[He's so gentle with her. She thinks about this a lot; often can't make it fit with the self he sometimes tries to paint for her, when he talks about the past. About home. They're still half-cross with each other, and he's so gentle, he won't leave her, and her eyes feel suddenly raw, a sting of wetness in them when she turns and buries her face into his stomach. No amount of blinking really stops it, but there's no hiccup that follows, and there's no shoulder-shaking sob. She lays there with her head on his lap and her face shoves straight into his shirt and stomach, a hand clutching at the fabric.
She curls in on them both. Knees coiled as tight as the sofa will allow. Eddie's going to come looking for them, eventually, and he'll find them here, half-upset and exhausted.
In the now, she desperately doesn't want to let him go. She inhales him deep, smells everything that is him, that is them - can smell, faintly, what must be Murphy, too. The lingering scent of his home, out there in the woods. She doesn't like what it does to her insides, or how it makes her feel right now. It's cat-like, the urge to puff up, to strip him down and cover every inch of him in her, until that's all there is to see, to smell, to feel. It's - ]
[ It's human isn't it? Sometimes Jem comes back to the shack or the boarding house and Billy can't help but be stiff and irritated and annoyed until he loosens up with every kiss pressed against her skin, tongue dragging over her, and even better, watching flecks of cum mark her body, covering up anyone else who wants to have her.
In the moment though, he runs his hand through her long hanks of hair. He's pretty sure she's crying into his shirt, turning it wet against his stomach. Months ago, back home, it probably would have grossed him out. Instead, he kind of wants to cry too, maybe. His hand rolls down, grips against her shoulder, thumb digging into the back of her neck, meant to be soothing, rubbing into sore, fucked up muscles. ]
[She moves enough to give him space, scrubs at her cheeks while he lays down. She settles onto his chest, sprawled out over him. Her tucks against where she can hear the thump of his heart, and it's not the most comfortable, but it's where she wants to be. It's close; it's intimate. To leave her, he'll have to shove her off. He'd have to be explicit about it.
She reaches for one hand, holds it with both her hands and presses her mouth to his knuckles, his palm, and then bows her forehead against it. It says: I love you, and you're mine.
She doesn't sleep. She's too scared to sleep, too scared to slip into a nightmare and have him deal with it. So she lays there, head to chest, heavy, and listens to his heartbeat, his breathing, and soaks and in his warmth. ]
[ Thump, thump, thump. Jem smells like soap and sweat, maybe a little salty, those tears gathered on her cheeks, on his shirt. He doesn't sleep either, not right away, but Jem settles close by and his broad hands play with her long strands of hair, fingers slipping through the strands to scratch against her scalp.
It says: We're here together. I've got you, I've got you, you're mine, I'm yours.
Eventually he falls asleep, head tilted toward hers, nose against her hair and filled with her scent, and he finally, finally sleeps, heavy drawls of breath. ]
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She curls in on them both. Knees coiled as tight as the sofa will allow. Eddie's going to come looking for them, eventually, and he'll find them here, half-upset and exhausted.
In the now, she desperately doesn't want to let him go. She inhales him deep, smells everything that is him, that is them - can smell, faintly, what must be Murphy, too. The lingering scent of his home, out there in the woods. She doesn't like what it does to her insides, or how it makes her feel right now. It's cat-like, the urge to puff up, to strip him down and cover every inch of him in her, until that's all there is to see, to smell, to feel. It's - ]
Lay down with me, [she says, faintly, tired. ]
no subject
In the moment though, he runs his hand through her long hanks of hair. He's pretty sure she's crying into his shirt, turning it wet against his stomach. Months ago, back home, it probably would have grossed him out. Instead, he kind of wants to cry too, maybe. His hand rolls down, grips against her shoulder, thumb digging into the back of her neck, meant to be soothing, rubbing into sore, fucked up muscles. ]
Yeah. Here, come on.
no subject
She reaches for one hand, holds it with both her hands and presses her mouth to his knuckles, his palm, and then bows her forehead against it. It says: I love you, and you're mine.
She doesn't sleep. She's too scared to sleep, too scared to slip into a nightmare and have him deal with it. So she lays there, head to chest, heavy, and listens to his heartbeat, his breathing, and soaks and in his warmth. ]
no subject
It says: We're here together. I've got you, I've got you, you're mine, I'm yours.
Eventually he falls asleep, head tilted toward hers, nose against her hair and filled with her scent, and he finally, finally sleeps, heavy drawls of breath. ]