For those of you who have read my previous Beka Rosto story, you will find something a little different here. I view Kissed more as a happy, slightly depressing story. When I started writing this one, I was in a depressed mood. It's alright, I'm fine now. But now, I can't let go of this story. It's just... I think I'm in love with it. I like the way I have this planned out. Make sure you review. They are love!
This being the first publication, on a fanfiction site, it is not in a book. Using this to say that I obviously haven't been published anywhere. It is safe to assume from this that I am not making bunches and oodles of stories. Which means I am most definitely not Tamora Pierce and I am only using her characters.. And setting. Ish.
He kissed the girl lightly, then pulled away. Every time she came to kiss him, he would let her soft lips barely touch his, then he would pull his head away. It was a teasing dance of lips that was exciting, if not fulfilling. She was starting to groan in frustration, her breath deep and husky. It excited him but made him think of other things. Another woman. He didn't want to think about those things, that was why he was doing this. He kissed her full on, all his tangled emotions pushed into it, making it something that he didn't want to end. It was as if he were feeding himself on this woman's lips. Could it take away his pain?
Her hand moved to his, then moved it to her thighs. Rosto's eyes were focused on what she was doing, trying to think it was someone else. He couldn't look her in the eyes and still do this. It would tear him apart. It would do things to him that neither of them would be satisfied with. His body was already showing signs, but she distracted him. Finally, the magic happened and he was forgetting. The frustration and doubt were ripped from his body as it gave way to numbness. It was all gone but the steady movement of his body and the rhythm of his heart. The sounds that she made were pushed to the back of his head, he didn't think about anything but himself. Anything and everything was going through his head, except for her, the woman he was trying to forget.
It ended with a drawn out moan and shuttering gaps. Rosto rolled to his back, lying next to her as he fought to keep the glow. He wanted to keep the thing that would make it better, an anesthetic for his sorrow. Sweat pooled in every surface available, including the mattress beneath them. She calmed first, her breathing normal and the glisten leaving her body. Her hair was still sweat-darkened and stuck to her forehead. It was a good thing, something all her own. Something that didn't remind him of her. She said nothing as his body recuperated, the sound of his pulse in his ears fading from a fast, wet drum to nothing.
The woman next to him made no move to hold him, no move to touch him. Even she knew that this was nothing but a trip to the healers to him, just a way to get away from his torture. Rosto had felt bad about it, the first time. She had come to accept it, and even convinced him to. They didn't speak, no words to speed the pulse were uttered. They both knew that they were less likely to leave a wound if nothing was said. Instead, it was a hidden thing, almost dirty in its meaning and happenings.
After a while, she curled up on her side, her back to him, the blanket pulled up to hide her from prying eyes. He lay for a little longer before his stomach protested its empty state. Hunger was digging at him, his stomach burning and his throat acidic tasting. It finally drove him up and into his breeches and tunic. He grabbed his boots and left the room, slipping down the stairs without a backward glance.
Stooping to pull on his boots, he was careful not to make much noise, he did not want to wake the sleeping occupants in the house. He left, making his way to his home. When he got there, he removed his boots once again and entered, making his way to his own room. There, he lay on his bed quietly, thinking about minor things in an attempt to push off the things he had fought not to think about. His bed wasn't as comfortable as the woman's was, but it worked for him. He wasn't in his bed as often as he was in hers. He peeled his clothes back off of his body and fell back onto his bed. The bed dipped in to cradle his body, something that he enjoyed. Sleep was a long way off. Instead, he was forced to surrender to his fears and then live through them in his dreams.
Rosto didn't enjoy finding solace with the woman. She was who he wanted to be with. And if she would let him, things would be better. He wouldn't need anyone else. Everything in the world would be his, if she would be. If she said yes, his heart would leap out of his chest and dance a jig, he swore it. But instead, she chose someone else. A dark man with proud eyes. He dwarfed her in every way. It even seemed that his voice was bigger than hers.
Rosto swore and tossed around on his bed, hoping to persuade sleep to come just a little sooner. Instead, his mind thought of tangled bodies. Slick skin sliding against more slick skin. Moving in shadows with groans and screams accentuating every movement. A scream filled his throat, swiftly swallowed before he brought someone to his rooms. It was not a state he wanted anyone to see him in. He knew that his eyes were purple underneath, his pale skin making them look bruised. His scar stuck out, a vicious red mark against his cheek, a mark of his standing.
His stomach growled again, this time making his abdomen cramp and a gasp escape his lips. A growl followed it, as his hand clenched tight, his knuckles turning white. Anger flooded his body, an emotion that he found hard to swallow. His fist rose in the air, still white knuckled and paler than usual. It came down and collided with his stomach, making him grunt in pain and satisfaction. It would learn now, do not bother him with petty interests of its own.
Because he was so angry, because it seemed to fall from his pores in his sweat and tears, he let it take control of him. He didn't see harm in it, if he let it out, maybe it wouldn't try to take him over in other situations. It collided with his body over and over again, striking legs and stomach and chest without bias. He was angry that she didn't want him, angry that he wanted her. Angry that no matter what he did, he couldn't get her out of his mind. She was like a poison, spreading herself all through his body by way of his veins.
Eventually, his body shook with pain and grief. He unclenched his fist and held it to his face, sitting up to let his body curl the way it wanted to. He screamed silently, running his hands through his hair over and over, finally stopping to pull on it. The pain didn't bring him back the way it should.
The hand pulling on his hair tightened once more and fell, hard, on his leg. This pain felt better, normal. It was going to bruise, a purple mark for him to see when he woke. It was hot, and then it cooled, making him wonder if it would bleed. A numb inspection revealed nothing but a red spot. He hit it again, just to make sure, then fell back on his bed. He rolled onto his side, pulling his legs up close and putting his arms around them. Then, he snuggled his face into his knees, trying to stop something that he didn't know how to deal with. It hadn't happened in a long time, never that he could remember.
A tear fell down the side of his face, soaking into his dull blond hair.