(no subject)
Tattoo, Ten/Rose, pg-13
He hopes she’ll never break the surface that night., 332 words
She’s dancing, stamping her feet, tapping them gently, toes or heels, digging her toes into the sand for purchase as she launches herself into a whirlwind of pirouettes, losing herself in the speed and rhythm of the music, the drums beating out the tattoo of her heart against her ribs and her hair flies wildly, like a fan spread on choppy waters, and then, there, he spots it, there’s a tiny feather on her left foot, and it’s still, unmoving, inked into her skin there unlike the bracelet of tiny silver bells that hop and skip excitedly around her right ankle, and she smiles and moves her hands in unison with the waves of her hair, completely lost.
He hopes she’ll never break the surface that night. She’s so beautiful, and he’d give anything to be able to tell the tribesmen that she’s his, that he will take her back to his tent tonight and worship her in his very own way, the way he’s wanted to for ages, but it’s words, always just words, and even they keep failing him because it’s only words and never deeds.
Oh Rose.
“I love you, Rose,” he whispers, and it’s the worst possible, the perfect moment. Rose has broken the surface after all, and she looks at him, sees his lips form the words but can’t hear them, but she’s brilliant, in the matters of the heart above all, and she understands.
She drops her shawl into his lap and kneels before him, offering him her hennaed palms. She’s breathing hard, and in the firelight he can see the sheen of sweat glisten on her skin and he cannot help himself anymore. He reaches out, wanting to run his fingers and tongue over her heated skin. He wants to taste her, all over, he wants to map the landscape of her body and her passion.
And as he rises, accepting her hands, he knows the others can tell she’s his. Not tonight. Forever.
He hopes she’ll never break the surface that night., 332 words
She’s dancing, stamping her feet, tapping them gently, toes or heels, digging her toes into the sand for purchase as she launches herself into a whirlwind of pirouettes, losing herself in the speed and rhythm of the music, the drums beating out the tattoo of her heart against her ribs and her hair flies wildly, like a fan spread on choppy waters, and then, there, he spots it, there’s a tiny feather on her left foot, and it’s still, unmoving, inked into her skin there unlike the bracelet of tiny silver bells that hop and skip excitedly around her right ankle, and she smiles and moves her hands in unison with the waves of her hair, completely lost.
He hopes she’ll never break the surface that night. She’s so beautiful, and he’d give anything to be able to tell the tribesmen that she’s his, that he will take her back to his tent tonight and worship her in his very own way, the way he’s wanted to for ages, but it’s words, always just words, and even they keep failing him because it’s only words and never deeds.
Oh Rose.
“I love you, Rose,” he whispers, and it’s the worst possible, the perfect moment. Rose has broken the surface after all, and she looks at him, sees his lips form the words but can’t hear them, but she’s brilliant, in the matters of the heart above all, and she understands.
She drops her shawl into his lap and kneels before him, offering him her hennaed palms. She’s breathing hard, and in the firelight he can see the sheen of sweat glisten on her skin and he cannot help himself anymore. He reaches out, wanting to run his fingers and tongue over her heated skin. He wants to taste her, all over, he wants to map the landscape of her body and her passion.
And as he rises, accepting her hands, he knows the others can tell she’s his. Not tonight. Forever.