maelli
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The morning begins with her untangling herself from Scaramouche’s body, wiggling out of his hold with a wince, prying his hand from her waist, finger by finger.
And like a clock running on "Lumine" time, as soon as she yawns and stretches her arms over her head, he cracks open his eyes, peeking at her from under his lashes. The sunlight falls over him in slivered rays that cut through the seams of the curtains, clawing over his face. His expression is undecipherable, murky river waters; on the edge of discontent, she decides, from being disturbed out of his dreams.
"You woke up late," Scaramouche says lazily. "It’s already noon."
or: when you love what cannot be loved.
Bookmarked by maelli
10 Apr 2024
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[2 Peter 3:7] but the heavens and the earth, which are now, by the same word are kept in store, reserved unto fire against the day of judgement and perdition of ungodly men.
Bookmarked by maelli
10 Apr 2024
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“Traveler,” he says, a little dry, a little tormented. There’s a creak of bedsprings as he props the upper half of his form up and off the bed. “I don’t believe I need to tell you that sneaking into my room every night like this is inappropriate.”
She scrunches her nose. His gaze is sharp as he watches her hand falling limply to her side.
“I’m not doing this for you,” she snaps, but it only begs the question: for who then? Maybe there’s something in the way that his back wavers that reminds her of herself. Insecure underneath all that indifference, grasping for any semblance of familiarity.
He blinks. Then, a sneer. Ever so teasing, ever so spiteful. “So you’re doing this for yourself? Oh, the implications.”
A traveler, a wanderer — and the thin line between love and hate, between forever and never.
Bookmarked by maelli
26 Mar 2024
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Even out of her peripheral, she finds it hard to look away once their gazes lock; his is devoid of light, abyssal pools of midnight against his pale face. She fiddles with the net of her stockings under the weight of his stare, worrying her fingertips into the myriad gaps between the strings.
He’s so still, even – the edges of his form seem to melt out into the surrounding shadows, into the thrumming beat of the stage’s song. Just as it’s reaching the point of uncomfortable, however, the thread between them stretching out too long, his head turns away as if bored.
To her surprise, she’s almost disappointed.
the lights go down, and she’s his.
Bookmarked by maelli
25 Mar 2024
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It’s so hard to ignore her. So hard when he owes her, when he’s in her debt, when she makes herself known wherever she goes simply from her stature. Lumine is like a salient beam of light. She’s like a drop of ink in a pool of water, and no matter how diluted the water gets, the trace of her still exists. Her existence is obvious, and eye-catching and noticeable.
Wanderer wants, but he doesn't.
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Bookmarked by maelli
19 Mar 2024