(no subject)
Afterglow, TenII/Rose, R, 394w.
Today, she is warm and happy-for the first time in years
She had been dreaming. She’d been dreaming of a big, fiery, glittering sun whose glowing embrace tickled her skin and whose heat did not scald, but warmed her from the inside out-just like Pete’s whiskey that sat in his leather-wrapped study, decanted in multifaceted lead crystal. Sand, and a few other ingredients-obliterated and liquefied in an inferno-then transformed to make something that was the antithesis of it’s maker, only to contain it’s toffee coloured, liquid equivalent. Its icy coolness, a paradox: Ice made of fire that itself houses fire.
Created and hardened in fire, just like me, she thinks, and enjoying the little joke, rubs the sleep from her eyes.
She slowly moves the limbs that only a moment ago seemed strange and heavy, and absently stares through the leaded glass window. She watches the pale light from outside, framed by dusty pink damask, until the soft, rhythmic breathing next to her pulls her forward into the present and into an unexpected reality.
She glances next to her and her breath makes a hasty exit. He is here at last… Next to her, in her bed...
Finally hers.
Inhaling the tang of spent passion, she remembers a night of breathless oaths and hasty release. The air is heavy with the pungent sweetness of estrogen. Mixed amongst this, she identifies the stale, earthy saltiness of him that still coats the back of her throat and clings to the rumpled cotton sheets, like early fruit on the vine.
It’s the musky smell of sex and sweat and the tears they’d shed in the afterglow of their union that hangs in the room, unmistakably. It mingles with the smoky burnt embers of the fire that died out in the grate, but whose emanating warmth had been replaced by the rushed friction of two desperate lovers-held back for far too long-as they burned like a sun in the guest room of the Tyler Mansion, in the center of this bed, and the depths of their souls.
Today, she is warm and happy-for the first time in years.
She feels him come to life next to her, emerging from his own sleep, his own restoration, and perhaps his own dreams of her.
“Hiya,” he whispers shyly into her elbow. And, diving into the icy flames of his chestnut brown eyes, she takes her very first breath of forever.
Today, she is warm and happy-for the first time in years
She had been dreaming. She’d been dreaming of a big, fiery, glittering sun whose glowing embrace tickled her skin and whose heat did not scald, but warmed her from the inside out-just like Pete’s whiskey that sat in his leather-wrapped study, decanted in multifaceted lead crystal. Sand, and a few other ingredients-obliterated and liquefied in an inferno-then transformed to make something that was the antithesis of it’s maker, only to contain it’s toffee coloured, liquid equivalent. Its icy coolness, a paradox: Ice made of fire that itself houses fire.
Created and hardened in fire, just like me, she thinks, and enjoying the little joke, rubs the sleep from her eyes.
She slowly moves the limbs that only a moment ago seemed strange and heavy, and absently stares through the leaded glass window. She watches the pale light from outside, framed by dusty pink damask, until the soft, rhythmic breathing next to her pulls her forward into the present and into an unexpected reality.
She glances next to her and her breath makes a hasty exit. He is here at last… Next to her, in her bed...
Finally hers.
Inhaling the tang of spent passion, she remembers a night of breathless oaths and hasty release. The air is heavy with the pungent sweetness of estrogen. Mixed amongst this, she identifies the stale, earthy saltiness of him that still coats the back of her throat and clings to the rumpled cotton sheets, like early fruit on the vine.
It’s the musky smell of sex and sweat and the tears they’d shed in the afterglow of their union that hangs in the room, unmistakably. It mingles with the smoky burnt embers of the fire that died out in the grate, but whose emanating warmth had been replaced by the rushed friction of two desperate lovers-held back for far too long-as they burned like a sun in the guest room of the Tyler Mansion, in the center of this bed, and the depths of their souls.
Today, she is warm and happy-for the first time in years.
She feels him come to life next to her, emerging from his own sleep, his own restoration, and perhaps his own dreams of her.
“Hiya,” he whispers shyly into her elbow. And, diving into the icy flames of his chestnut brown eyes, she takes her very first breath of forever.