Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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I have to mention that there is some maturity to follow, so read at your own risk. *it's not massively smutty, because let's face it, it's Allora (and I can't write smut lmao)*
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A soft orange glow breaks through the drapes of Kian's abode, so as I climb the ladder, I assume it to be because his oil lamp is burning and so, I imagine him to be awake. Gently, I pull away the bottom corner of the drape, and at the movement, his head jolts upright. "Allora?" He says, as if my presence has confused him.
I do not respond; simply pull myself into the room and with ginger steps, sit myself on the mattress he lays upon. My legs curl beneath me, shielded by the smock dress I wear to allow my skin to breathe this warmer evening. The hem interests me with such intensity, it is what I focus on for this stretch of silence, folding and unfolding, twisting and straightening with my fingers, birthing creases that match the ones that home between my furrowed brows.
"Allora." Kian repeats. As if I have only just noticed him, my head springs up with an acknowledging hum. "You good?" He asks. I chew on the inner of my cheek, not entirely sure as how to answer that question. He seems to notice my inner turmoil, because he takes his hands to mine, pulling me closer, and I crawl to sit between his thighs. "Speak."
"The wedding is in two weeks." The words, despite being a hardly audible whisper, slice the atmosphere as if wielding a steel sword. Kian stares at me, waiting for the punchline, and I stare back, waiting for him to hold me. He remains entirely still though, so it is I that seeks solace in the waiting spaces between in fingers, where I lay my own and lace our hands together.
His eyes drop to our linked hands and fractures the stillness that consumes him. "You have to get married in two weeks?" I nod. Silence stretches. "We can still leave." He tells me, and I sigh, letting my head hang forward and resting on his strong shoulder.
"I cannot. Zaveri and the others – it could jeopardise their safety –" I begin to explain.
"So what?" He interjects, pulling back so I can do nothing but sit straight, regarding his frowning expression. "What about you?"
In this minor explosion of frustration, his unruly hair has fallen astray over his forehead, casting a darkened shadow over his eyes. I take one hand from him, using the tips of my fingers to brush his eyes free – the amber which glows with a violent fire. "Kian, if me leaving risked the safety of your friends – Yonda or Wes, Mika or Bug – would you still request it of me?" He doesn't reply, but his silence speaks loud enough, and he simply leans into the hand I have let rest on his cheek.
"You look pale." He eventually points out.
"I was sick today." I inform him. "At the thought of having to leave you." Kian takes his own hands and lays them either side of my neck, his thumb strumming my pulse that pounds unsteadily every time he is near. He presses a firmness on it, instructing a staggered breath to fill my lungs, and with that, he presses him lips gently against mine – so soft, tentative, I almost do not feel it. It is me that yearns for more, capturing him in my hold by twisting my fingers about one another behind his neck, offering me the stability to pull myself upon his lap, pressing our bodies closer and closer until there is nothing but the fine layers of fabric between us.
