writing practice
Songfic meme extension.
below the cut...
Rihanna - Te Amo
He can’t watch this moment break itself down.
“If you can’t dance to this, it doesn’t matter,” He’s reading familiar lips, but knows exactly how those words sound, paired with a certain smile on that face… He knows how those syllables feel whispered against his skin. He won’t deny it; watching the scene unfold in front of him hurts. Memory and the present tense mixed themselves like the colors of the liquids in front of him (it’s too much, making him burn from the inside and his vision swim). He was never good at keeping his tenses straight in his writing, he thinks. He remembers:
“I only ask simply because I regret I’m unable to help you; I’m hopeless at the language, but curious, all the same. Demonstrate?” The bark at his back was rough and grounding. Solid.
“You mean you don't believe me. Fine. No hay problema.”He waits expectantly. “Te amo. Quiero besarte...” The words are short, surprisingly pretty (but maybe it’s because it was that mouth which spoke them, not the words themselves).
“Will you tell me what that means?”
“Not a chance.” The answering grin was flippant and teasing.
He’s watching that same grinning mouth move half a floor away, drawing another into an irresistible sphere of influence (it’s not just good looks, he knows; it’s that impossibly brilliant mind. But no one needs to know about that).
He looked up those words later, filching a battered Spanish-English dictionary from a random desk.
“I love you…”
He won’t read any more into those lips.
below the cut...
Rihanna - Te Amo
He can’t watch this moment break itself down.
“If you can’t dance to this, it doesn’t matter,” He’s reading familiar lips, but knows exactly how those words sound, paired with a certain smile on that face… He knows how those syllables feel whispered against his skin. He won’t deny it; watching the scene unfold in front of him hurts. Memory and the present tense mixed themselves like the colors of the liquids in front of him (it’s too much, making him burn from the inside and his vision swim). He was never good at keeping his tenses straight in his writing, he thinks. He remembers:
“I only ask simply because I regret I’m unable to help you; I’m hopeless at the language, but curious, all the same. Demonstrate?” The bark at his back was rough and grounding. Solid.
“You mean you don't believe me. Fine. No hay problema.”He waits expectantly. “Te amo. Quiero besarte...” The words are short, surprisingly pretty (but maybe it’s because it was that mouth which spoke them, not the words themselves).
“Will you tell me what that means?”
“Not a chance.” The answering grin was flippant and teasing.
He’s watching that same grinning mouth move half a floor away, drawing another into an irresistible sphere of influence (it’s not just good looks, he knows; it’s that impossibly brilliant mind. But no one needs to know about that).
He looked up those words later, filching a battered Spanish-English dictionary from a random desk.
“I love you…”
He won’t read any more into those lips.