01-08-2020, 01:47 AM
sometimes I'm terrified of my heart;
of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants —
She can feel him tremble, and she is surprised at the sick kind of delight that flutters in the pit of her stomach. His body shook because of her; her presence, her touch, her voice. It was a strange sort of power, to realize that she could have such an effect on someone. And for a moment, she almost understands what it means –that love could be dangerous.
She tilts her head, marveling as she stares at him, and the look in her eyes could have been mistaken for some kind of infatuation. And there’s a part of her that is; she is fascinated and taken with him, because he is remarkably beautiful, and the way he admires her stars is the same way she admires the glimmer of his glass. As her lips continue to caress the warm surface of it she still cannot help but to wonder what it’s like underneath. Does he bleed if it breaks, or does he just shatter into shards? Is his heart made of muscle, like hers, or is it glass like the rest of him?
She had promised she wouldn’t break him, and she wouldn’t – of course she wouldn’t, she was not sinister like that – but she cannot stop her ever inquisitive mind from wondering.
His mouth touches her shoulder, and though she does not shiver the way that he had when she feels his breath curl across her skin, she offers him a shy kind of smile. “They don’t burn, not like real stars,” she says, recognizing that familiar question in his eyes. She is glad that they don’t, though; she is glad that she can let this glass boy touch her without growing so hot that he would break.
With a step, she comes to duck her head beneath his neck, her chest resting just lightly against his while her cheek lays against his shoulder. She breathes a quiet sigh, before asking him softly, “Where do you live? Do you live somewhere where you are kept safe?”
She tilts her head, marveling as she stares at him, and the look in her eyes could have been mistaken for some kind of infatuation. And there’s a part of her that is; she is fascinated and taken with him, because he is remarkably beautiful, and the way he admires her stars is the same way she admires the glimmer of his glass. As her lips continue to caress the warm surface of it she still cannot help but to wonder what it’s like underneath. Does he bleed if it breaks, or does he just shatter into shards? Is his heart made of muscle, like hers, or is it glass like the rest of him?
She had promised she wouldn’t break him, and she wouldn’t – of course she wouldn’t, she was not sinister like that – but she cannot stop her ever inquisitive mind from wondering.
His mouth touches her shoulder, and though she does not shiver the way that he had when she feels his breath curl across her skin, she offers him a shy kind of smile. “They don’t burn, not like real stars,” she says, recognizing that familiar question in his eyes. She is glad that they don’t, though; she is glad that she can let this glass boy touch her without growing so hot that he would break.
With a step, she comes to duck her head beneath his neck, her chest resting just lightly against his while her cheek lays against his shoulder. She breathes a quiet sigh, before asking him softly, “Where do you live? Do you live somewhere where you are kept safe?”
Desire