𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Written In Her Stars

Tewkesbury's POV

A hand caressed my cheek, cupping it gently. The palm felt soft, supple. It was hers. It could have only been hers. She was right there, in front of me; a vision of warmth; of golden, candle-cast firelight.

She shifted closer, crosslegged on my mattress, falling into me. But it wasn't close enough, and it never would be. But all she could do for now was crawl on her knees until she had a leg either side if me.

With eyes half closed she rubbed her thumb below my eye as if she were wiping away invisible tears, all the while tucking her bottom lip beneath her teeth. I was mesmerized. Absolutely infatuated in everything that was her.

The ends of her long wavy hair that fell upon my bare stomach. The freckles that painted constellations across her body. Virgo on her ribcage, Orion on her wrist. She had Cygnus on her hip, and Pisces along her collarbone.

She tucked Leo behind her ear, and Taurus along her jaw. But my favorite was Aries, hidden between her legs, composed against her inner thigh.

Because only I had ever seen it.

Her body burned above me, I could tell from the sweat that cut across her shoulder blades. Her skin should have scorched my own, but I couldn't feel it. I was burning too.

My hands grazed her sides, from the small of her waist to base of her hips. I pulled her up against me, her navel against my chest, head lowered to look down at me. I needed her close, needed her to be closer, if that was even possible.

My white sheets crinkled and creased as her knees dug into the fabric. She shifted her weight onto me and I welcomed all of her. I would have cringed at the sound of wrinkling fabric but I didn't even notice it; not while I was caught up in every breath, every soft sigh that spilled from her lips.

She let her hands fall to my shoulders, rubbing them gently, pressing the pads of her thumbs against muscle. Her actions beckoned me to relax, to release some of the tension. Only, she was the reason I felt tense in the first place.

How was I supposed to feel at ease with her in front of me. On top of me. How was I supposed to breath with her shifting back and forth against me, over and over and over again. How.

I felt void, as if she had hollowed me out. Emptied by the sight of her; all consuming and addictive. Was she aware of the effect she had on me? Did she enjoy watching me melt? Spilling through the gaps between her fingers like sand.

I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to tell her all the things that had happened since she left. Every thought I'd had, every move I'd made. I'd hesitate to relay my dreams to her, but only because it had been the same dream, every night, since the day she'd left.

And it never hurt any less than it did the first time.

But I was pulled from my inner dispute as she bowed her head down to my level. She brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear before whispering something to me. Her breath was hot, exhilarating, and I could feel the blood rush.

I didn't dwell on the fact that I couldn't understand her, that her words were pure gibberish, nothing but noise; because she softly bit my ear. And suddenly, I couldn't remember anything that had ever happened before that moment.

I let my head fall against the wooden back board of my bed and smiled. A wide, toothy grin. My eyes half closed, eyelids heavy, and vision clouded by endorphins. I felt inebriated, but was completely content in the knowledge that she was the one who had left me that way.

She caught a glimpse of my expression, my dazed satisfaction, and laughed softly. It came out like air, like sultry perfume, lifted by a breeze and delivered to my ears. Her voice seemed to echo around the room endlessly, its volume diminishing only slightly with every repetition.

She looked back down at me and returned my smile as I placed my hands on her bare back from under her arms. Her skin was taut, and I could feel the bones underneath shift as she moved to rest her arms around my neck.

I traced my index finger down the length of her spine, counting every ridge and ripple in her anatomy. She let out a hum of approval, a tone I found strangely rewarding.

She pushed against my shoulder, putting some distance between us so this I could see her and she, me. I tried my best to ignore how heavenly she'd looked, leaning back, chin tilted upwards. Her eyes closed, eyebrows creased and lips parted as she continued to shift, pressing herself down, against me.

And what was I to do once she opened her eyes and stared into my soul, other than hand it over to her. I was I supposed to deny the sensation of her fingers running through my hair, grazing my scalp.

She rested her palms on the nape of my neck, playing with the ends of my hair. I watched as her own hair fell forwards, over her shoulder to cover one side of her chest. And just as my eyes flickered down to reveal what lay underneath, I was pulled up for air.

It was slow and gentle, lasting lifetime. She was the desert and ocean all at once. The venomous being and the only antidote. And the kiss felt like every fire I'd ever suffocated, every lamp I'd ever lit and every candle I'd ever blown out, returning all at once to set me alight.

She held my face in both of her hands, the way you'd hold an artifact; terrified of breaking it, but absolutely mesmerized by its significance. The things behind the surface, the history that it, that we, hold.

I wanted to hold her too. I Wished to do for her the things she did for me. My hands reached for her, slowly, tentatively. Because I had to be careful, for she was fragile, illusive,

Hallucinatory.

I woke up in a sweat, the same way I had every night for at least a week and a half. I checked the grandfather clock, stood proud against the wall on the far side of my room. It read 11 at night.

For the next 6 hours, until the sun rose, I'd mourn the loss of what I'd had mere moments ago. It had become routine, to go to sleep tired, eager. To wakeup disappointed, and just as tired as I had been pre-fantasy.

She'd been so close. Close enough that I could swear that I could still feel the heat of her skin against my own. A solar flare, an eternal flame.

I can't do this anymore.

It had to stop. I needed a way out, something to break the torturous cycle I'd trapped myself in. I could feel myself slipping from the surface of the earth, simultaneously drifting upwards and sinking into solid ground. I was losing myself.

She hadn't made contact, and I understood why. Just as well as I'd understood her reasons for saying no. They'd made sense, she was right, and she had every right to say no. But still, sometimes I imagined she'd said yes. And it was utter bliss.

There was one more thing I could do, or at least, I thought I could. I would be the first to do it, the first to bend the rules, the first to lose my senses and subject myself to ridicule amongst my societal peers.

Or maybe, I was just the first person who really understood what it was to be in love. To have no consideration for the formal matters that surround the one person that somehow, had become everything.

I made my way to my bureau, the wood creaking beneath my bare feet. A sheet of paper, more if I needed it, a quill, and enough ink to spill the contents of my heart.

It soaked into the parchment like blood into cloth. Primal and vibrant, viscous and painful. And with a steady hand and a determined grip, a marked down the first words of my last resort.

If you are reading this, I have done what I set out to do...