( all it takes is another pass of his gaze to realize that he's stumbled--for not the first time. words have to be used so carefully because they're so delicate; once they're past his tongue, past his lips, there's nothing that he can do about them but double-down. he wishes, like most people do, that there would be a proper time to take certain things back: like maybe he could go back a good ten years and not say such damnable things, that he could be more mature, that he could say i love you and i care about you and know that the last thing his family thought about him was just that. but mistakes are made because they have to be learned from, and what he's learned is that his life ended, those many years ago, and something else grew and became an adult in the husk left behind.
she doesn't like it, whatever she read in his words. and while he's not usually one to clarify, it's her honest statement that makes him look up at her; a slow glance over her features, like he's studying, like he's trying to see something that may or may not be there.
his hands find her hips, but only to steady her--only to feel that she's really there, warm and still willing, warm and still alive despite his blunder. )
I'm not thinking of anyone else. ( he starts, and while that might be obvious, he doesn't make it sound like it is: patient, more earnest than correcting. ) I meant if there's a nickname you preferred, to your first name. That was all.
( there's nothing waiting for him, when his back hits the mattress, except the slight give of the expensive covers, the way the pressure at his spine does nothing to mitigate the heat that pools through his stomach at her touch, and it's one of the only times he's wondered if he should be ashamed of himself, when her fingertips work delicately at the waist of his slacks, as though trying to gauge where to go. ashamed of his interest, half-hard and wanting beneath the fabric, or if she knows what an angel really looks like, or how the light in the room halos her when he's flat on his back on the bed. of whether his hands can move, instead of brace her there like she's something that should be kept at a distance from someone like him.
the offer isn't unkind, but it also keeps that distance between them. is that better for her, or worse? he considers it, briefly, his gaze focused up on her face; those little wings aren't giving anything away, now, and maybe he's lost an opportunity that he didn't even realize he had. )
You can use it however you like. ( a part of him considers leaving it there: and then decides, against better judgment, to continue. )
But if I were using it on you, I would want you bare. Not just to touch, but to look at you.
no subject
she doesn't like it, whatever she read in his words. and while he's not usually one to clarify, it's her honest statement that makes him look up at her; a slow glance over her features, like he's studying, like he's trying to see something that may or may not be there.
his hands find her hips, but only to steady her--only to feel that she's really there, warm and still willing, warm and still alive despite his blunder. )
I'm not thinking of anyone else. ( he starts, and while that might be obvious, he doesn't make it sound like it is: patient, more earnest than correcting. ) I meant if there's a nickname you preferred, to your first name. That was all.
( there's nothing waiting for him, when his back hits the mattress, except the slight give of the expensive covers, the way the pressure at his spine does nothing to mitigate the heat that pools through his stomach at her touch, and it's one of the only times he's wondered if he should be ashamed of himself, when her fingertips work delicately at the waist of his slacks, as though trying to gauge where to go. ashamed of his interest, half-hard and wanting beneath the fabric, or if she knows what an angel really looks like, or how the light in the room halos her when he's flat on his back on the bed. of whether his hands can move, instead of brace her there like she's something that should be kept at a distance from someone like him.
the offer isn't unkind, but it also keeps that distance between them. is that better for her, or worse? he considers it, briefly, his gaze focused up on her face; those little wings aren't giving anything away, now, and maybe he's lost an opportunity that he didn't even realize he had. )
You can use it however you like. ( a part of him considers leaving it there: and then decides, against better judgment, to continue. )
But if I were using it on you, I would want you bare. Not just to touch, but to look at you.
( permission, or a confession: or both. )