Author: his terrible beauty PM
ONESHOT. He wrote her a letter, and she answers it the best way she knows. It was her favourite kind of falling.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst/Romance - Words: 595 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 2 - Published: 02-04-08 - id: 2471499
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There were butterflies in her stomach and it felt like falling; tumbling, descending, sinking- gravitating at a rapid speed.
It wasn't the nice kind of falling- not the kind where she could seek comfort in the fact that she was about to hit the ground and it would soon be over.
It was more the kind of falling from her dreams- the ones where she couldn't even stop to enjoy the feel of the wind in her hair, the ones where sher wasn't quite flying, and this alternative didn't even come close.
It was the kind of falling she had always hated, uncontrollable. She couldn't relax, because her body was already bracing for the impact and anticipating the inevitable pain.
She was terrified.
There was electricity in the air.
He could feel it surrounding him, threatening to make him explode if he didn't try to do something.
Only another step and his hand could brush her arm.
Only another move and his hips could brush her hips and she might give a little gasp at the contact.
An electric shock.
No, not so bold.
He wore a nonchalant mask over his face- the only giveaway of his inner struggle in the whiteness of the knuckles, gripping the umbrella in his hands. He was soaked through and his throat was dry; his voice was husky as he attempted to regain his usual calm demeanour.
"Do you have an answer for me?"
His polite words gave away nothing of the intensity in his gaze, and she felt distinctly nervous as his eyes dropped to the letter in her hands.
His perceptive mind noted that it was not worn, or crumpled- she had probably only read it once. Cynicism told him that she didn't care, and as he looked back towards her face, she saw his eyes cloud over.
He was closing off again and she desperately wanted him to stop attempting to protect himself.
The bloody arrogant git, he was being manipulative without even realising it.
She recalled his words in the letter- no flowery sentiments or dramatic declarations of eternal adoration.
His confessions were sarcastic and self-deprecating- spiked with some brutal honesty that compelled her to believe him.
He loved her, he wanted her, he needed her- and yet he could remain aloof and detached as she stood there shaking.
She bit her lip angrily, and it took all of his willpower not to grab her and kiss her.
Fuck, she was beautiful, and God, he wished she'd answer.
He opened his mouth to speak again- but the lust in her eyes distracted him.
White-hot shivers ran up his spine and then suddenly they were kissing.
One of them moaned and the other pressed their body closer- I couldn't say who kissed who, or tell one body from another, what with their proximity. They were whispering, touching, tasting and mumbling words that were rather too inappropriate to even recall.
It felt wrong in the best way- his lips were rough and bruising, her back was pressed against the wall.
It felt like she was the happiest she had over been, and he felt far too bloody vulnerable to even begin to feel comfortable, but he didn't give a damn anymore.
They were falling too fast to even try to stop- falling in lust and in love. She pulled away for a second, witnessing something unrecognisable and soft in his eyes.
She changed her mind.
This was her favourite kind of falling.