(no subject)
“I love you,” he breathes between kisses and gasps, because she deserves to hear it as often as possible and especially now, and she responds with a breathy sigh and a hand tangled in his hair, and she is perfect, and every bit of this is perfect.
443 words.
A/N: Written as a companion piece/sequel to A Better Fate Than Wisdom, but it can be read alone as well. Set a week after Journey's End.
The ride back to Pete’s empty house is agonizingly slow and is over frighteningly quickly-just like each time she kisses him; like each time her hand finds a new patch of skin under his shirt; like the last seven days and the last four years.
Abruptly they are in her bedroom and he doesn’t even have to lift a finger to help before she is standing before him, hands dangling at her sides, lips curved the smallest bit. She is radiant, every bit as pink and yellow as he’s imagined, and completely unabashed. He had half expected her to be shy in this moment, a wilting flower; what he sees instead is every inch bad wolf, and he is mesmerized.
When he meets her eyes again she catches her bottom lip in her teeth and cocks an eyebrow as if to say, what’s taking you so long? It is all the invitation he needs.
He wonders fleetingly, between shedding his undershirt and catching her fall as his knees hit the baseboard and they tumble backwards, if this is how she always is: confident, brazen, ready. Would Mickey Smith tell the same story that he is only now experiencing for the first time?
He slides a jealous hand from the small of her back to brush her cheek with his fingertips. She shivers, drops her forehead to his, and opens her eyes, and the force of her sends him reeling; she smolders and glows and smiles like the sun, and answers the question he would never have asked.
She lifts her head to make a curtain of gold around his face, and he closes his eyes against a sensation of newness, of life, that no regeneration has ever produced in him. His muscles tense and every nerve in every inch of his body hums as he clings to her, unaware of anything but the warmth of her and the way her lips fall to his and then cruelly pull back around a sigh and the way each of her curves melts gently, inexplicably, into each of his sharp angles.
“I love you,” he breathes between kisses and gasps, because she deserves to hear it as often as possible and especially now, and she responds with a breathy sigh and a hand tangled in his hair, and she is perfect, and every bit of this is perfect.
Later-after-he kisses her again and again and again, once for every time he should have before last week, once for every star that will never outshine her. He falls asleep with his fingertips still lingering on her softly trembling spine. In his dream he kisses her again and again.
443 words.
A/N: Written as a companion piece/sequel to A Better Fate Than Wisdom, but it can be read alone as well. Set a week after Journey's End.
The ride back to Pete’s empty house is agonizingly slow and is over frighteningly quickly-just like each time she kisses him; like each time her hand finds a new patch of skin under his shirt; like the last seven days and the last four years.
Abruptly they are in her bedroom and he doesn’t even have to lift a finger to help before she is standing before him, hands dangling at her sides, lips curved the smallest bit. She is radiant, every bit as pink and yellow as he’s imagined, and completely unabashed. He had half expected her to be shy in this moment, a wilting flower; what he sees instead is every inch bad wolf, and he is mesmerized.
When he meets her eyes again she catches her bottom lip in her teeth and cocks an eyebrow as if to say, what’s taking you so long? It is all the invitation he needs.
He wonders fleetingly, between shedding his undershirt and catching her fall as his knees hit the baseboard and they tumble backwards, if this is how she always is: confident, brazen, ready. Would Mickey Smith tell the same story that he is only now experiencing for the first time?
He slides a jealous hand from the small of her back to brush her cheek with his fingertips. She shivers, drops her forehead to his, and opens her eyes, and the force of her sends him reeling; she smolders and glows and smiles like the sun, and answers the question he would never have asked.
She lifts her head to make a curtain of gold around his face, and he closes his eyes against a sensation of newness, of life, that no regeneration has ever produced in him. His muscles tense and every nerve in every inch of his body hums as he clings to her, unaware of anything but the warmth of her and the way her lips fall to his and then cruelly pull back around a sigh and the way each of her curves melts gently, inexplicably, into each of his sharp angles.
“I love you,” he breathes between kisses and gasps, because she deserves to hear it as often as possible and especially now, and she responds with a breathy sigh and a hand tangled in his hair, and she is perfect, and every bit of this is perfect.
Later-after-he kisses her again and again and again, once for every time he should have before last week, once for every star that will never outshine her. He falls asleep with his fingertips still lingering on her softly trembling spine. In his dream he kisses her again and again.