Brigit's Flame -- "It hurts when I do this"
Prompt: "It hurts when I do this"
Word Count: 232
Warnings: implied sex
Summary: This was a message. I don't know if it went through.
Author's Note: I owe my soul (well, a little more of it) to eltea for helping me edit this one. Thus began the era of crackdown betas and me accordingly having much more faith in my work. Originally here.
IT HURTS WHEN I DO THIS
Absently his fingers navigate the damp labyrinth of tangled hair that spills over the pillow like a disheveled inkblot. He encounters a snag where one curl has become desperately intimate with another and slowly attempts to work it out. She shifts.
Her eyelashes flirt with her cheeks, kissing them lightly as she fights the weight of her eyelids. She’s exhausted almost to the point of slipping into unconsciousness, but she’s still answering him, and he’s not entirely sure why. He’s never in his life been more important than sleep before.
“You know,” he remarks, “they used to think it took a little while off of your life. That you were ‘dying’ in some small way. So a lot of authors of the time made use of that as this tremendous pun. Shakespeare used it a lot in the sonnets.”
“The ones to the patron guy?” she murmurs, the slender shadows of her eyelashes lengthening. “Or the ones to the dark lady?”
If he thinks of dark ladies, he will shatter like sugar glass.
“Both,” he answers, and as he twists his breath to craft the word, he realizes, in what is less an epiphany and more the caboose to a long-trundling train, that he loves her.
It makes his fingers tingle and his heart pound, and those wretched clichés terrify him even more than the understanding that he is in love.
Again.
Word Count: 232
Warnings: implied sex
Summary: This was a message. I don't know if it went through.
Author's Note: I owe my soul (well, a little more of it) to eltea for helping me edit this one. Thus began the era of crackdown betas and me accordingly having much more faith in my work. Originally here.
IT HURTS WHEN I DO THIS
Absently his fingers navigate the damp labyrinth of tangled hair that spills over the pillow like a disheveled inkblot. He encounters a snag where one curl has become desperately intimate with another and slowly attempts to work it out. She shifts.
Her eyelashes flirt with her cheeks, kissing them lightly as she fights the weight of her eyelids. She’s exhausted almost to the point of slipping into unconsciousness, but she’s still answering him, and he’s not entirely sure why. He’s never in his life been more important than sleep before.
“You know,” he remarks, “they used to think it took a little while off of your life. That you were ‘dying’ in some small way. So a lot of authors of the time made use of that as this tremendous pun. Shakespeare used it a lot in the sonnets.”
“The ones to the patron guy?” she murmurs, the slender shadows of her eyelashes lengthening. “Or the ones to the dark lady?”
If he thinks of dark ladies, he will shatter like sugar glass.
“Both,” he answers, and as he twists his breath to craft the word, he realizes, in what is less an epiphany and more the caboose to a long-trundling train, that he loves her.
It makes his fingers tingle and his heart pound, and those wretched clichés terrify him even more than the understanding that he is in love.
Again.