_a/n: from tumblr prompt "the morning after"
craving lips at sunrise
(lust is saturday night. love is sunday morning.)
.
.
.
His mind falls as he feels her heart beating, reverberating against her chest which is bare and smooth and pressed against his, with her baby hairs tickling his nose. He places a quick kiss wherever his lips seem to already be, brushing between the line of her forehead and hairline. Her legs are restless, tangled with his and under his thin sheets. (if he'd have known last night were to have happened, he would have at least laid out some velvet blankets to make his bed look somewhat presentable—but she hadn't cared and in the end it really didn't even matter) Her delicate, small (talented, very talented) hands are resting on his sun kissed shoulders and his arms are snaked around the waist he's bruised with his mouth. This is how he falls asleep—smiling, in between light breaths and somewhere in the middle of inhaling her scent of winter mint.
Rifts of sunlight peer into his room through the cracked blinds of his windows and lines of exposed warmth paint parts of his revealed skin. He's covered by the same slim blanket he usually sleeps with and the sun is burning, but he still feels a lack of heat. This is the part where he wakes up alone.
It's his heart's turn to take a fall, feeling as if it had plummeted into his stomach. He fists his hand into the pillow and throws it against the wall meters away from him. (he's Lucas Friar, captain of the baseball team—his throws are hard, fast, fiery in his grip) He thinks about how he'd worn his heart out on his sleeve for her and after minutes of self pity, he remembers opposing perspectives of love. Hers being nonexistent; bruised and battered and torn apart and hurthurtconstantlyhurt due to broken parents and a broken life. He doesn't get up, not in the minutes to come. He wants to forget the vision of her on top of him—of her being physically and emotionally stripped bare by him. He wants to forget the sweetness of his name coming from the pretty pink lips she'd kept biting between sighs of ecstasy.
He mopes for a bit longer, before realizing how damned depressing he was being and had finally decided to sit up. He searches his room for his boxers and having put them on, he notices a familiar lace bra hooked on his doorknob. (he remembers throwing it somewhere behind him before she had pulled him on top of her when she'd fallen onto his bed) Pivoting on his heel, he finds her previous apparel around his floor—her leather jacket sprawled on his desk and her skirt on his windowsill—
(how had that even gotten there?)
—and the rhythm beneath his ribs quickens, sky-like eyes brightening, and mood lightening. He breathes a sigh of relief and steps out of his room and down his corridor to follow a heavenly aroma he hadn't been expecting.
And then he sees her, at his stove making a second batch of chocolate chip pancakes in his T-shirt that hangs along the upper of her thighs and he thinks that the sight is even better than her lust-driven persona in the night. There's eggs on the counter and two bowls of freshly cut bananas accompanying their plates of pancakes and she's nibbling a piece of bacon when she looks up and pushes a hot, blonde mess of waves (sex hair, she'll call it, after looking at herself in the mirror before another round in hot water and steam—and afterward, she'll let herself use the L-word and his knees will buckle and his eyes will gleam) behind her ear.
(she is Maya Hart and she is beautifulbeautifulbeautiful)
Her gaze is electric and her voice is strawberry sweet, "Morning, Handsome."
.
.
.
fin.