Are we still writing disclaimers? Is that like a rule or something because it isn't in the guidelines, but you can have one anyway. *I don't own any of this except for the horrendous cliches sorry*
She's not the little girl everybody thinks she is, I know that much. Nothing in the soft curves of her body says child, but they whisper my name as she twists and turns, dancing around before the flames. There's a fire behind her eyes, and it flares and it flashes, simmering and raging. She's seen so much evil but somehow it didn't make her bitter like the rest of us, she's the light, the life of any gathering. She makes me want to feel again.
People are drawn to her like moths' to a flame, they gravitate towards her, and they hang on to her words. She's so confident; you want believe every word that comes out of her mouth because she speaks with such passion and energy. I can feel her energy, it crackles in the air, it makes the hair on the back of my neck raise. She's so powerful. She doesn't even know how powerful she is.
She's so stubborn. Tell her the grass is green and she'll argue that its blue until the sun goes down. She has a temper like you wouldn't believe, she's so frustrating, she's indecisive and picky and she isn't afraid to tell the truth even when it isn't wanted. However her honesty is refreshing, she's like a breath of fresh air.
Her laugh is mesmerising. Delicate crinkles form at the corners of her eyes, she always laughs with her mouth open. It's like a wind chime in the breeze; I see it now every time she turns to face me. She's laughing at me, I know I'm staring but I really can't help myself.
Her hair looks darker in this dim light, like red silk, but it's normally the morning sun, a bright collage of different tones, ranging from amber to umber with chestnut steaks. I feel like I've memorised every strand, and I have a constant longing to run my hands through it.
She moves with grace, even though you could probably smell the alcohol on her breath from six feet away. Her dark eyes are hooded as she draws closer to me, one daintily swaying step at a time. There's music playing somewhere, but I don't hear it over the beating of my heart. Her touch is electric; her fingertip leaves a faint trail of sparks as she drags it along my jaw. She leans in, swiping her hair back from her face with one hand as she kisses me sloppily, sliding her tongue along my bottom lip. I open my eyes, hers are shut, the eyeliner on her left eye is smudged part way to her hairline and I long to wipe off the flecks of mascara blending in with the freckles on her cheeks.
I kiss my way along her jaw line, thrown into shadow in the dim firelight. Her hair tickles my face and I move downwards to her neck, and then to her collarbone. She smells like cheap whiskey and flowers, like expensive wine and broomstick polish. I pull back a moment and check the watch her mother gave me for my seventeenth birthday.
"Do you want to take this upstairs?" she nods, biting her lip as she draws her fingers across my chest and down my arm to take my hand. Nobody would be home for hours.
