(no subject)
Apocope
Lost
Sun/Shannon
light R (to be safe)
Summary: Sun’s own revelations.
Spoilers through “Everybody Hates Hugo.”
Word count: 286
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies, yeah.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Warning: well, femmeslash. Intentional tense shift.
So I thought, either post it or scrap it....
Apocope
She said this would end.
All of this. And I never questioned her meaning, her own interpretation of such prophetic words. If I had, the answer would have snuffed out all hope. Of being rescued? That is a question overripe with possibilities, acidly hopeless itself.
I waited. I waited for her to say something more. Instead, she spoke with actions. Sliding her forefinger along the edge of a knife that tore away the skin of a passion fruit, ragged cuts revealing brilliant juice. And then blood. I do not know what I was thinking. I do not believe I was thinking at all, though I always am. Her finger was in my mouth before I recalled moving toward her. On my lips, she tasted sweet, then salty, then bitter. When she did not pull away, I tasted her again, seeking out that sweetness each time the bitterness recurred.
I wanted to taste more.
But she tasted me first.
The sand was cool on my back when she pushed me over and spread me open. I burned back into it, the tiny grains seeming to dissolve into my skin, my heat, the sweat that salted me. And I wondered how I tasted to her. Bitter? Or hopeful?
Could I bury all my pain in the sand beneath me, bury hers as well? Perhaps then this would not end.
I will put it away in a bottle, and she will stop it with her tongue.
Her hair is warm and the color of sand. Past her, the waves ride to shore, cut off by land just as she cuts off the name at my lips with the reigns of her mouth.
But there will be no white horses.
Lost
Sun/Shannon
light R (to be safe)
Summary: Sun’s own revelations.
Spoilers through “Everybody Hates Hugo.”
Word count: 286
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, lies, yeah.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Warning: well, femmeslash. Intentional tense shift.
So I thought, either post it or scrap it....
Apocope
She said this would end.
All of this. And I never questioned her meaning, her own interpretation of such prophetic words. If I had, the answer would have snuffed out all hope. Of being rescued? That is a question overripe with possibilities, acidly hopeless itself.
I waited. I waited for her to say something more. Instead, she spoke with actions. Sliding her forefinger along the edge of a knife that tore away the skin of a passion fruit, ragged cuts revealing brilliant juice. And then blood. I do not know what I was thinking. I do not believe I was thinking at all, though I always am. Her finger was in my mouth before I recalled moving toward her. On my lips, she tasted sweet, then salty, then bitter. When she did not pull away, I tasted her again, seeking out that sweetness each time the bitterness recurred.
I wanted to taste more.
But she tasted me first.
The sand was cool on my back when she pushed me over and spread me open. I burned back into it, the tiny grains seeming to dissolve into my skin, my heat, the sweat that salted me. And I wondered how I tasted to her. Bitter? Or hopeful?
Could I bury all my pain in the sand beneath me, bury hers as well? Perhaps then this would not end.
I will put it away in a bottle, and she will stop it with her tongue.
Her hair is warm and the color of sand. Past her, the waves ride to shore, cut off by land just as she cuts off the name at my lips with the reigns of her mouth.
But there will be no white horses.