Of course it doesn't fix anything, because the sort of world where all misfortunes are set to rights with a kiss is the stuff of fantasy and fairy tales, the ones people tell themselves when they're desperate to believe that it doesn't take determination and effort to surmount circumstances so broken. But what it does do is unlock a door, and one that he's been biding his time to see if she would open — the one where she moves first, the one where she throws her gauntlet, because whatever it is that might come of this now, she's as complicit in it as he is.
And that — means something. However nuanced, however hairsplitting, it means something that she kissed him first. That she came to him on her own, without being dragged or coerced or trading compliance for the sake of some benefit in return. It means something because he could have done any of those things without a moment's hesitation, if it suited him, and it suited him to do this instead.]
Of course not —
[— but something ignites when her mouth presses against his, like glowing embers abruptly fanned into a blaze by a timely breath of wind. And he's kissed enough people before to know that kissing isn't supposed to feel this intense, like every cell of his body is saturated with his desire to prolong it, but even the nagging feeling that something about this isn't quite right isn't enough to draw his thoughts away from the compulsion right in front of him.
Now his hands move with more purpose; the one that had been teasing just beneath the hem of her shirt pushes up beneath it with confidence, finding the ridge of her spine and following it upward while the other comes up to rake through her hair. It's a relief that she'd moved herself closer because it's easier to have her sat high on his thighs rather than pinning his legs at the knees; it feels better, too, when the beginnings of arousal start to stir and her weight is well-situated to afford him a little friction from it. He sweeps his tongue along her lower lip, wanting it messy and imperfect and raw because it's liberating to not have to think so much, to let the odd burning in his blood do the dictating for a little while.
When he does drag himself away, it's only long enough to look at her before he pulls her back down and starts the process of not fixing anything all over again.]
heh heh heh
Of course it doesn't fix anything, because the sort of world where all misfortunes are set to rights with a kiss is the stuff of fantasy and fairy tales, the ones people tell themselves when they're desperate to believe that it doesn't take determination and effort to surmount circumstances so broken. But what it does do is unlock a door, and one that he's been biding his time to see if she would open — the one where she moves first, the one where she throws her gauntlet, because whatever it is that might come of this now, she's as complicit in it as he is.
And that — means something. However nuanced, however hairsplitting, it means something that she kissed him first. That she came to him on her own, without being dragged or coerced or trading compliance for the sake of some benefit in return. It means something because he could have done any of those things without a moment's hesitation, if it suited him, and it suited him to do this instead.]
Of course not —
[— but something ignites when her mouth presses against his, like glowing embers abruptly fanned into a blaze by a timely breath of wind. And he's kissed enough people before to know that kissing isn't supposed to feel this intense, like every cell of his body is saturated with his desire to prolong it, but even the nagging feeling that something about this isn't quite right isn't enough to draw his thoughts away from the compulsion right in front of him.
Now his hands move with more purpose; the one that had been teasing just beneath the hem of her shirt pushes up beneath it with confidence, finding the ridge of her spine and following it upward while the other comes up to rake through her hair. It's a relief that she'd moved herself closer because it's easier to have her sat high on his thighs rather than pinning his legs at the knees; it feels better, too, when the beginnings of arousal start to stir and her weight is well-situated to afford him a little friction from it. He sweeps his tongue along her lower lip, wanting it messy and imperfect and raw because it's liberating to not have to think so much, to let the odd burning in his blood do the dictating for a little while.
When he does drag himself away, it's only long enough to look at her before he pulls her back down and starts the process of not fixing anything all over again.]