In Honour of Fluffy Christmas, we are going to have the 12 Things I Love About You, Outlaw Queen Style.
Enjoy! & Merry Christmas
xox.
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Day 1: Hands
He likes to hold her hand, walking side by side, between the multi-colored lit streets, through the dense green forest, across the docks, and along the sidewalks. He relishes the feeling of her fingers laced between his own, covered in wool gloves, but he can still feel the warmth that radiates from her palm. They are a splendor, her hands. Soft and slim, supple skin, and perfectly rounded nails, usually bare from color, save for the deep plum on special occasions, he most definitely likes that hue on her.
They house power of the utmost peak, can render villains silent, and burn forests with a flick. He's seen them wield fire and ice, electricity and thunder, these small delicate hands he cherishes so much. Ten thin fingers that curl in beckoning, of which he always answers, slender digits that stroke through curly unruly brown curls during bedtime, stir and layer ingredients till perfection, and slap away thieving hands attempting to poach from the bowl too early.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of a dull scratch at the base of his skull in the morning, a gentle rousing, soft and affectionate. And yet, the hard lines they draw down his back, clinging to sweaty shoulder blades, and gripping against his backside, that feeling is also hard to out do.
A small scar lines the inside middle finger on the right side, a slip of a knife when she was first learning to cook in this world, another on her pinky, below the knuckle, from something she can't quite recall. Three beauty marks line the space between thumb and pointer, a simply delicate line between, another on her left wrist, hidden by sleeves most of time. He likes them, these dark soft pinpointed marks on her skin, her own little personal constellation. There's yet to be a day he hasn't kissed her knuckles, once when the sun rises, the second, when it falls and the moon follows, a silent vow to never leave her side, not ever again.
He's felt the fearful trembling within them when things seem far to hopeless to overcome, watches the way they tense and clench tight, knuckles white, nails biting into soft skin, a desperate way to edge away the anger and frustration when her voice won't allow an outburst. He's held them, cold, sweaty and shaking when panic arises, the thought what would I do if I lost you, a constant passing thought between them. It's happened before, far too many times than seem just, the horrible sensation of her fingertips leaving his, the last flicker of electricity pulsing before everything goes numb and he watches her fade away.
He dreamt of her hands, how they should have been locked into his own on empty days, felt them press against his lips when she decided that was enough talking when more pleasureable activities surely awaited. The bitterness of sweet memories flooding him every day he was without her, how they'd curl around his shoulders holding him tight, scratch against his stubble before she kissed him, and tousle his hair playfully after a shower.
It's amazing the things he'd missed once they were gone. Obviously there had been bigger things, more apparent ones, but this, the feeling of walking down the street with her as snowflakes glide through the sky, nestling in white blankets against their scarves, her head against his shoulder, sighing happy, an easy smile lingering on her lips, and her hand clasped within his own, where it rightfully belongs.
It's one of the things he loves about her most, how she loves to hold his hand, for he does too, possibly even more so somehow, now that there is a simple diamond ring scratching softly against his fingers, a promise for many more days of hand holding to come.
