In the space of a heartbeat, everything changes: his thoughts are such a blur of but and what? and if and should and maybe and stop and go but he can't even spare a moment to listen to them now. As soon as her hands tighten on his shirt and she pulls him closer, his mind both goes blank and becomes very, very focused: it's been so long.
He's literally starved for this. Male or female: it doesn't matter. All that matters is the soul, the person, and it's him and it's Faye and this kiss, this contact, this touch, this moment.
It's been so long.
Romantically speaking, he's never been particularly aggressive; more often than not, he's followed instead of lead the charge. But when she pulls him toward her, he forgets about all that, about roles, about who's supposed to do what. It doesn't matter. His fingers curl around the back of her neck, thread through her hair, and he meets that insistence of hers with an equal amount of his own.
(It's been so long.)
He can feel his whole body waking up, like it's been dreaming for a year and a half and now there's suddenly sunshine in the room. Dead or not dead: those are just more labels and he'll defy any label anyone puts on him now, ever, any more. Her lips are so soft; she tastes like cookies and cigarettes and music.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2007-07-03 09:49 am (UTC)In the space of a heartbeat, everything changes: his thoughts are such a blur of but and what? and if and should and maybe and stop and go but he can't even spare a moment to listen to them now. As soon as her hands tighten on his shirt and she pulls him closer, his mind both goes blank and becomes very, very focused: it's been so long.
He's literally starved for this. Male or female: it doesn't matter. All that matters is the soul, the person, and it's him and it's Faye and this kiss, this contact, this touch, this moment.
It's been so long.
Romantically speaking, he's never been particularly aggressive; more often than not, he's followed instead of lead the charge. But when she pulls him toward her, he forgets about all that, about roles, about who's supposed to do what. It doesn't matter. His fingers curl around the back of her neck, thread through her hair, and he meets that insistence of hers with an equal amount of his own.
(It's been so long.)
He can feel his whole body waking up, like it's been dreaming for a year and a half and now there's suddenly sunshine in the room. Dead or not dead: those are just more labels and he'll defy any label anyone puts on him now, ever, any more. Her lips are so soft; she tastes like cookies and cigarettes and music.
She is music.