lady cosmos


It's in the way his breath brushes against your lips, cheek, neck. The way his hands tremble so slightly as they tightened their hold around your waist, arms moving to encircle your body. In moments like this, you don't know whether you need him more than he needs you and sometimes you just don't want to know.

You brush your hand against his cheek just so you can feel his breath flutter against your skin first hot and then cold; a breathy sigh that's your name enflames your skin as his lips hold just bare centimeters from yours, close enough so that you can feel the heat from them yet can't truly touch them. It's enough to irritate you and make you want to push forward, to crush those lips against your own and stop that breath from caressing your face. He's always in perfect control, even when you're like this.

It's something that fascinates yet enrages you. You want to break him just once; see what he really is beneath that cool exterior. That smug, smirking arrogance that captivates you and makes you tremble. Something about the way he holds himself that lets you know it's all an act. A poor one at that if you look close enough and can see his eyes; see the way they flicker and darken with emotion that's kept from his face, but only just.

You let yourself go so he can, too. You need to know that he trusts you enough to do that because you need to know that your trust is returned. His eyes flutter when shut, breath coming just a bit faster, a bit heavier. His hold becomes tighter, rougher yet gentle and caring at the same time and it hurts you when he does that. It hurts in a way you can't describe with your teeth clenched and chest tight. Stomach queasy and arms past weak. Your muscles feel like they can't... won't move, won't obey your will and yet you force them to wrap around him, brush his hair back from his eyes and it hurts.

It's never the same but never different. You hate the way he avoids touching your left arm, only skimming the edge with a finger, pulling back as if he were burned when he rests a hand on it. He prefers touching your head, fingers intertwining in your hair, massaging the scalp. The braid becomes messy and tangled but he's always so careful that it stays, showing his control in something as simple as that.

You take great pride in getting him to moan, groan, make any sound that isn't dignified or measured. Knowing that you're the only one that will hear that sound. You know you weren't the first and certainly not the last but for right now you are the only one. There's a certain amount of arrogance in realizing that with the slightest move or touch, you can make him pause and stumble. Not many people can say that. And with the way he protects you, it's comforting in its rigidness. Not many people have that.

It's the way his skin feels on yours, the way his muscles move over you and in you that keeps you coming back. The raw, human feel of him. And yet, with all that power and feral nature, he's extremely gentle with you; you wonder if he's this way with everyone but when his eyes catch yours, it just doesn't seem worth it to ask. Because you're all he sees at that moment, all he wants and all he craves. There's something terrifying in realizing that need, in knowing that you're helpless against him in times like these. He can take and take and take and you would do nothing to stop him; wouldn't want to stop him because you need it as well.

You hate feeling this way. More than anything, you hate admitting, even to yourself, that you want, need him. Words only hide so much as do actions in public. When it comes down to only the two of you, his breath heating your skin and his body rubbing yours, there's no more hiding. You would moan and gasp, grasping his arms and back, watching as he flinched as your right hand grabbed too hard, too suddenly. You would arch and cry out, tears gathering in your eyes but refusing to fall merely out of pride. He never spoke of it, never showed that he acknowledged this change and that only made it worse.

It felt as if a thousand thoughts were clamoring for attention, like you had everything to complete in only a day. The feeling of free falling through water, sluggish yet without end. It made breathing difficult; as if all the air were already in your lungs but you needed more. It made touching him, feeling the roughness of his skin and hair all the more important because if he made you feel then you wanted to make sure he would too.

You've always wondered what drove you to him. Or perhaps he was driven to you. Or maybe you both chose each other. But, that wouldn't make any sense because he and you can never agree on anything. Perhaps, you think, it doesn't matter how it happened since you certainly can't remember anything before this. Perhaps everything before this was necessary. Perhaps there would be others like this, but perhaps not. But at the moment, you figure it doesn't really matter. So you tremble as you brush your hand, your left hand, against his cheek and watch fascinated as his eyes close and his breath rushes out of his mouth silent but fierce.

What you have between the two of you is something strange, something other, but essentially yours. And that's enough for now.