Heliophilia
(n.) desire to stay in the sun; love of sunlight
To be loved is to be changed.
Arabella Dawson
Has never had anybody constant in her life. From parents always being away at work to one shitty friend, she doesn't know how to exist when...
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Hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for home to which you can never return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost place of your past
Forty-four ♡︎♡︎♡︎ Arabella
This is embarrassing.
More embarrassing than it should be.
Flints still got one hand on the side of my face, fingers spread evenly across my skin, his thumb rubbing lines along my right cheekbone.
The other is holding my hand flat against him, my hand that's still halfway into his pants. Touching places I've never before touched.
He's smiling, but he's not talking and the silence is getting to me. Becoming pained and hallow and all I want to do is crawl into a ball, never again reveal my face to anyone.
I stare at a spot on the wall, trying to figure out what to do next. Should I move? Just roll off him? Would that make things more awkward? Should I just go back to watching the film and pretend none of this happened? Should I make a run for it? Just dash to the bathroom, lock myself away until I die?
Flint moves his hand from the side of my face, around to the back of my neck, squeezes slightly before pulling me down to meet him. His lips meet mine, become one and I'm really glad I didn't make a run for it.
He pulls away the slightest bit, our lips still dusting against each other but no longer connected as he smiles. Then he's conjoining our fingers, moving both our hands lower. And lower. And lower.
"Tell me to stop and I will, okay?" He whispers, throws out a pained groan as my hand travels the length of him. "You just gotta say stop and we stop."
Flint stops my movements, breathing heavy, head tilted back against the pillow as he peeks at me through half closed lids. Awaiting confirmation before continuing.
I nod at him, breath lost, but that doesn't seem to be good enough because the hand that's still placed at the back of my neck tangles into the ends of my hair and he tugs. "Words baby, use your words."
"I don't want to stop." I breathe out, place my free hand on his chest for some solid form of stability. "I want you, just show me what to do."
Flint gives a small nod, allows my hand to roam him again, his own guiding me. A small hiss leaving his slightly parted lips.
He throws his head back against the pillow, chest rising and falling on uneven breaths. Sweet little pants leaving his mouth. His free hand, the one that's not shadowing my movements, grips my thigh. Squeezes, leaving behind fingertip bruises in the tender flesh.
