| just an untitled overgrown drabble... |
[Feb. 23rd, 2009|01:18 pm] |
This is way off-key from your usual Snack, far too romantic if you ask me. This must be some kind of random AU Sirius who can talk in swirling poetic sentences. Don't blame me, blame him.
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I forget, somehow, that my fingers are still sticky from the drops of honey you have been taking from them with slow and tender licks and sucks; as I, entranced, move to brush your hair from your cheek, I leave a tacky golden fingerprint behind. I smile and softly lick the spot of sweetness from the bone, and you laugh.
Black eyes turn towards grey, new moon and full, your depths absorbing whatever shines from mine. For so I'm told they do, and told I am, shining, a bright new-drawn sword, a white stallion whose coat flashes and ripples in the sunlight, my black mane best India ink against it all.
But though the mane is black indeed (I feel your fingers in it now, stroking, gripping), that's all there is for me: no white coat, but only black; no horse, but rather hound, ever your faithful one, and I will harry and defend in your name, for your love.
Your mouth tastes of the endless labours of the bees. |
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