Becca the Wonder Penguin (sunnyrea) wrote in revolutionslash,
Becca the Wonder Penguin

I just realized i don't think i've ever posted any of my stories and i thought since some of you might be bored you'd like to read them. So here are two of them!


Sleep of Ages

Sleeping with him is such a glorious entrapment. His bed or mine we lie wrapped around each other, protecting the other from nighttime demons. We always lie facing each other, chest-to-chest; our faces inches apart or buried in the other’s neck. We never let go as we sleep and always awake to the other’s embrace.

When we sleep together it is still and peaceful. We do not fidget or roll around because we would never want to leave the other against us. Lying together keeps my dreams sunny and light, endless spin of colors. He does that for me. And in my turn I know my body next to him chases away his nightmares. Next to me he does not dream at all, no visions of his parent’s death to haunt him. The warmth beside us keeps our minds at ease; the arms around each other keep us safe.

I like to watch him sleep, as I’m sure he does for me. A few stray strands of his raven hair always fall in his face, casting little lines of shadow over his eyelids. His hair is so soft, as wild as a jungle of weeds, weeds of black roses. Hair is a point of passion between us. He says my hair is like the brightest fire in the world; like warm blood when he’s in a morbid mood. I tell him his hair is like the darkest night ever, a black hole to swallow me up. As he sleeps I like to run my hand over that hair, tangle my fingers within its delicate waves. A mop on top of his head, it’s always a mess but I would have it no other way. I can get lost in it.

When he wakes I am greeted by emerald green eyes, regarding only me. His eyes must be truly emeralds for they are the greatest treasure to me. Green pools peer outwards, beckoning me to spring forth, dive in, and drown in their glory. When those emeralds look to me I can see nothing else in all the world.

Following down from forest eyes are perfect lips. Parted slightly as he breathes lips rest close to mine, flushed pink from kisses. His lips are full and match just right with mine. Against my own his lips feel like fresh flower petals, soft but also so fresh and alive. The kisses sent from those plush lips send sparks and fire coursing through my veins. Those are lips that ignite passion and spark the tenderest love. Wordlessly his lips tell me I am his and I agree.

In the early morning when we wake we say nothing, just look at each other. Within that morning stillness it seems that any words would shatter the seclusion we have to each other. Even when we wake we do not let go, but stay held fast to each other incase this morning is a dream, and if we let go the other may vanish into dust. Arms stay warm around back and waist, foreheads gently against each other pushing up fringe. To any outsider we must look a confusion of limbs and hair. But I can tell where he is; feel every bit of him against me. There we lie together in a sleep of ages that I would never leave.


Lover Lay Down

He sleeps fitfully. It is not that he rolls about or thrashes; it is his face. Even in sleep he is controlled in his movements. It is only his face that is broken free as he slumbers. His brow furrows and his entire face contorts in pain and fear. He says nothing in his sleep but his mouth forms into little fearful gasps and grimaces. His eyes clench tighter and tighter shut as if trying to block out what is already there behind his eyelids. It is only when I hold him close to me, lightly running my hand through his hair, that it lessens and he calms against me. It is all I can do for him to chase away the demons clawing in his head.

When he wakes I am always there for him to look to. His gray eyes sharpen against the sun but they see only me. His hands always go to the same places on my body, one to trace my chest and the other to tangle in my fiery hair. He says my hair reminds him of summer, for more reasons than one, good or bad. He says he can never lose me with such bright and bloody hair, always morose, because how could anyone snuff out something so glorious? He says no one could ever block out that red, its color is so pure, like a ruby. And when the sun shines on it you can see the different shades of pumpkin, carrot, strawberry, and apple that make up my hair. All this he says. If I let him he could go for on for an hour about it. Lying in bed he’ll just quietly run his hand through it, twirling it around his fingers, combing it with his nails.

Don’t get me started on his hair. It’s a diamond, perfect and unbreakable. In public it is always the same, slicked back and unmovable. I am the only one that sees it unguarded, mussed up and hanging in his eyes. His hair hangs like daisy petals over his face. Some say his hair is bleached, white, and tasteless. I know better. They have never touched it, never felt how soft it is without the primping. It’s like golden pussy willows, yellow like sunshine, silvery like tensile on a tree. When he turns his head, to snuggle his nose in the pillow, the sun coming through the window will illuminate it, melding the yellow and silver together to dazzle the eye.

In the early mornings, lying against the pillows and sheets we are quiet; just regarding each other. We lie completely in awe of the fact that the other is really there lying beside us. We do not talk about the images plaguing his mind each night before I quench them. I already know what it is he sees and I know that I can do nothing to stop them but hold him close to me. My arm wraps tightly around his waist, always protecting him from the invisible images that seem so real when he sleeps. Most mornings are simply spent with is hand tangling over and over in my hair. I hold him so close that I can feel his heart beating against me. Out legs tangle together as do our free hands. It’s as if we must make all possible contact, to be as close as we can.

His hands are marvelous things, slightly smaller than mine, but they sit so well in my own. They are always perfect, smooth and pale. He is so pale. Only I can make those cheeks flush and bring color to his near white face. However, his hands stay always pale. They stand out like snow thrust in a fire when they curl through my hair. But his hands I so adore, love the feeling as the touch every inch of my skin. I may have blazing hair but it is his hands that really burn. When those fingers graze across my lips it is like hot water burning against them, such pleasurable agony. He will trace every line, every crevice of my face with his fingers. leaving fire in his wake. His hands work magic on me more powerful than any wand. His touch heightens my senses, making every part of me he touches alive. Fingers and hands like his can play such music to me body.

As the morning will wear on we never want to leave. I know each time when I leave his arms that a sharp chill of cold will enter my soul and not be lifted until I hold him again. And I know the moment he leaves me his world breaks down. The moment I am gone he puts up his shield and lets his malice pour out, saving his love for me. When we are apart it feels like a knife is slowly boring into me, forcing me to keep on waling as if blood is not gushing from my heart. When his face falls and he rises to leave I can think of only one thing to say. I am forever grasping for a moment; lover, lay down, spend this time with me.
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