When he inhales, a thousand smells and sights rush to his head.
There's lemon, and old leather, and clean laundry, and pale blonde hair like silk not yet woven. Drops of the ocean in her eyes, complexion like milk crystal. And her mouth, soft and smooth. There's just something in the subtle geometry of her rosy lips, the faint texture of skin and their curvature—just something that makes his wings flutter a little; without his permission, of course. She is his life and his death, his oxygen, his poison.
He looks at her with hungry, longing eyes, and lets his gaze sweep over her sharp angles and luscious curves, the fine texture of hair and the points of her cheekbones. He absorbs her every detail, down to the freckle below her ear and the tiny, ragged, crescent shaped scar on her ankle.
But he is just a man—a boy really; no, a fool—and she is a fallen angel, barefoot across the soil of a humble Earth.
He is only a boy, just a boy, and he knows this in spite of the 5 o'clock shadow painted in his hollowed cheeks and prominent bags underneath curiously sparkling green eyes. He knows, because when he looks in the mirror, he sees a mischievous, naïve face that is simultaneously 27, 4334, and 9 years old all at the same time and can't quite fathom why or how, and when he hugs his knees to his skinny chest, he's never felt this childish in all his four plus millennia alive.
He wants her, he concludes. He wants her, and nothing else. And, stupid, naïve boy that he is, he lets his infatuation seep into his veins, like some foreign yet pleasant anesthetic that he never knew he wanted.
The primal side of him yearns, almost begs for the taste of her lips on his, the sweet fire and the feeling of one hand tangling roughly in all that long, soft blonde hair. But the tiny corner of rationality in him tells him to watch her from afar, to not fiercely break apart the bond her lips have formed with someone else's. It's a war in his mind where neither side is winning nor losing, only making a mess of the battlefield.
He hangs his head underneath the starkly white moon, drowning in its silver light. The stars glare at him reproachfully, almost as if reprimanding him for not being of their caliber, of the purity and goodness that he can never hope to rival.
I'm trying.
Far out of the range of his eyesight, the angels snicker from behind scraps of cloud.
finis
a/n: ooomg wow okay the word count on this is like, less than 500 words? shame on me. yup, 441. *hangs head in shame*
so this story was like half-dedicated to OakeX, who not-so-subtly reminded me of my recent lack of writing. i'm sorry about that; i've been writing so many essays for school that my mind is pretty much permanently scrambled until next summer. i've also been working on a fic for ember53608's contest, and that's taken a lot of work too. and yeah, i gotta finish editing that and turn that in, but i really wanted to get this out because it's been rotting in the depths of word for quite a long time.
in case i'm actually a lot worse at incorporating (i had to spell that 5 times jfc) imagery into fics than i think, the fic was about slightly ooc!puck pining after sabrina. my excuse is that puck is an obnoxious pubescent teenager, so.
reviews, whether slathering me in praise or detailing how bad this story was, are always appreciated.
