour her at that very moment.
He takes her hand and covers it with fervent kisses, the way he has seen that blonde git do it to his mother, remembering how she always breaks into that radiant smile she reserves for this kind of worship alone.
With one last kiss, he breathes his soul onto her hand, and when he looks up her face is not flushed, her eyes are not closed.
Somehow, he is relieved to see it. How could anything his mother enjoys ever be good enough for her? He is glad that she does not want his soul, though he would gladly rip it to pieces at a blink of her eyes. A need for anything that he could give her would only make her usual, and to prevent that, he will gladly suffer unfulfilled passion for the rest of his life.
He does not want a woman that he can hold in his arms. Women grow old and fat and ugly.
He wants a Goddess that he can worship, a Goddess that will stroke his hair one day, and tell him that he is her favourite, and that will show him his own imperfection the next second.
He wants to close his eyes, just like now, and feel her fingers run over his face ever so lightly, leaving a trace so light that he wonders whether they were actually ever there.
He wants his breath to hitch when she is leaning forward and brushes his lips with her own, and he does not want these lips to feel warm and soft. He wants them to be made of ice, because his skin is on fire, and he could not stand anything else.
He wants her to touch him, and he wants her eyes to hold that scornful spark beneath the passion.
But most of all, he wants her to find her way out of his dreams and make him hers.
Every night.
This was wonderful!
