Neverwhere drabble, pale skin
So long underground.
The Marquis’ fingers against pale skin a greater contrast than six months ago. Maybe because then it was reluctantly clasped hands and now it’s dark fingers against a chest that never sees the light because it’s always cold.
Body heat. That’s why he presses so close. Breath isn’t visible if it doesn’t hit the air, gasping into someone else’s mouth, heat in front, cold wall behind, making it imperative that no more clothes are shed than necessary. He’s not sure how he’s going to explain it to himself when it’s summer. Because he can’t let it end.
The Marquis’ fingers against pale skin a greater contrast than six months ago. Maybe because then it was reluctantly clasped hands and now it’s dark fingers against a chest that never sees the light because it’s always cold.
Body heat. That’s why he presses so close. Breath isn’t visible if it doesn’t hit the air, gasping into someone else’s mouth, heat in front, cold wall behind, making it imperative that no more clothes are shed than necessary. He’s not sure how he’s going to explain it to himself when it’s summer. Because he can’t let it end.