A Title Chosen
Title: A Title Chosen
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Word Count: 251
Rating: Teen
Copyright: 2009 (c) Tasyfa
Author's Notes: Playing with some thoughts and imagery.
Blue stripes and big white buttons - reminiscent of a British schoolgirl uniform, had you but known back then. But he hadn't known that either, simply spread his jacket on the grass for you, in a secluded spot down by the river.
It was too small. He was smaller than you, thin, with arms so skinny that you would circle his wrists with your fingers and think, I could snap your bones. But he was strong enough that day to hold you down, pin you between his body and the ground with a too-small piece of leather beneath you and his watercolour eyes above, and it wasn't that he didn't hear 'no,' it was that you didn't say it - that 'no' was not a word you wanted in your vocabulary just then.
This, this was what you wanted: foreign heat and unknown feelings, a yearning neither of you quite knew how to satisfy and so you kissed for hours, there in the grass, your ears full of the gurgle of water and the soft sucking sounds of his lips on yours; your mouth full of your own quiet sighs and his tongue; his hands full of you.
Later, your mother would sort the laundry and ask about the green stains. "Oh, we were just fooling around and I skidded," you would tell her, nonchalant, enough truth there that she didn't spot the lie, the blatant hint of a childhood habit grown towards adult on a bright spring day down by the river.
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Word Count: 251
Rating: Teen
Copyright: 2009 (c) Tasyfa
Author's Notes: Playing with some thoughts and imagery.
Blue stripes and big white buttons - reminiscent of a British schoolgirl uniform, had you but known back then. But he hadn't known that either, simply spread his jacket on the grass for you, in a secluded spot down by the river.
It was too small. He was smaller than you, thin, with arms so skinny that you would circle his wrists with your fingers and think, I could snap your bones. But he was strong enough that day to hold you down, pin you between his body and the ground with a too-small piece of leather beneath you and his watercolour eyes above, and it wasn't that he didn't hear 'no,' it was that you didn't say it - that 'no' was not a word you wanted in your vocabulary just then.
This, this was what you wanted: foreign heat and unknown feelings, a yearning neither of you quite knew how to satisfy and so you kissed for hours, there in the grass, your ears full of the gurgle of water and the soft sucking sounds of his lips on yours; your mouth full of your own quiet sighs and his tongue; his hands full of you.
Later, your mother would sort the laundry and ask about the green stains. "Oh, we were just fooling around and I skidded," you would tell her, nonchalant, enough truth there that she didn't spot the lie, the blatant hint of a childhood habit grown towards adult on a bright spring day down by the river.