He was a prince and she, a princess.
They were entitled to one another.
Those who cast glares so hot that they left reflective pear-shaped scars against her cheeks and whispered haughtily amongst themselves did not see what he saw in her, or what she saw in him.
They knew one another.
He was so valiant that he was incapable of losing a battle and she, she was so clever that she could restring the twines of a man's heart without even batting an eye; she had broken him.
"I used to have dignity, y'know."
A giggle. "I know."
A hand on her knee, his head cocked against her breasts. She holds him and he breathes so softly in the shadow of the dimming fireplace. Her little fingers raked against his bleach-yellow hair and her heartbeat cooed a lullaby and he thought he could hear her mother singing from somewhere deep inside. Her fingers press against the fold of his worn coat and they ease the material down his spine to reveal the attractive curve of his neck. There, her calloused and bitten fingernails linger to dance and he will not move.
"This is not the last time," she promises.
He knows.
His blackened hands inch to tangle the broken ends of her hair; water soaks through the gloves and he further understands how much she had to endure in order to be present at this very moment. She left her castle, still endowed with all the gaudy fancy her father could bestow upon her tiny neck, and traveled on foot through the storm which still pounded like a stick at the door of their secret place. She never felt urgency except in the act of bidding farewell.
"How long?" he asks.
She hums and her breath restores the purple-blue paint he left against her wrists. His chest nearly fumbles over itself like hers does each time he invectives her just to get a rise, 'cause he likes the life in her eyes. The sound of her lips caressing his skin is swallowed by the cackling fire.
"Forever," she decrees.
He focuses on the cologne hanging behind the washboard of a storm and knows he and she have touched a lot. It's especially heavy in the angle of her neck, and he wonders if his scent pooled right there, right in where her collar bone is, and he wonders how long it will be before her hear smells less like vanilla and strawberries and more like the man he promised her he'd be.
"I love you. Even if I don't show it," he lets go of everything he was.
He lifts himself from her melody and uses her hair like a rope. It winds around her neck thrice and does not give when she tries to tear at it with the hope of saving one more breath of air.
"And I love you,… just as I love the flowers, and how I love the silence. You have me, baby, but you don't have my heart," she kisses him like it's their first.
A hand on his knee, her head cocked against his breasts. He holds her and she lays so still in the shadow of the dying fireplace. His gloved fingers thread through her night-black hair and his heartbeat stummed a funeral song and she thought she could hear her mother singing from somewhere deep inside. His fingers press against the lace wound around her neck and they ease the material down her spine to reveal the attractive curve of her neck. There, his calloused and bitten fingernails linger to dance and she will not move.
A/N : Inspired by my insatuable love for this couple and by a poem written by Robert Browning. It's been a long, long time since I've written much, especially a one-shot, so reviews would be really quite lovely! Since I adore this couple, I am considering either expanding this into a collection of one-shots or possibly beginning a chaptered story with a plot and so forth? Let me know if you believe I should continue the lovely Rinoa/Seifer angstromancesexualfrustration (;
-Isolde Necrophilia.