❛ Stay... please. ❜
“ these violent delights have violent ends. & in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness.”
SHE’D LOATHED HIM at first glance. He was nothing but a vile man, someone to brush off just as she’d been brushing off everyone else she came across. He was nothing special, nothing of an exception, nothing to take a second look at. But he PUSHED her. Deities of her realm, did he push her. Unlike others, he didn’t back from her bladed tongue — if anything, he was one to hone it.
He was just as sharp with her as she was with him, and perhaps that was her draw. She liked what wasn’t good for her. And perhaps he did too. For as the thunder rumbles softly outside, as the rain splatters against the window…she thinks of how they’d even come to be. She and he, from different worlds, different BEINGS entirely. They were ever meant to meet, in all actuality, in all common sense. But they HAD. Several times over.
That had to be something of fate, didn’t it? …Fate. Where he certainly wasn’t Heaven-sent, maybe he WAS something of a fallen angel, something of a flare for death and destruction, someone God hadn’t wanted, but someone with enough wit and vigor to pass as something close to a deity. ( oh, don’t be foolish. you’re getting ahead of yourself now, can’t you tell? ) But her mind can wander — just as her fingertips follow the curve of his jaw, the gentle slope of his neck to his collarbone, the soft dip of skin over bone and muscle. Bone and muscle she had healed, bone and muscle that had been struck, beaten, bloody, bruised. He’d been through so much….they BOTH had. Together, at that. It wasn’t just in solitude that they’d earned the scars they both harbored now. She, the one along her stomach, jagged and deep, and he, the large slash along his abdomen, curving his hip and thigh.
She’d thought that arrogance would have gotten him killed any other time. (It almost had.) Several times over, as a matter of fact. They’d both lost each other more than once, and in different ways. Fingers tighten in the sheets, find themselves clinging vice-like enough to prove knuckles white. She’s not going to lose him again. Not now. Not AGAIN. And he seems to find the same discomfort, somewhere, lost in a dream before he wakes. Fingertips find hers, and had she not been accustomed to his warmer-than average temperature, she’d have gasped. He’s always been warm to her. And he tells her to stay.
………and she breaks.
Breaks because NOT staying is all she’s ever known, really — to leave, to vanish, to become something of a ghost. She was the wanderer, the hurricane, the one to deem everything upturned and distorted only to leave with the mess in its wake. She didn’t know how to stay. She didn’t know what THAT felt like. They’d told each other to stay so many times….
But here….she knows she needs him, needs SOMETHING like him in order to find a wisp of air from beneath the water’s surface. She’s been drowning for so long that resurfacing — that CLINGING to something (someone) feels like she’s being pulled under all over again. But she needs this. She needs this.
A kiss to his knuckles, eyes holding his in terrified affirmation.
❛ I’m not going anywhere. ❜
[ send ‘stay…please.’ and my muse will react to yours saying this after they had woken from a terrible nightmare. NO LONGER accepting. ]
