note: i'm going to do parts of this. like a part for mama greece/rome + mama egypt/rome. plus, i used grecia and will use aegyptus because i believe they roll off the tongue better than ancient greece and ancient egypt or whatever.
The first day Rome saw her, he swore he had never seen anything so utterly surreal, winds breaking around her and olive branches hugging her shape, curving and sliding like rolling waves. The lady, whoever she might be, standing there high above the ocean, did not look, did not take notice to anything besides the horizon broadening, waves parting and colliding into dark wood just beyond the beach, white sand, and boulders like arches.
Squared out like her shoulders, bones slightly jutting out beneath skin blessed by kisses of the sun. Line of her jaw strong and defiant like the rest of her, balancing between land and sky.
(Rome wonders what color her eyes are and aches hard deep in his gut.)
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Everyday, he meets her at the Acropolis-that’s what she said it was called. Says her name is Grecia with a voice lulling like faraway battles Rome remembers, thunder and lightening in the distance. It’s like the dull call of seashells and soft like oak leaves up in the Balkans.
Grecia practically sings his name, blooming like summer flowers against clouds so light. (He loves the way she speaks, maybe more than that her eyes are green, green like rolling hills he remembers from home.)
Moonlight walks and sitting on cliff sides during sunrises. Curtain of darkness and starlight closing, dissolving into a gold-silver dawn-
What’s that? She asks, bending over and creating alluring lines, the bend of her back showing, bones and skin with the flow of cloth surrounding her, low and revealing.
Supple flesh and curves he would die to run his hands upon. Die to feel to breath on, lines running below the bones.
A Roman Orchid, I believe. He picks it up, pulling back strands of dark, dark hair that curl behind her ears like vines along a tree, winding like shallow brooks, and places it in her hair. Delicate, flowing, reaching just below her lungs. She intakes the smell, inhaling and trying not to exhale so it burns, so she will never forget.
(She holds his jaw, delicate fingers and matching skin, Rome feels as if she is crushing him, breaking him. Destroying him. Lets her lips fall, place themselves on his, sun shedding shades of red on her cheeks.)
Really?-
He just about falls apart.
-----------------
She really is as beautiful as the statues around every street corner, more breathtaking. More visceral, she is actually alive. Breathing and moving underneath him.
Grecia grips on, printing herself on his skin, thin scratches that are worse than battle wounds. These burn, fire on his blood-
(Rome said he never wanted to be like this with her, that they were better. Isn’t sure if he was lying.)
Rome. She breathes, shallow and short compressions of her lungs, raising her chest, heaving. And he, just slides his right hand into her hair, entangling, together. Running the other along the curves, deep and carved out into her body. Tracing, holding tight, connecting. Pushing himself, slow and deliberate and wanting to hear that voice gasp and call out. Skin aglow with drops of translucent beads.
And she does, breathy and higher than normal, higher than the mountains and he drinks it up, air tightening and warming up. Slick little twists of hips and movements Rome knows.
The first day Rome saw her, he swore he had never seen anything so utterly surreal, winds breaking around her and olive branches hugging her shape, curving and sliding like rolling waves. The lady, whoever she might be, standing there high above the ocean, did not look, did not take notice to anything besides the horizon broadening, waves parting and colliding into dark wood just beyond the beach, white sand, and boulders like arches.
Squared out like her shoulders, bones slightly jutting out beneath skin blessed by kisses of the sun. Line of her jaw strong and defiant like the rest of her, balancing between land and sky.
(Rome wonders what color her eyes are and aches hard deep in his gut.)
-----------------
Everyday, he meets her at the Acropolis-that’s what she said it was called. Says her name is Grecia with a voice lulling like faraway battles Rome remembers, thunder and lightening in the distance. It’s like the dull call of seashells and soft like oak leaves up in the Balkans.
Grecia practically sings his name, blooming like summer flowers against clouds so light. (He loves the way she speaks, maybe more than that her eyes are green, green like rolling hills he remembers from home.)
Moonlight walks and sitting on cliff sides during sunrises. Curtain of darkness and starlight closing, dissolving into a gold-silver dawn-
What’s that? She asks, bending over and creating alluring lines, the bend of her back showing, bones and skin with the flow of cloth surrounding her, low and revealing.
Supple flesh and curves he would die to run his hands upon. Die to feel to breath on, lines running below the bones.
A Roman Orchid, I believe. He picks it up, pulling back strands of dark, dark hair that curl behind her ears like vines along a tree, winding like shallow brooks, and places it in her hair. Delicate, flowing, reaching just below her lungs. She intakes the smell, inhaling and trying not to exhale so it burns, so she will never forget.
(She holds his jaw, delicate fingers and matching skin, Rome feels as if she is crushing him, breaking him. Destroying him. Lets her lips fall, place themselves on his, sun shedding shades of red on her cheeks.)
Really?-
He just about falls apart.
-----------------
She really is as beautiful as the statues around every street corner, more breathtaking. More visceral, she is actually alive. Breathing and moving underneath him.
Grecia grips on, printing herself on his skin, thin scratches that are worse than battle wounds. These burn, fire on his blood-
(Rome said he never wanted to be like this with her, that they were better. Isn’t sure if he was lying.)
Rome. She breathes, shallow and short compressions of her lungs, raising her chest, heaving. And he, just slides his right hand into her hair, entangling, together. Running the other along the curves, deep and carved out into her body. Tracing, holding tight, connecting. Pushing himself, slow and deliberate and wanting to hear that voice gasp and call out. Skin aglow with drops of translucent beads.
And she does, breathy and higher than normal, higher than the mountains and he drinks it up, air tightening and warming up. Slick little twists of hips and movements Rome knows.
-----------------
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