f l o r e n t i n e
She came to find religion, but found only night.
She came to find gods, but found only him.
His gaze upon her skin, heavy with black and soft like starlight, is like nothing she has ever known.
If his skin blisters with her touch, it is nothing to the fire he sets upon her body with his roving gaze. She will surely burn to ash before these gods.
The Night King’s gypsy coins sing on, their jingling pulling the stars from the sky. His presence commands her body to stillness and, as she stands before him with breath so heavy and so wild, her eyes blaze purple starfire, brilliant and wild as they fight the growing dark.
The boy moves closer and the touch of their bodies commands her eyes to close. There, in black of her being, where she expects only silence, she hears the raking of her breath and the wild beating of her heart. This creature of starlight has turned her heart into a frantic bird; wings thrumming worriedly against its cage of bone.
Her nerves ignite with his touch, golden skin burning with the friction of night pressing closer, closer. She wonders what twilight bruise might glow from her golden skin with this new press of night or would she, like starlight, shatter here and fall to nothing.
Twilight eyes open at last and see only his dark skin. Florentine’s breath is the only thing that stirs between them for he is a statue beside her, as still as stone. “Breathe.” She whispers when at last she realizes that he has not. It is an irony that it is the girl so new to love, who reminds the boy to breathe.
The night will always chase the dusk… you know that as well as I.
Those words stop her heart for they are dangerous, even when whispered intimately in the quiet of the temple...
Would he dare to chase her? Bruise his knees upon the temple floor and beg her to go with him to Night?
But above all - would she go with him?
The lure of night has never been so strong, she has never heard the stars keen like this, nor felt the satin touch of such darkness upon her skin. He is temptation; a siren call of beautiful gestures and prophetic declarations.
He goes on, breathing his words across her skin; promises across gold. If you ask me to stop…. Florentine knows what he asks of her and what she should say. But the allure of night has her tongue tied tight.
From its grip she slips, just enough to ask, “What if I don’t?” The words are curious butterflies across his skin. What would the Night King really do? And yet, what if she told him to stop?
She thinks of the words coming from her lips and her teeth grit with worry, with pain. Her soul splits open for the pain of not being free, for the pain of being tied to one place: Dusk. “I don’t want to.” She bleats, aching, little more than a bird with wings clipped beneath this draw of the night.
For a moment, for a second of wild abandon, before either of them can say more, her lips press to the groove of his throat, to the corner of his jaw. Her lips linger, breath hot over his pulse. It is here, touching darkness, succumbing to night, that her most damned revelation descends like a death knell.
Her gasp is ragged, every part of her filled with the scent of jasmine and him, as she whispers, “We can’t stop it.” For Reichenbach was right. He could not change the worlds. Where was the point where dusk ended and night began? They are fluid, seamless, for a moment, for a brief time they are one – neither just night nor just dusk.
“I can never be without this pull. I cannot make it stop.” The stars begin to weep for the dusk is all but gone. The night has arrived and it is satin: deep and dark and lovely.
@Reichenbach - I am so utterly out of control in this thread lol!
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
She came to find gods, but found only him.
His gaze upon her skin, heavy with black and soft like starlight, is like nothing she has ever known.
If his skin blisters with her touch, it is nothing to the fire he sets upon her body with his roving gaze. She will surely burn to ash before these gods.
The Night King’s gypsy coins sing on, their jingling pulling the stars from the sky. His presence commands her body to stillness and, as she stands before him with breath so heavy and so wild, her eyes blaze purple starfire, brilliant and wild as they fight the growing dark.
The boy moves closer and the touch of their bodies commands her eyes to close. There, in black of her being, where she expects only silence, she hears the raking of her breath and the wild beating of her heart. This creature of starlight has turned her heart into a frantic bird; wings thrumming worriedly against its cage of bone.
Her nerves ignite with his touch, golden skin burning with the friction of night pressing closer, closer. She wonders what twilight bruise might glow from her golden skin with this new press of night or would she, like starlight, shatter here and fall to nothing.
Twilight eyes open at last and see only his dark skin. Florentine’s breath is the only thing that stirs between them for he is a statue beside her, as still as stone. “Breathe.” She whispers when at last she realizes that he has not. It is an irony that it is the girl so new to love, who reminds the boy to breathe.
The night will always chase the dusk… you know that as well as I.
Those words stop her heart for they are dangerous, even when whispered intimately in the quiet of the temple...
Would he dare to chase her? Bruise his knees upon the temple floor and beg her to go with him to Night?
But above all - would she go with him?
The lure of night has never been so strong, she has never heard the stars keen like this, nor felt the satin touch of such darkness upon her skin. He is temptation; a siren call of beautiful gestures and prophetic declarations.
He goes on, breathing his words across her skin; promises across gold. If you ask me to stop…. Florentine knows what he asks of her and what she should say. But the allure of night has her tongue tied tight.
From its grip she slips, just enough to ask, “What if I don’t?” The words are curious butterflies across his skin. What would the Night King really do? And yet, what if she told him to stop?
She thinks of the words coming from her lips and her teeth grit with worry, with pain. Her soul splits open for the pain of not being free, for the pain of being tied to one place: Dusk. “I don’t want to.” She bleats, aching, little more than a bird with wings clipped beneath this draw of the night.
For a moment, for a second of wild abandon, before either of them can say more, her lips press to the groove of his throat, to the corner of his jaw. Her lips linger, breath hot over his pulse. It is here, touching darkness, succumbing to night, that her most damned revelation descends like a death knell.
Her gasp is ragged, every part of her filled with the scent of jasmine and him, as she whispers, “We can’t stop it.” For Reichenbach was right. He could not change the worlds. Where was the point where dusk ended and night began? They are fluid, seamless, for a moment, for a brief time they are one – neither just night nor just dusk.
“I can never be without this pull. I cannot make it stop.” The stars begin to weep for the dusk is all but gone. The night has arrived and it is satin: deep and dark and lovely.
@Reichenbach - I am so utterly out of control in this thread lol!
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
