muserevival Drabble.
008. Drabble: Wet
She can't recall the last time she's had to press her thighs together so tightly. This wasn't ok, not now it wasn't. Not when she was meant to be helping sort through tattered old journals and massive stacks of papers. Something in the way he moves, large shoulders shifting as he settles into the seat across from her, is what causes her mind to wander to what his hands might feel like on her; thick fingers running through her hair or his hands finding their rightful place at her waist before one would find its way between her legs...
Somewhere far, far away a question is asked and it takes a moment for the words to move through the thick fog encasing her mind and she suddenly sits up a little too fast, banging a knee against the edge of the table with a grunt that is very unbecoming of her. She doesn't have the opportunity to tell him she's fine before he's out of his seat and kneeling down next to hers with both his hands on her leg. First thing she notices is the way his fingers span across her skin, the blood blooming from the cut she's managed to give herself is second, or perhaps even third. No, definitely fourth.
“I'm ok,” she hears herself say and she hopes that she sounds certain and not as breathless as she feels. The pain doesn't register. His touch does. “Really, I'm ok.”
Really, she's not.
Not when he's so close and his hands are right there and there's nothing more she wants to do than grab fistfuls of his hair and pull him close, to claim his lips and demand that he touch her. Instead she excuses herself, locking the bathroom door behind her.
Diana Meade // The Secret Circle (au) // 300 words
She can't recall the last time she's had to press her thighs together so tightly. This wasn't ok, not now it wasn't. Not when she was meant to be helping sort through tattered old journals and massive stacks of papers. Something in the way he moves, large shoulders shifting as he settles into the seat across from her, is what causes her mind to wander to what his hands might feel like on her; thick fingers running through her hair or his hands finding their rightful place at her waist before one would find its way between her legs...
Somewhere far, far away a question is asked and it takes a moment for the words to move through the thick fog encasing her mind and she suddenly sits up a little too fast, banging a knee against the edge of the table with a grunt that is very unbecoming of her. She doesn't have the opportunity to tell him she's fine before he's out of his seat and kneeling down next to hers with both his hands on her leg. First thing she notices is the way his fingers span across her skin, the blood blooming from the cut she's managed to give herself is second, or perhaps even third. No, definitely fourth.
“I'm ok,” she hears herself say and she hopes that she sounds certain and not as breathless as she feels. The pain doesn't register. His touch does. “Really, I'm ok.”
Really, she's not.
Not when he's so close and his hands are right there and there's nothing more she wants to do than grab fistfuls of his hair and pull him close, to claim his lips and demand that he touch her. Instead she excuses herself, locking the bathroom door behind her.
Diana Meade // The Secret Circle (au) // 300 words