#pyrlte

“ keep having this dream, ” she breathes out evenly, tone carefully soft though desperation is rupturing between syllables of each word. “ it’s d-dark and i don’t know what i’m running from but i hear you calling my name. your voice feels closer and closer but ... i never get to you. ” honey watches his face faintly illuminated by the flickering of candles and wonders if it’s all a metaphor –– if the part of her subconscious that feels him indefinitely out of reach finds a way in to their bedroom every night after she closes her eyes. she wonders too if he can feel her body slick with sweat at seven in the morning, wisps of hair clinging to skin and freckled cheeks glistening under the light of sunrise. when she trembles an out of breath good morning and her grip around him refuses to let up she hopes he can’t tell how badly she wants to believe it’s just a dream.

she spots him first. instinctually her fingers go limp, and mouth falls ajar. the raspberry she’d been bringing up to her mouth falls, ricochetting off the hardwood floors of the room and rolling down to where his feet stand by the door. fuck. her body freezes. she can’t move. incredulous eyes widen impossibly before her, she’s got to force herself to blink to make it feel real. if she could move, she’d make a mad dash for the door. her mind’s already calculated when to get up and how many steps it might take to get out before he can catch even the slightest glimpse her. she’s read a lot of books, ( an embarrassingly large percentage of them tailor-made to feed her hopeless romantic idiosyncrasies ) though not a single one could’ve prepared her for this instance. 

          can’t be certain whether it’s harder or easier for charles to love her this way –– mute. stupidly lying before him post bath, clad in nothing but one of his sweaters ––– damp head of hair slopped onto his lap whilst wide wonders long up at him in silence. little hands shake at her lap as she picks at her nails idly, fighting that urge she’s always got to lose her fingers in his. freckled cheeks are splotchy, and she’s yet to cry but soon hues flicker down because something is coming and she’s certain he can tell. 

       her lungs haven’t got enough air to breathe but there’s no good cause for it. for minutes now they've been uncontrollably shaking honey’s body –– a fit of giggles that ricochet off the walls of the living room with a relish that scarcely breathes life into her disposition. “ i ... can’t, ” something or another to do with the episode of spongebob on the television and her thumb being stuck replaying this particular clip that she just can not handle. it’s knocked the capability to breathe straight out of her. “ CHARLES, ” rasped resonance soars for the atmosphere to call him into the room once she can manage. hands come up to warm, pink cheeks and bright eyes fight to keep away from the screen lest she break out into another recalcitrant episode of laughter. ( @borngolds )

“why do we have to have our life together at all? i mean, i change my favorite color once a week and my style every time something cool on instagram shows up on my feed. i’m practically a different person every day,” lara knew she could go on and on with this rant and she kind of planned to until she looked at him. “my new assignment for my class is writing about a life i would considered as put together. i mean i study psychology for reasons like this, to understand the fascination of things like this not to write personal essays about how i would considered put together. am i making any sense?” // @pyrlte​

       hands aren’t nearly big enough for honey to feel all of him at once, but she can damn near make a valiant effort anyway. can’t remember how she got to be in this position –– legs straddling his lean figure whilst needy palms roam feverishly beneath his t-shirt for every inch of his body’s heat. but now that she’s begun she can’t be sure she’s ready to stop. lips slow down after the while they’ve spent suckling at the skin of his neck to work on a red little number that she can’t say she’s not proud of. a sloppy peck to top it once she’s done, like autographing a masterpiece before a minute smirk comes over pink lips in triumph. “ mine. ” @borngolds