Bring Me Sonnets In The Morning
All characters belong to Baz Luhrmann etc
First update in yonks... and it's rather shamefully inspired by a Daniel Bedingfield song (Wrap My Words Around You, if you're interested). D'oh!
It was the heat that woke her; sprawled out on her front on Christian's bed, the prickly humidity itched at her until she could not help but twitch in discomfort. It was then that Christian's hand descended and pressed against the moist skin at the back of her neck.
'What're you doing?' she murmured sleepily.
'I had an idea,' said Christian. Satine frowned and tried to prop herself on her elbows to look at him, but the hand pressed harder, holding her down. She half-glared at the pillow instead.
'Are you writing on me?'
'We're out of paper.'
Of course they were. He was always writing, always tapping away on that typewriter, screwing up pages and flinging the crumpled ruins out the window; the drama of it pleased them both.
Her back muscles twitched again as Christian's quill scratched against her skin. She sighed into the pillow picturing the look on her lover's face; the way his brows furrowed in pure concentration, the sudden clarity as a new idea occurred to him clearing his face of all lines. Sometimes he looked as old and youthful as the Greek statues she'd seen in newspapers and magazines.
In the sweltering heat, the ink didn't seem to want to dry. It lingered on her skin, cooling her and Christian leaned close and ghosted his breath across her. She shivered again as his pen drew across the small of her back. She was wide awake now, vaguely surprised at the heat building inside her; only Christian, she thought. Only Christian could set her skin on fire with a hand pressed against her neck and a pen scratching across her back.
'What's it about?' she asked breathlessly, wriggling a little against the bedclothes. His hand moved from the back of her neck to her hip in an attempt to still her.
'A new scene,' he said softly. 'A quiet lover's morning. Nothing but the early sun and the pigeons and the courtesan's soft breathing in the air. The sitar player feels…'
'Feels what?' asked Satine, a flicker of doubt forcing itself through her sleepy gaze. His words faltered, but Christian's pen continued dancing against her skin. He was out of paper but nothing could stop the muse. The hand pressing against her skin was too close, far too close to the touches of previous men. Men who held her pinned down like this, like possession—
But this was Christian. Christian, who had written her a song and danced across clouds, who wrote plays and stole forbidden kisses in balconies above a half-built theatre. Christian, who held her close at night, kissed her forehead and promised to love her till his dying day.
He had to be different. He was different. The boy. The darling boy-
His lips brushed her cheek. 'My love,' was all he said. 'My only.' She shuddered again and when Christian's hand left her hip, she sat up and, turning to face him, attempted to pull him down to her.
'No, no!' he cried, laughing. 'The scene!' and pulled her down on top of him, smiling brightly at her. She kissed him fiercely, desperately. Feel my heart, feel my soul.
He'd run out of paper and written on her like she was a blank page to pour out all his fantasises. Feel me, Christian, feel this heart, feel all that I can give.
Love me and not love itself.
Before he came, before he stumbled bewildered and charming into their lives, she'd felt empty. She'd enjoyed feeling empty; it was easier and preferable to her clients who sometimes called out other women's name. Better to be still and accept a second-hand love than to correct them. It was better to be that blank sheet than to try and find a love that meant something.
Christian's hand grasped at her waist again, avoiding the ink he'd daubed on her back. Satine smiled, feeling the coy smile of a wilting flower twist her face.
'Is the scene that important?' she asked, tracing his cheek with one finger. Christian sighed and cupped her head, touching their foreheads together.
'I want to capture a moment,' he said. His lips brushed hers. 'This moment. When everything is so clean and perfect and you…' He trailed off. She pulled back a little to see his face. Christian's eyes were like nothing she'd ever seen before. Full of a love and devotion that were too perfect to be directed at her. It was too perfect to direct at any one person.
'You are so wonderful,' he sighed finally.
She was not. She had never been wonderful and never would be. But it was nice to pretend that she was for a moment; perhaps if she could learn to see the world as he could she would feel that same love.
His pen was still in his hand, pressing a little against her hip. She plucked it from his hand and pressed a hand to his collarbone. He laughed a little but made no move to stop her. The nib dragged a little, catching on his skin and slowing her strokes; now she understood his earlier concentration.
I have no life but this, to lead it here, she wrote, in harsh capitals across the plane of his breastbone. Nor any death, but lest, Dispelled from there. He stared up at her and she knew from the slight frown on his face and the way that his lips moved silently that he was trying to decipher what she was writing by touch.
This was… oddly erotic, she decided. She liked the implicit trust, the power of leaning over a man and marking his skin. Marking him as hers. She wondered if it was possible to buy indelible ink so that she could mark him forever. She remembered Tattoo and wondered what Christian would think of that.
Satine placed the pen down on the covers and then ran her fingers across Christian's skin, slicking the still damp ink and smearing it on her fingers. She touched his face, her fingers dotting out smears on his cheeks and ran her hands through his hair.
'Words mean nothing without actions, Christian,' she whispered. Christian mirrored her touch, pulling her closer and murmuring against her lips.
'Words have changed the world; they have created and destroyed lives and conquered the hearts of men.'
And mine, she thought but did not say it.
Christian took up the pen again and coaxed her onto her back again, straddling her. The unmistakable heat between her legs flared again as he smoothed his hands across her sides and up her arms. The nib touched the skin on her left arm and she shut her arms, forcing her brain to stop thinking and focusing on Christian's body; his weight across her back, the breath burning and cooling the back of her neck. One hand held her arm down, pulling the skin gently as he wrote.
At last he sat back, and Satine brought her arm to her eyes to see Christian's neat handwriting.
Heaven and earth and sea and sky, do melt as love has melt my heart.
She smiled and then moaned faintly as Christian kissed the nape of her neck, brushing her hair away and kissing her again, lower.
'The scene, my love,' she said. 'Don't forget the scene.'
There was a pause and then Christian wiped away her fears by placing his hands against her lower back and pushing them against her skin, he moved them upwards, slicking the ink and her sweat together. Satine arched against the bed and then, as Christian shifted to give her room, twisted over onto her front.
His kisses were deep, his body hard and they spoke far louder than any inked words on her skin.
'We belong together, my love,' she whispered harshly, between kisses.
'Yes,' he gasped, 'oh god, yes, love, we do.'
Bodies and sheets smeared alike with ink and heat, sex and love; in the waves of desire, Satine convinced herself that words could never match what she and her lover had.