[FTB] to make every moment holy

[Marisol]

I will follow you down
until the sound of my voice will haunt you

The light catches like claws on the gold foil of Orestes’ tattoos, and Marisol watches intently, with dark gray eyes, every minute shift and gleam. The sun follows every one of his movements as closely as a stray dog begging for food;  it kisses him with the fervent passion of a lover scorned and will not, cannot, let go.  His perfect glow falls over them both, a yellow silk blanket.

What a god he would make, Marisol thinks, dazed. Keeping her thoughts in order is growing more difficult by the minute. To even stand near him is to be held down by a divine kind of gravity; to feel the warmth of his skin against her is to be sucked down into a whirlpool, drowning, and enjoying it. With her forehead pressed against his, nothing feels quite as intense or important as the rapid, unsteady thumping of her heart against the curve of her throat, where the skin is frailest, where the blood pulses the most violently. Her gaze falls, and a butterfly kiss of lashes brushes against the slope of the sun king’s shoulder. His breath pushes up and up against her chest.

Then make me yours.

Mari’s head falls; she steps back, ever so slightly, until a few inches of space are cleaved between them, and those steely eyes turn up to meet his from under a swath of curly, dark lashes. Her mouth twists into a curve that falls somewhere between euphoria and worry, and it perfectly matches the shine of her gaze that almost smiles, but is afraid to be so happy. The song of her heart in her chest is that of a plucked string: tight, quavering, tense almost to the point of shattering; and the gods only know what will happen to her when it does finally break. 

“Aren’t you already?” she asks, throaty, teasing, voice dark and soft as a noble’s cloak made of velvet; and before he can answer she presses her mouth to the knot where his ear meets his jaw, letting out a short whoosh of air to play over Orestes’ skin.

A beat, then, of warmth and steam and the smell of the leaves turning brown all around them. Marisol draws away slightly, and when she does it is only to look at him with a smile slick and sharp as any predator’s, a ferocious glow in the gray eyes. 

“Speaking.”

credits