in the most peculiar way (margaret/richard, r)
in the most peculiar way
margaret/richard, r
It is the early afternoon and the sheets stick to them like a second skin.
She runs a slender finger through his hair, gently tracing the hairline and brushing back any loose strands. He can smell the lingering scent of perfume on her wrist, worn for a man who isn’t him. The pads of her fingertips press into his collarbone and move up, tracing the smooth curvature of the scar on his throat and he sucks in his breath, holds it -- and releases as her hand slips down underneath the covers.
Open-mouthed, their lips touch, though it’s not quite a kiss -- if anything, it’s just an excuse to feel, to touch, take in what they can while it’s still there. When her hips dig into his, she directs him, painting a picture when she herself is no artist. It has taken her awhile to realize what she wants -- every man she’s shared a bed with has only been concerned with what he could get out of her -- but not him. He learns her spots, her quirks, every little motion that gives off the very hint of a smile.
He’s seen her in her darkest moments -- manipulated, used, beaten down, and he swears (he swears -- his grip around her waist tightens) he would be different. He is second best, he knows it, but she takes the time to memorize his scars and what they mean, and that has to count for something.
Fingers tangled around his dog tags, she whispers, “He’s going to be home soon,” but he says nothing. The mangled part of his face rests on her abdomen -- she doesn’t mind (she never does) -- and his breathing subsides for a brief moment as he falls slips into the in-between of whatever they are and reality.
And for a while, they remain like this, a surreal construct that is both terrifying and familiar.
margaret/richard, r
It is the early afternoon and the sheets stick to them like a second skin.
She runs a slender finger through his hair, gently tracing the hairline and brushing back any loose strands. He can smell the lingering scent of perfume on her wrist, worn for a man who isn’t him. The pads of her fingertips press into his collarbone and move up, tracing the smooth curvature of the scar on his throat and he sucks in his breath, holds it -- and releases as her hand slips down underneath the covers.
Open-mouthed, their lips touch, though it’s not quite a kiss -- if anything, it’s just an excuse to feel, to touch, take in what they can while it’s still there. When her hips dig into his, she directs him, painting a picture when she herself is no artist. It has taken her awhile to realize what she wants -- every man she’s shared a bed with has only been concerned with what he could get out of her -- but not him. He learns her spots, her quirks, every little motion that gives off the very hint of a smile.
He’s seen her in her darkest moments -- manipulated, used, beaten down, and he swears (he swears -- his grip around her waist tightens) he would be different. He is second best, he knows it, but she takes the time to memorize his scars and what they mean, and that has to count for something.
Fingers tangled around his dog tags, she whispers, “He’s going to be home soon,” but he says nothing. The mangled part of his face rests on her abdomen -- she doesn’t mind (she never does) -- and his breathing subsides for a brief moment as he falls slips into the in-between of whatever they are and reality.
And for a while, they remain like this, a surreal construct that is both terrifying and familiar.