twiddle

Her mouth on his body, she longed to find Home.

In his landscape was buried her doubts and desires; his scent blurred her memories; and each gasping climax brought a precious bit of peace.

Not that she confessed it. Not that he'd understand. Afterwards, he slept, uncomplicated focus, as she memorized his profile, as she wished she could follow his perfection.

Of course he wasn't perfect. If he could hear her thoughts, he would protest, point out a litany of faults. But he was full of unrealized music that his body hinted at hearing. It was there, in his lips, in his mischievous eyes. So she kept the secret, and worshipped in her way.

twiddle

(For those new to this, "twiddle" is my word for these fragments of stories. Most of the fairy tales are more thorough than this; click on the tag to read those.)

"Masks"

His mouth on my hand, his breath on my skin – I shiver, and try to hide it, and masks slide across his face before he asks the same question he asks every night.

Mystery, mystery. He walks through my dreams as I walk through this house, a cautious exploration of intersecting worlds and undefined intentions.

There are spaces beasts possess in the world and in our minds. I feel his claws in places I thought were mine alone. He moves through my almost-sleep and, shaken, I bare my throat to him as he passes by.

One day, I find him hunting. He kisses me, flicks my knees apart; then stalks off, glancing back a promise. I trace the memory of passion, my lips still bearing the weight and heat of him; I watch him prowl the forest and, not-quite-prey, I stay behind.

We repeat this dance for ages.

And oh, you are the monster because this world tells us that you are. But when I press fingers to my flesh, I feel the fur hiding underneath.

How long before he discovers I am the more dangerous of the beasts?