Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
plot by me
She sits on the floor of his city loft; a rustic greenhouse filled with vanilla and cashmere scented candles, bottles of expensive whiskey from all of the countries he's traveled to, and scattered ashes from cigarettes lying around. She helps him with the clay sculpture he's been working on for ages. He works as a freelance artist, taking jobs when he can.
Her hands are messy and busy as they slide along the smooth and wet clay in front of her. The room is set at sunset and is held with a comfortable silence until a small laugh fills the late evenings air. She looks over to see her lover laughing, looking at her with glistening green eyes and a deep left dimple.
She furrows her eyebrows at him, trying to make her eyes meet his through the mess of curls atop his perfectly shaped head. She mouths inaudible words of confusion as he laughs some more, parting his lips to press a kiss against her mouth. You, he says. He smiles as he pulls away. He brings his thumb to her temple on the side of her head, making her glance upwards towards the ceiling.
You got something, He murmurs almost silently as he smooths out the pad of his thumb, removing the clay residue from her temple. Both of their breath begins to speed up, his eyes interlocking with hers. A soft blush spreads across her face as she grins ever so slightly. He leans in again, pressing his lips to hers out of fear of what she might say next.
Her hands find the back of his neck almost instantly, then his biceps. Really, just any place where she can hold onto him tightly. Harry, please. He pulls back after a moment, his eyes full of fond and ardor. The feeling of his chaste lips against her neck is enough to send a molecular tingle down her spine, making her curl her back upwards with pure serotonin.
It's the little things. The way he draws hearts on her skin with the pads of his fingertips, or the feeling of his digits dancing along their candlelit path below. It's the way his name echos her mind, bouncing off of the walls that hold her brain up and stitched along her cortex. It's the things like the songs he plays in the apartment on his record player as they dance around and make pasta for dinner.
It's always been the little things, like the sweet nothings she whispers into his mouth, chased with cherry wine swollen lips. It's the hair ties she gives him so he can put his curls atop his head in the morning while he rinses his face with cold water. The lazy morning kisses before coffee as they lay on their messy white sheets with scattered throw pillows.
The shared cigarettes and annotated paperback novels. The paintings he gives her each year on her birthday. The notes they both leave scattered across the loft with sappy messages that always result in a toothy grin. It's always going to be the feeling after the whispered I love you's, and the way they both fell in love.
The pure innocence of the kiss is enough to make the couple bubble over with joy. His roaming hedonistic fingertips tug gently at the hem of her skirt until he stops, and soaks in the moment, embracing where he is and who he's with. No amount of notes or records or good morning messages will ever amount to a feeling like this. A feeling of simplicity, and feeling like you've found where you belong in the world.
He's slotted in between her thighs, now, pads of his thumbs brushing gently against her hipbones. His kisses run soft and languid against her inner thighs. The speed is slow, matching the droplets of rain that began to cloud the city sky. The night is slow, the air is warm and sensual, crowded with the scent of vanilla.
We should do this more often, she says as her face begins to flush. Her voice holds an innocent tone as her murmurs a soft mhm against the inner parts of her legs. He drags out, all raspy, into a soft kiss. He takes his hand and laces it with hers as he gets up from his stomach and grabs a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table. He takes one from the pack and holds it gently between his cupid's bow and lower lip before lighting it.
Silently, he passes her the cig after a couple of drags. She gives him a fond smile after a couple of drags from the paper tube. What, he asks with a confused look spread across his face. She gives him back the cig, a few moments passing as she stares out onto the small balcony where a puddle of rain has accumulated next to a potted plant.
He moves his messy curls out of his eyes as he hovers above her, taking her in. Her skirt has gone back over her legs as she continues to gaze. The candlelight shines dimly, illuminating his perfectly chiseled and developed features. A small bit of stubble across his cheeks has now come into focus. His hand is still intertwined with hers as she begins to answer. I just enjoy admiring you.
He forgets about his clay project for the client that had offered to pay him double what he's charged, because he is contently in love with the greatest work of art he's ever laid his eyes on.
