( to know that one is no longer alone to weather oncoming storms might indeed be a thought one would cherish dearly. to know that he might stand beside her, no matter what comes (no matter who she is); to know that something within her nature earned such a loyalty from one such as him (none other like him, a wholly singular spirit) would be remarkably emboldening, where another part of her might wonder as to how she could have ever proven herself worthy of it. kindness might not be reserved only for the deserving, but loyalty was.
but thought sputters out — this isn't at all about duty. nothing in the gentleness between implies as such.
pinpricks along the skin as eyes close; the soft press of his lips is near lulling, and there is a feeling in her chest that harkens to warm summers and sunshine on skin.
restraint lingers somewhat with difficulty, hand sliding slowly up to hover featherlight against his neck, her other settling on his wrist; thumb just under the sharp line of his jaw and when he draws away, she catches herself wanting to follow. it is a dangerous thing, to open your heart. it is a vulnerability to be exploited by outside forces and yet — is it not worth the risk, when the way he looks at her is the reward?
it is such dichotomy to the handful of experiences from before — unruly and impulsive desire sharpened by loneliness. instead, there is something to his patience that makes her feel eternal when she is anything but and it is so terribly unfair, that he prompt such feelings at all. (how dare he, with one simple kiss?)
the weight of his gaze in hard to ignore, however, eyes rising to meet his. it does little to diminish her own spark of heat, perhaps inherent to her nature, the guarded want of keeping him near.
within her station, she had been called many things and none had really lingered. the impact was skin deep, the attention equally so. and yet, lovely he says and it inspires a flush to her cheeks and maybe the difference is in the tone, in who he is and in how much she'd longed to know his innermost thoughts without realizing. )
Flattery from your honeyed tongue, ( laughed, softly, as she tips her head forward just so, to press her brow to his, lips ghosting along his cheek. ) You can call me lovely as often as you'd like, valzȳrys. (husband, she says, with a curl of a wry smile. )
no subject
but thought sputters out — this isn't at all about duty. nothing in the gentleness between implies as such.
pinpricks along the skin as eyes close; the soft press of his lips is near lulling, and there is a feeling in her chest that harkens to warm summers and sunshine on skin.
restraint lingers somewhat with difficulty, hand sliding slowly up to hover featherlight against his neck, her other settling on his wrist; thumb just under the sharp line of his jaw and when he draws away, she catches herself wanting to follow. it is a dangerous thing, to open your heart. it is a vulnerability to be exploited by outside forces and yet — is it not worth the risk, when the way he looks at her is the reward?
it is such dichotomy to the handful of experiences from before — unruly and impulsive desire sharpened by loneliness. instead, there is something to his patience that makes her feel eternal when she is anything but and it is so terribly unfair, that he prompt such feelings at all. (how dare he, with one simple kiss?)
the weight of his gaze in hard to ignore, however, eyes rising to meet his. it does little to diminish her own spark of heat, perhaps inherent to her nature, the guarded want of keeping him near.
within her station, she had been called many things and none had really lingered. the impact was skin deep, the attention equally so. and yet, lovely he says and it inspires a flush to her cheeks and maybe the difference is in the tone, in who he is and in how much she'd longed to know his innermost thoughts without realizing. )
Flattery from your honeyed tongue, ( laughed, softly, as she tips her head forward just so, to press her brow to his, lips ghosting along his cheek. ) You can call me lovely as often as you'd like, valzȳrys. (husband, she says, with a curl of a wry smile. )