[ Her mind feels like Holi - bright and rich, too much, for anything else - and maybe if she didn't know how to wash her own skin in that colour, it might be too much for her as it.
But in some small way, that brightness, that revelry could become like sickness, was like home. A brief pause between the kisses that colour like bruises, the heavy breathes that stain like light. Face upturned and bright and the gold that hung from her, slightly askew. She was warm, and rich, and drunk - yes, on something between between here and there that is not - she knows herself, and the mistake is that somehow that formless fire isn't warm and it is destructive - but something that is Annie, stuck to the back of her teeth. The mistake always, how the things she burns will stain the smoke. Tesla had told her, that it was the chemicals that made the fire. The copper for green, magnesium for white.
It's in part to check, once she has pulled her clothes apart, knew at this - perhaps, but she knew that steady heat, where her knee pushes up deliberately between Annie's thighs. A heavy, solid weight. That grinds up slowly, hard from the riding she did, the battles she fought through. She pulls up, to gauge the reaction as her hand moves steadily - flat palmed over her breast, steady in it's killing, rough with its kindnesses, over the curve of her ribs, to count them in a low in drawn breath. To mind the scars that they had shared, lowering her head to know them like her own as her mouth curves murmurs of affection in a breathless Hindi against her skin.
This is not slow, but for a moment, she can pretend she knows how to be. She doesn't know how make beautiful things, but she knows what it is when it is in front of her and in that she does as she always does, she watches, she looks in. She observes it as a whole and leans back in again to kiss her. Not less, for the meticulous way she leans in, her hand coming to Annie's hip, the stiff sore muscles under Annie's hand stretching out as she kisses her again with that fullness. Open, and nothing less - as she revels in that bright light, that separation and togetherness that is Annie, to let is seep into all of her scars - than to know it for the beauty than it is. Her fingers sliding around and under her to press her hips up at the angle to encourage her to rock back. ]
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But in some small way, that brightness, that revelry could become like sickness, was like home. A brief pause between the kisses that colour like bruises, the heavy breathes that stain like light. Face upturned and bright and the gold that hung from her, slightly askew. She was warm, and rich, and drunk - yes, on something between between here and there that is not - she knows herself, and the mistake is that somehow that formless fire isn't warm and it is destructive - but something that is Annie, stuck to the back of her teeth. The mistake always, how the things she burns will stain the smoke. Tesla had told her, that it was the chemicals that made the fire. The copper for green, magnesium for white.
It's in part to check, once she has pulled her clothes apart, knew at this - perhaps, but she knew that steady heat, where her knee pushes up deliberately between Annie's thighs. A heavy, solid weight. That grinds up slowly, hard from the riding she did, the battles she fought through. She pulls up, to gauge the reaction as her hand moves steadily - flat palmed over her breast, steady in it's killing, rough with its kindnesses, over the curve of her ribs, to count them in a low in drawn breath. To mind the scars that they had shared, lowering her head to know them like her own as her mouth curves murmurs of affection in a breathless Hindi against her skin.
This is not slow, but for a moment, she can pretend she knows how to be. She doesn't know how make beautiful things, but she knows what it is when it is in front of her and in that she does as she always does, she watches, she looks in. She observes it as a whole and leans back in again to kiss her. Not less, for the meticulous way she leans in, her hand coming to Annie's hip, the stiff sore muscles under Annie's hand stretching out as she kisses her again with that fullness. Open, and nothing less - as she revels in that bright light, that separation and togetherness that is Annie, to let is seep into all of her scars - than to know it for the beauty than it is. Her fingers sliding around and under her to press her hips up at the angle to encourage her to rock back. ]