behind the streams | dnf

thirty four | perfect

GEORGE

Uncertainty, possibility, a night of maybes. The hope, rising and falling as the circumstances crawled to the edge- only to shy away again.

It was a yes or no, it grew to a when, and it's now. Coming to rest in a moment so right, so perfect, it can only be the doing of the very stars themselves. 

The choices you're not giving to me... in some alignment of the constellations, it's shifted to within my reach and I'm so quick to take it, I take it.

It feels like the easiest thing in the world to do. 

We're stopping, slowing, and then it all happens at once- the slight of his jaw and the way mine lifts to meet his, the charged space between us searing to a crisp, bringing him in as my arms tighten around the back of his neck. 

He kisses me deeply, his mouth capturing mine in a sensation so extraordinary but so, so welcome. 

The feeling of him coming alive in my arms- I lose the ability to think, I let the want overpower sense. Thin fabric coils over and over in between my fingers, twisting mindlessly against the lean, surging muscles of his shoulders. 

His hands, strong slates against the sides of my face, snapping me into him with an intensity I've kept close but now, now, he presses and I feel myself letting go.

I let him in, I let him on me like I've always wanted him to. My fingers release desperate creases in his shirt, fumbling their way to death grips around each of his wrists, pulling me closer, please, pull me closer.

He does.

Lifting me off the bed, he traps me in the thick of the heat of ourselves. I stumble for steady footing on knees that have gone weak, leaning my weight and more onto him as our chests, hips, everything, they shove together. 

Hands gripping on hair, tracing over and under hems of shirts; each brush of contact sends staggering sparks through the air and it still doesn't feel enough.

One hand snakes to the small of my back, the other drops to rest lightly on my waist. His fingers ensnare with the fabric that hugs me so loosely, hitching up and under the bagginess with deft, enticing movements. 

They fall to tantalizing traces as the cool air and his touch seeps in, gracing the slip of exposed skin. Shuddering, the contact sends brilliance dazzling throughout my limbs, a quiet gasp into his mouth even as I push back.

A ghost of a smile grazes against my lips, low challenge rumbles in his throat and I feel myself sink. 

He rises, he drives us both as I'm slowly collapsing against him and it only makes his job all too easy. 

The cushioned fall into undone sheets knocks my breath out but then he's there, he's there, above me, and I feel the exhilaration pool back in. He's looking at me, with something I've only seen glimpses of but too quick, too blurred to build hope off of. 

Looking at me, with all I've ever dreamed of. 

It's there. Finally, finally there, and the realization is shattering as my body goes slack under his.

This is real. My hand reaches out in pure, unadulterated awe, skimming over his cheek and startled at the warmth that sears under my fingertips.

His hair is tugged on significantly, his mouth marked, he's taking in air through quiet, uneven gasps yet he still manages to look so damn good. I admire it freely, taking my time, holding an astonished breath at how impossibly unfair it is, how can this be real?