1+2ness, don't own the bishies but we love to play.
No warnings except for weirdness and bad attempts at symbolism
Rain and White Sheets
All I could hear was the wind shifting. Here we were, in this bed by the window, this tiny flattened bed with snow-white sheets and crumpled pillows, feeling the wind brush across our bare torsos. I could tell the sky was darkening without even glancing out the window. I could see the shadows on the floor deepen. I could feel him stir.
The leaves rustled and the wind continued to pour in through our open window, threatening our pretty white sheets and our drowsy solitude. A pillow masked half his face. The other half stared in sleepy wonder about the crispness that covered us. His hair was tousled, his eyes were crystal. The room had an eerie glow from his little lamp.
I could smell the approaching rain. The sweet smell infiltrated my senses and took me back to simple moments and gentle touches. It cut right through to my brain, heightening my clarity, placing the taste on my tongue. I wanted to open my mouth and catch each little raindrop. I wanted to be drenched in sweetness and reality, I wanted the first to mix with the second so my life wouldn't feel so harsh when the raindrops didn't fall. Instead he placed his mouth over mine and I could feel the life pour down. He clenched the sheets and rained on me.
When the storm finally came we could feel the few droplets pushing through the screen and down upon us. I watched an innocent drop cascade down his shoulder, slowing to a crawl, and then spreading into miniscule rivulets that meshed with his skin. The steadier the stream came in, the deeper his cobalt stare became. He leaned across and sheltered me from the cold assault, the liquid that watered down my pain, bringing the crisp white sheet up against my back.
He whispered to me. Feel it, feel it, feel it. He stroked my braid and whispered, never moving to shut the window. I could feel the droplets that had accumulated on his back trickle down my face and hit the sheets. He remained over me to resist the flow, giving me all I needed to forget about it. I could smell the rain mixed with him. I could feel the soft white sheets glide across my legs. I could hear him breathing. And the rain never felt so good.
No warnings except for weirdness and bad attempts at symbolism
Rain and White Sheets
All I could hear was the wind shifting. Here we were, in this bed by the window, this tiny flattened bed with snow-white sheets and crumpled pillows, feeling the wind brush across our bare torsos. I could tell the sky was darkening without even glancing out the window. I could see the shadows on the floor deepen. I could feel him stir.
The leaves rustled and the wind continued to pour in through our open window, threatening our pretty white sheets and our drowsy solitude. A pillow masked half his face. The other half stared in sleepy wonder about the crispness that covered us. His hair was tousled, his eyes were crystal. The room had an eerie glow from his little lamp.
I could smell the approaching rain. The sweet smell infiltrated my senses and took me back to simple moments and gentle touches. It cut right through to my brain, heightening my clarity, placing the taste on my tongue. I wanted to open my mouth and catch each little raindrop. I wanted to be drenched in sweetness and reality, I wanted the first to mix with the second so my life wouldn't feel so harsh when the raindrops didn't fall. Instead he placed his mouth over mine and I could feel the life pour down. He clenched the sheets and rained on me.
When the storm finally came we could feel the few droplets pushing through the screen and down upon us. I watched an innocent drop cascade down his shoulder, slowing to a crawl, and then spreading into miniscule rivulets that meshed with his skin. The steadier the stream came in, the deeper his cobalt stare became. He leaned across and sheltered me from the cold assault, the liquid that watered down my pain, bringing the crisp white sheet up against my back.
He whispered to me. Feel it, feel it, feel it. He stroked my braid and whispered, never moving to shut the window. I could feel the droplets that had accumulated on his back trickle down my face and hit the sheets. He remained over me to resist the flow, giving me all I needed to forget about it. I could smell the rain mixed with him. I could feel the soft white sheets glide across my legs. I could hear him breathing. And the rain never felt so good.