Fic: Soft Grace (1/1)
Title: Soft Grace
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Charlotte/Jacob
Word Count: 556
Summary: She tells him; he already knows. For the prompt “Charlotte/Jacob, cabin in the woods” at thequillstation's Spooky Lost Fic Battle and for the 15pairings Prompt #11 - Lost. General Spoilers Through S5.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: It kind of frightens me, how much I enjoyed writing these two.
Soft Grace
Her hair, like the harvest moon, glows against the withering flames, his fingers soft as they tease the skin at her neck, the first frost before everything dies - murder, like a fine wine, spilling down her shoulders, tracing her vertebrae as she shivers, the warmth of his breath at the base of her spine.
“It’s alright.”
She almost calls him out as a liar, except that she can feel the slow creep in her veins, the marrow of her bones - the echo of a heartbeat that races, that stutters, that stalls; fades into nothing, spills into the inconsequence of ages as the edges blur and she gasps - his hands never leave her, his touch is her constant, her shore.
She doesn’t know what she expected, but it was never the warmth, the strong arms, the steady rush of air through lungs as he draws her into him, etching her immortal against his undying soul. In him, through him - in the soft give of moss and soil, through the taste of blood on her lips, on her tongue, against the floorboards and the splinters at the curve of her hips - she will live forever.
Her breasts heave with a gasp, and his palm shifts just beneath them, cradled into the creme of her skin; he barely traces against her flesh, soft and still and loving, remorseful - his penance and his joy writ gentle, the brush of wings. There are noises beyond - ones that would send her heart racing if it even still mattered - but she focuses instead on the noises within, the sound of his breath and the hiss of his sigh and the way his chest presses into the small of her back, like she’s meant to fit against him just so, unto the coming of the end.
She can’t feel the chill of the wind passing her lips, her is mouth dry and her fingertips numb; she doesn’t know her own pulse anymore, but somehow he feels it still, feels its throb as his thumb caresses her like a goddess, like a treasure lost, yearned for. She releases a shaking breath, and in him, she can feel it.
“You don’t remember your father,” he whispers into her shoulder blades, his voice like a song, a eulogy; “do you?”
Tears spill onto her lashes without warning, and for the very first time, she cries for someone other than herself.
“He stayed behind.” He will forever stay behind.
Her voice moves stark, harsh, like the blade of a knife through the both of them; she has the feeling, however, that he already knows.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Charlotte/Jacob
Word Count: 556
Summary: She tells him; he already knows. For the prompt “Charlotte/Jacob, cabin in the woods” at thequillstation's Spooky Lost Fic Battle and for the 15pairings Prompt #11 - Lost. General Spoilers Through S5.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: It kind of frightens me, how much I enjoyed writing these two.
Soft Grace
Her hair, like the harvest moon, glows against the withering flames, his fingers soft as they tease the skin at her neck, the first frost before everything dies - murder, like a fine wine, spilling down her shoulders, tracing her vertebrae as she shivers, the warmth of his breath at the base of her spine.
“It’s alright.”
She almost calls him out as a liar, except that she can feel the slow creep in her veins, the marrow of her bones - the echo of a heartbeat that races, that stutters, that stalls; fades into nothing, spills into the inconsequence of ages as the edges blur and she gasps - his hands never leave her, his touch is her constant, her shore.
She doesn’t know what she expected, but it was never the warmth, the strong arms, the steady rush of air through lungs as he draws her into him, etching her immortal against his undying soul. In him, through him - in the soft give of moss and soil, through the taste of blood on her lips, on her tongue, against the floorboards and the splinters at the curve of her hips - she will live forever.
Her breasts heave with a gasp, and his palm shifts just beneath them, cradled into the creme of her skin; he barely traces against her flesh, soft and still and loving, remorseful - his penance and his joy writ gentle, the brush of wings. There are noises beyond - ones that would send her heart racing if it even still mattered - but she focuses instead on the noises within, the sound of his breath and the hiss of his sigh and the way his chest presses into the small of her back, like she’s meant to fit against him just so, unto the coming of the end.
She can’t feel the chill of the wind passing her lips, her is mouth dry and her fingertips numb; she doesn’t know her own pulse anymore, but somehow he feels it still, feels its throb as his thumb caresses her like a goddess, like a treasure lost, yearned for. She releases a shaking breath, and in him, she can feel it.
“You don’t remember your father,” he whispers into her shoulder blades, his voice like a song, a eulogy; “do you?”
Tears spill onto her lashes without warning, and for the very first time, she cries for someone other than herself.
“He stayed behind.” He will forever stay behind.
Her voice moves stark, harsh, like the blade of a knife through the both of them; she has the feeling, however, that he already knows.