[html] They were puzzle pieces, Poe thought, threading a dark, curvy leg over and around a long, lithe pale limb of her companion. Their was a flow to their bodies that fit too perfectly to be coincidence despite their dramatically different figures, and it was difficult to resist exploring just how many angles they could click into. For now, she was happy to lean into Luz’s slender torso, fiddle with her long fingers with one hand, and sip and pass around a bottle of red wine with the other. Their bodies created a warmth that Poe had become too conscious of lacking lately—but now was the blissful product of delayed gratification, cleaning away any complaints she might have had in the matter.
“I can’t imagine getting around Clouded Tears for the first stretch of time,” she chatted with the silly intoxication of wine and warmth and body. “You must get lost in there sometimes. You are an utter liar if you tell me differently,” she said surely, turning her head to look straight into familiar violet eyes, playful and prodding for a rebuttal. But before Luz could answer, before even a heartbeat could pass, she asked her a question, one to add to the dozens she had already tugged at the older lady since refinding each other once more. “Do you like it there? I mean, not just the land, but the pack?” Her green gaze narrowed, examined, relaxed and lingered.
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[html] JUST EXCEPTIONALLY BAD AT SAYING WHEN
Such diversions. Her thoughts jitter-bugged, her emotions did the frug under megawatt lighting, and her fingers made small circles on dark expanses. Yet such symptoms were expected whenever the darkling girl was in town; she had come to anticipate them with equal parts exhilaration and arrhythmia. Though wound with girlish appendages, such truths were not immediately apparent from the lay of her limbs, who baffled any secondary sources with their casual angles.
Ah, a sip of wine. Odd, how her senses reeled, and grew wild with detail. Yesterday her tongue had been numb to the myriad flavors contained; today, their savoring made her mouth into a sloppy, lopsided bend. The only elixir more delicious? The flecks of pleasure she caught, like burning stars in a little grey-girl’s palm, and lapped from her companion’s eyes.
She couldn’t quite recall how they’d gotten up to such mischief, but her fingers walked the valleys and mountains of Poe D’Angelo’s hips, elbows, the shy wonder of her palms. Questions were being asked; she laughed, low, slow, chuckling, because she knew no more appropriate answer. “I do not know them very well, peachbottom,” she said, lacing the epithet in without a doubt-flicker, “so I suppose I do.” Violet found gold-emerald. “And you? How's fancy free going for you?” The wine bottle slipped from her fingers and made the softest sound, as her hand slid (quite conspicuously) to an ebony thigh.
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[html] Silvery fingers left warm, buzzing trails through dark fur onto waiting skin. Her body woke up when she was around Luz, with her sweet words on a sweeter tongue, her low laugh and half-lidded, mythical-magical eyes. A small smile crept across Poe’s lips in reply to the chuckle, and the no-resistance reply. Because there was no reason in fighting Poe’s tipsy, fanciful ramblings, when it only spurred her on into greater theatrics.
“You didn’t answer my real question,” she informed the astronomer matter-of-factly, then found herself entirely distracted from this fact with trickle across her thigh. It pushed the corners of her lips into a more pronounced smile. One of her free hands found the inner crook of that lean arm, and followed it down to hand on thigh, pinning it only to thread her fingers overtop and linked. “It’s strange,” she admitted, with or without a clarified response from Luz. “I love this place. The city, I mean. But it’s lost some of its mystery after seeing the cities overseas. After getting to know the streets inside-out.” She paused there to consider just what she was getting at. “And it’s lonely,” she admitted, quieter and a little discomforted. Quickly, as if making sure that she was truly there, Poe looked at Luz.
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[html] JUST EXCEPTIONALLY BAD AT SAYING WHEN
"You noticed," she remarked, eyes diverted, breath catching at the small trails those black hands made, like brief burns that grew more feeling from the wake of fingertips, as if her skin could sing from such small portions of ecstasy. And yet, and yet! Though she felt these things, though her heart made glad shouts at tiny contacts, she still caught every word, as tenderly as plucked plums. Her fingers wiggled under her companions', to amuse and remind.
"Europe is like another planet," she agreed, hazily, so strangely comfortable in the nebulous world where an astronomer and a madman's namesake could curl together as jigsaw pieces, as greek gods did against their glaucous drapery and cumuli pillars, as near-lovers. The last statement -- said in that risky way that truth often is, as if it might shatter at the slightest glance -- twisted her head, slowly, so slowly. She smiled, exposing various rows of time-yellowed teeth, before she spoke again. What pressures those gold-green eyes laid upon her! What thrills lived and died under their lightest scrutiny! "I love lonely," breathed the last in the Cresceno line, just nonsensical enough to excuse the undue motion of her hand from their finger-cage, as it drew upward without command and cupped an ebony cheek, the thumb making small (and far too tender) strokes. Her hips shifted, so that she faced the darker, more delightfully-curved female, rather than some insignificant, distant thing.
A kiss would have been cliche. A kiss would have broken Luz Cresceno, and made her something else entirely. In the stead of such expected expression, her mouth nibbled the pleasances of her neck, ending somewhere amid the dark tangles nearest to the D'Angelo's ear. A whisper; a new confession. "Poe D'Angelo," she said, a eureka of sorts, hushed under too-obvious lust. But, sadly, this is Luz Cresceno. |
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[html] She moved her body in tune with the rhythm of the stardust, stargazer, starkissed lady, resting her eyelids to focus her attention on senses beyond sight. Because she anticipated that cliché move, or maybe just craved it, a kiss of quirked comfort. Poe too, liked loneliness. But perhaps it was in the way that you come to like, even love, that which is familiar for better or worse. Because you could anticipate what it would entail—loneliness was a fine example of this. So that Poe could get her feet wet, dance and play in the musical lust and care of her sweet little love affairs. Drench herself, but be oh-so sure that she would not drown. Entirely sure that nothing and no one could steal her away, let alone crash her into the shores where she saw so many corpses. Her mother’s was there, rotting alive. It was safer be independent of that, even if it did mean lonely. It was a twisted logic that she couldn’t quite keep at bay.
Eyes closed and chin tilted to the ceiling, Poe wrapped an arm around Luz’s long waist, and snaked the other up her spine, twirling and tracing the vertebrae along the way to her neck. Her body sang, but her head spun, around and around that feeling-turned-construct of loneliness. It could have been the cold, short days, or the instinctual wrong of a pack animal turned lone for too long, or the heat that Luz conjured in her touch turning the rest of her body cold, but it seemed unnatural in her bones. This distance or shield of hearts. A lie, a lie, a blind eye all this time, unnecessary losses that she had never grieved. Her name tickled the hair under her ear, and she opened her eyes in an expression to match Luz’s eureka, slanted in the slightest by a furrowed brow. “There’s been too much loneliness, though,” she mumbled, turning her face into the smooth-edges features of her lover-friend-something, searching to meet the eyes behind those long feather-lashes. “A lot is missed there.” A pause, a moistening of startled mouth and throat, the D’Angelo girl’s eyes eased into an appearance much truer to her rising age than her features insisted. Very rarely did she show a dark seriousness in conversation, let alone in an embrace.
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[html] JUST EXCEPTIONALLY BAD AT SAYING WHEN
She dreamed of a night in Rome. The details had waxed thin with memory; there was gloss to the angles, a certain sheen smeared over every gritty bit. Perhaps it was a myth after all, a lie of moonlight and trick of stars, but her bones recalled how they had shivered at a laugh worth twice its weight in moans, and her skin bore the marks of a specific sable lass's caress. To know them once more? Wonder. To feel as if her head was going to burst, as if her tongue would turn to lead if she did not confess a sensation she could not name? Exquisite anguish, perfect pain, for any other course of action would split her skull and spill the stuff of her soul. (Dramatic, but we do speak of the astronomer.)
Words! Words, again, not for the first but for perhaps the third time, failed her. There was a sense of skirting about something, of speaking without naked statements, of narrowed-eye conversation. She fumbled with her instincts. "Too much," she said, thoughtfully. "Too much loneliness." She felt asleep. There was a prick at her spine, the sort of sensation that troubled her when chased in dreams. It seemed to originate in the set of her companion's eyes, so serious, so strangely pinched with grave questions. "And so much gained," she said, slowly, her thumb's caress deceptively steady. "The alternate evil being equally convenient, in its own ways, I think."
Luz would not ask her to turn away her asking eyes, would not insist that Poe return to the laughing creature of their European foray. Instead, she elected a bit more brazen path. "Tell me what's on your mind," she said, her eyes fastened on certain verdant landscapes (trapped, inexplicably, in twin irises) even as her lips pressed, very gently, a kiss to the center of the younger creature's collar bone. "Please." Her hand slid from its immediate place to an entirely different one: a twin press of the fingers to the spine, initiating an exploration of new frontiers, the mountain-chain vertebrae, the sinew-waltz below skin. |
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[html] Luz always sounded like she was speaking poetry. Even if they were the simplest, most mundane words, there was a quality to her voice that came through with grace and intent. She was consumed by words, by thoughts, even as her body pleaded the focus. A firm, warm body and wise fingers with a delicate touch were the only things keeping her from disconnecting with the worldly, grounded things that she knew and relied on, as bird-wing flusters tried pulling her up and away. Her body arched closer to Luz’s, and her plush flesh melded into the androgynous contours, one arm wrapping as far around the slimmest point as she could, securing herself to the beautiful reality that was offered to her there as the words were processed before an answer could be produced.
“I…” she began, then drifted and rethought. How many times could she recall someone asking her, so gentle and outright, what was on her mind? What was the right way to translate such things, when she could barely catch the gist of it herself. “I just want you,” she finally settled upon, examining the mystic eyes before her for some read of understanding, or lack thereof. It was a cryptic phrase that she quickly tried to decipher, for both of their sakes. “Not just right now. Not necessarily for forever, either. But I want all of this. I want to at least know what those other evils feel like.” She got the sense then, that she was creating her down leak. She was provoking the depths and the rocks, and she remembered in a flash, slipping in the flooded Yawrah River. It had dragged her through broken branches and across its stoney bottom before crashing her into a rock. She had woken up alone then, she now it seemed like that had been her first love lost. Or broken, more accurately. Foolishness did that though, but she didn’t turn back from it just now. “Everything about you,” she said under a low breath that trailed off after her words did. They had no ending, because there was too much to be said in its conclusion.
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[html] Ee! Goodness me. Also, please forgive temporary extreme god-moding; whatever's not okay can and will be fixed. Also, Gotta Have You by the Weepies is blasting in my brain right now. Egads! Delight. I'll let you be the judge of if/when an 'm' might need to make its way to the title.
JUST EXCEPTIONALLY BAD AT SAYING WHEN
"Oh, what luck," she whispered, dark-eyed, low-lidded, empirically pleased if certain betrayals of the mouth can be believed. There was an acrobratic shift of her limbs, hand-flutters, heart-beats. Suddenly Luz Cresceno was astride the object of her affection, and suddenly, she was entirely unsure of herself. But such exposures are the flaws of other beasts; she looked utterly herself, her shoulders slack, her head tilted sideways, her mouth slanted. Luz Cresceno was fashioned for such moments.
"Do you know," she began, a finger (so like a silver sliver) beginning slow geometries across the confessor's chest, avoiding the most obvious locations, turning to a flat palm and back to a single roving point at intervals its owner could not even predict. Her eyes slid with it, wedding senses, snapping her logic. "I've wanted you, before Italy, before that entire continent. I wanted you," and the exploration ceased for a moment, "the very first time I saw your eyebrows waggle?" It began again as suddenly as it had ceased. She grinned, excavating years from bone and back, for such a smile was more of an inside joke than a facial orchestration.
"Not forever," she agreed, suspiciously sensible, leaning foreward so that her lips were scant inches from a certain set of dark ears, "but perhaps..." Her hands (both, even the left sister) pinched what might be named the most sensitive portions of the breasts, in a motion somehow abrupt and gentle, without so much as a gnat's breath to give warning. "Perhaps tonight?" she asked, earnestly, her eyes so wide, so open, unguarded by their usual coy slant and the matte-black eyelashes. To share it, she eased backwards, sliding her hands into flat palms on the ground. Here! Another naked moment, far more than an intimation. There she was, faulty, fickle Luz Cresceno, who loved a babyface wanderer and couldn't quite say so, not now, not yet. |
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[html] Neither of them could really strip of the armours they wore, when it came down to it. Both women stared at each other, bore a vulnerable limb, gave glimpse of a soft underbelly, but they could do no more just then. They avoided key words (or perhaps only one), and humour made its way in, softening the blow of their risk. Poe had been so serious, unnaturally so for her temperament, but the mention of brow-waggling stirred the swirl of giggles and pixie-grins, just enough to flash a meagre smile that caught and snagged on the sultry touch to her breast. Below it, her heart beat wildly, as if about to break through its bone-barred cage, for that touch, for the escape it would give everything.
The dark girl couldn’t be sure if she were merely escaping the issue, or if the knots it had created were working themselves loose, and this slackened concern was a sign of change. Her body was lighting up, glowing with the ache of emotional, sexual hunger. The song that played over her chest came to its peak as the discussion climaxed, and everything began the smooth, thrilling downward swing from its heights. “Tonight,” she murmured, the last word that she would speak that cold, transformative night. Her unusually passive body came to life then, arms and legs lifting to brush the sides and back of the willowy figure, pulling their faulty figures close together again. Down, down, into a heart-crushing kiss, locked there by the stretch and push of steady-sure fingers. Tonight it would be, and tomorrow would be another story.
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(ooc: And then they banged all night long. Until Poe woke up, panicked, and tiptoed out NEVER TO RETURN (for two weeks, or whatever it's been)!)
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