{pablo neruda - julie/spanner, for ashy}
Headcanon for Spanner: He loves lines.
Julie has learned that Spanner prefers the quiet language of his fingers over the words of his lips. He likes being touched, likes the feeling of skin against skin and the point of warmth that these touches bring. Spanner is all angles and planes and bones stretching flesh colored canvass, and he makes of Julie the calligraphist, his fingertips as brushes.
This is one of the few times when that piercing green gaze goes soft. Tender, even. Spanner’s cheeks flush pink like nubile roses, and Julie presses adoring kisses to them, following the aristocratic contours of his face. It is a journey of love to map the blonde’s face with his lips, and every so often he is rewarded with a sigh of his name, or trailing spider-thin fingers down his back. Spanner’s nails are blunt, and the pressure lingers after them, weaving the coil of heat low in Julie’s belly even tighter.
When they are like this, Julie is reminded that Spanner has loved someone before him. He observes this clinically, with no jealousy- he has been schooled out of that emotion, has learned that it had no place between him and Spanner. But he knows that he is not the first, that Spanner had someone to compare him to.
Did her fingers still fit between Spanner’s? Were his lips able to coax more than breathy moans and halting murmurs of his name? Julie wonders, but not too deeply.
Because now, he was the one who towered over the mechanic. He was the one whose hands could roam over the planes of his chest and his back and his lean, unmarked thighs. He was the one who could press his lips to Spanner’s and draw out needy moans and please’s as easily as one plucked notes from a taut string. He was the one who could fit himself seamlessly with Spanner, welcomed and wanted, held tight and coveted.
Reverently, he places a kiss against Spanner’s lips, and whispers a line of poetry that makes Spanner’s cheeks flush a darker shade of damasqued rose.
--
"I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
Julie has learned that Spanner prefers the quiet language of his fingers over the words of his lips. He likes being touched, likes the feeling of skin against skin and the point of warmth that these touches bring. Spanner is all angles and planes and bones stretching flesh colored canvass, and he makes of Julie the calligraphist, his fingertips as brushes.
This is one of the few times when that piercing green gaze goes soft. Tender, even. Spanner’s cheeks flush pink like nubile roses, and Julie presses adoring kisses to them, following the aristocratic contours of his face. It is a journey of love to map the blonde’s face with his lips, and every so often he is rewarded with a sigh of his name, or trailing spider-thin fingers down his back. Spanner’s nails are blunt, and the pressure lingers after them, weaving the coil of heat low in Julie’s belly even tighter.
When they are like this, Julie is reminded that Spanner has loved someone before him. He observes this clinically, with no jealousy- he has been schooled out of that emotion, has learned that it had no place between him and Spanner. But he knows that he is not the first, that Spanner had someone to compare him to.
Did her fingers still fit between Spanner’s? Were his lips able to coax more than breathy moans and halting murmurs of his name? Julie wonders, but not too deeply.
Because now, he was the one who towered over the mechanic. He was the one whose hands could roam over the planes of his chest and his back and his lean, unmarked thighs. He was the one who could press his lips to Spanner’s and draw out needy moans and please’s as easily as one plucked notes from a taut string. He was the one who could fit himself seamlessly with Spanner, welcomed and wanted, held tight and coveted.
Reverently, he places a kiss against Spanner’s lips, and whispers a line of poetry that makes Spanner’s cheeks flush a darker shade of damasqued rose.
--
"I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."