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augustines2013-02-14 08:09 pm
smithereens) wrote in augustines2013-02-14 08:09 pm
Entry tags:
two. (sihai&shakir)
return--
“We could run away together,” she whispers, as wistfully as she’s able, and he drags her more tightly into his embrace as her eyelashes press butterfly kisses against his chest and she says softly, quietly, laced with approaching sleep, “We could go back to the desert and build a house, and we could just be Sihai and Shakir, and no one would know…”
distance--
It is the tiniest of smiles, wan as the crescent moon, and he thinks that her distant beauty is suddenly much nearer.
tease--
Here? as her toes curl against the bare planes of his back, here? as he drags his tongue between her parted thighs, here? as she cries out in pleasure-laced frustration and twists her fingers in his hair so tightly that it hurts.
frown--
Even in sleep he is forever ill-tempered, she thinks, pressing a light kiss to his furrowed brow and yelping in surprise when he stirs and sweeps her back into his arms.
ocean--
It is a sea of people that fills the banquet hall, and Sihai’s fingertips in the palm of his hand underneath the table that anchor him.
connect--
It is here, where they are joined, where he is inside her and over her and everywhere around her and murmuring her name like a prayer, over and over, that she threads her fingers in his and lets herself be consumed.
daylight--
She can no longer count the number of times that she’s woken to the call of songbirds, the rising of the newborn sun, and the gentle press of Shakir’s lips against her forehead.
lead--
"Why do you need so many layers?" he laments, his fingers fumbling for the first time she can recall on the complex ties of her hanfu; she smiles wryly while she guides his hands, over and over until they no longer hesitate, and says, "To keep men like you from doing exactly this."
burn--
She was never prepared for the hot desert sun, he thinks, planting a kiss to the tip of her raw pink nose and trying not to laugh when she pouts.
chill--
It's unexpectedly cold at night, out in the wild desert, so cold that she wraps herself in her coat and her blankets and then his coat and his blankets and finally Shakir himself, cocooned in the circle of his arms, and she feels warmer than she's ever been in years.
envy--
She would make a beautiful bride, he thinks, watching her speak to Madahir at the head of the table, her head canted at just the angle that reminds him of last night, pale column of her throat exposed as she falls back on the bed; they would make a beautiful couple, he thinks next, knuckles bleeding white around the stem of his wine glass as he tells himself that he has never been jealous of his brother before.
share--
"She would've loved you," he says quietly, lifting their joined hands so he can watch the thread of their fingers, the paleness of her skin contrasted to his, "my mother."
call--
"It's still dark out," she protests, screwing her eyes stubbornly shut while he presses firm kisses to the exposed side of her neck, one hand traveling the curve of her hip; he chuckles softly when she squirms and adds, a little more emphatically, "Get out of bed or go back to sleep-- either way, leave me al-- Shakir."
bath--
"Are you sure you're not going to drown?" he asks, smiling so wickedly Sihai can't decide whether to smack the smirk off his face or kiss it instead; he solves the dilemma for her by pressing kisses to her wet cheek while she splashes him and shrieks, "I'm not going to drown in a bathtub!"
guitar--
Her fingers are delicate and purposeful on the strings of the instrument she plays, as foreign to him as the unfamiliar rhythm, as the outdated language of the lyrics she sings; he only recognizes half of the words and understands even less, but he cannot help but think her song is very sad.
rhythm--
"You're a-- you're such a--" she falters, struggling for the word; Shakir watches her with raised eyebrows until she finally settles on one of her own tongue, something harsh-sounding and rough and undoubtedly taboo, given the way she colors very faintly over her scowl. Later, he kisses her mouth and asks for sweeter words and delights in the rhythm of them, spoken so quickly that the sentences lose meaning but he understands all the same.
coronet--
They went to the market again, that day; she watched him shake hands with sellers, call out passers-by by name, laugh during the good parts of the children's excited stories, smile more genuinely on the sandy streets, in his plain clothes and with his unadorned hair, than she had ever seen him in the palace, surrounded by his people instead of officials and advisers, and she thinks to herself that he would've made a good king, if he'd been born first instead of second.
maps (i)--
He is a cartographer, mapping out the crests and dips of her body; he draws plains from the expanse of her stomach, rivers from the veins in her wrists, valleys in the hollows above her collarbone. He scales her breasts with his fingertips, tastes the ocean between her thighs; he commits the landscape of her body to his memory in lieu of paper and ink, and marks the compass rose with his lips upon the small of her back so that he never loses his way.
maps (ii)--
She is an explorer upon his shoreline, carving a path into the untamed wilderness of his heart; she discovers shadowy forests in the hitch of his breath, sees the light from his eyes filter in through the canopy of trees. She creates trails with her fingertips that crisscross the new world of his body, uncovers mysteries in the calloused palms of his hands and treasures where his skin meets hers; she raises her flag upon him only when they are alone, before the tide comes in with daylight and sweeps her back out to sea.
“We could run away together,” she whispers, as wistfully as she’s able, and he drags her more tightly into his embrace as her eyelashes press butterfly kisses against his chest and she says softly, quietly, laced with approaching sleep, “We could go back to the desert and build a house, and we could just be Sihai and Shakir, and no one would know…”
distance--
It is the tiniest of smiles, wan as the crescent moon, and he thinks that her distant beauty is suddenly much nearer.
tease--
Here? as her toes curl against the bare planes of his back, here? as he drags his tongue between her parted thighs, here? as she cries out in pleasure-laced frustration and twists her fingers in his hair so tightly that it hurts.
frown--
Even in sleep he is forever ill-tempered, she thinks, pressing a light kiss to his furrowed brow and yelping in surprise when he stirs and sweeps her back into his arms.
ocean--
It is a sea of people that fills the banquet hall, and Sihai’s fingertips in the palm of his hand underneath the table that anchor him.
connect--
It is here, where they are joined, where he is inside her and over her and everywhere around her and murmuring her name like a prayer, over and over, that she threads her fingers in his and lets herself be consumed.
daylight--
She can no longer count the number of times that she’s woken to the call of songbirds, the rising of the newborn sun, and the gentle press of Shakir’s lips against her forehead.
lead--
"Why do you need so many layers?" he laments, his fingers fumbling for the first time she can recall on the complex ties of her hanfu; she smiles wryly while she guides his hands, over and over until they no longer hesitate, and says, "To keep men like you from doing exactly this."
burn--
She was never prepared for the hot desert sun, he thinks, planting a kiss to the tip of her raw pink nose and trying not to laugh when she pouts.
chill--
It's unexpectedly cold at night, out in the wild desert, so cold that she wraps herself in her coat and her blankets and then his coat and his blankets and finally Shakir himself, cocooned in the circle of his arms, and she feels warmer than she's ever been in years.
envy--
She would make a beautiful bride, he thinks, watching her speak to Madahir at the head of the table, her head canted at just the angle that reminds him of last night, pale column of her throat exposed as she falls back on the bed; they would make a beautiful couple, he thinks next, knuckles bleeding white around the stem of his wine glass as he tells himself that he has never been jealous of his brother before.
share--
"She would've loved you," he says quietly, lifting their joined hands so he can watch the thread of their fingers, the paleness of her skin contrasted to his, "my mother."
call--
"It's still dark out," she protests, screwing her eyes stubbornly shut while he presses firm kisses to the exposed side of her neck, one hand traveling the curve of her hip; he chuckles softly when she squirms and adds, a little more emphatically, "Get out of bed or go back to sleep-- either way, leave me al-- Shakir."
bath--
"Are you sure you're not going to drown?" he asks, smiling so wickedly Sihai can't decide whether to smack the smirk off his face or kiss it instead; he solves the dilemma for her by pressing kisses to her wet cheek while she splashes him and shrieks, "I'm not going to drown in a bathtub!"
guitar--
Her fingers are delicate and purposeful on the strings of the instrument she plays, as foreign to him as the unfamiliar rhythm, as the outdated language of the lyrics she sings; he only recognizes half of the words and understands even less, but he cannot help but think her song is very sad.
rhythm--
"You're a-- you're such a--" she falters, struggling for the word; Shakir watches her with raised eyebrows until she finally settles on one of her own tongue, something harsh-sounding and rough and undoubtedly taboo, given the way she colors very faintly over her scowl. Later, he kisses her mouth and asks for sweeter words and delights in the rhythm of them, spoken so quickly that the sentences lose meaning but he understands all the same.
coronet--
They went to the market again, that day; she watched him shake hands with sellers, call out passers-by by name, laugh during the good parts of the children's excited stories, smile more genuinely on the sandy streets, in his plain clothes and with his unadorned hair, than she had ever seen him in the palace, surrounded by his people instead of officials and advisers, and she thinks to herself that he would've made a good king, if he'd been born first instead of second.
maps (i)--
He is a cartographer, mapping out the crests and dips of her body; he draws plains from the expanse of her stomach, rivers from the veins in her wrists, valleys in the hollows above her collarbone. He scales her breasts with his fingertips, tastes the ocean between her thighs; he commits the landscape of her body to his memory in lieu of paper and ink, and marks the compass rose with his lips upon the small of her back so that he never loses his way.
maps (ii)--
She is an explorer upon his shoreline, carving a path into the untamed wilderness of his heart; she discovers shadowy forests in the hitch of his breath, sees the light from his eyes filter in through the canopy of trees. She creates trails with her fingertips that crisscross the new world of his body, uncovers mysteries in the calloused palms of his hands and treasures where his skin meets hers; she raises her flag upon him only when they are alone, before the tide comes in with daylight and sweeps her back out to sea.