runaways || h.s

eleven;

                She hadn’t slept under the stars in a thousand years, it seemed. The cold didn’t bother much, kind of just wrapped itself around her and made her feel more at home than she did in an actual home. The thin blanket underneath her barely kept her from feeling the rough, hard tar that spread across the entire roof. 

                “You know,” she started as her hands toyed with the waistband on her lacy underwear, his one hand occupied with a used needle and the other tightly gripping onto her hip as if she was going to fall and he could save her this way. “I feel really, really good right now.”

                “Me too,” he mumbled as the needle slipped from his hand. He pressed a sloppy wet kiss to her lips, then another to her jawline.

                “I’m a bit cold,” she groaned as his kisses reached lower and lower on her body.

                He hummed against the skin where his hand was just gripping, a bruise already forming. “You’ll warm up in a little, let it kick it,” he said.

                So she waited until it wasn’t only his lips on her body and her heart pounding against her ribs that she could feel. Her blood seemed to turn to gold and it was pulsing so fast and she felt so good.

Her hands were tangled in his messy blonde hair and his head buried between her legs, she trembled and shook from everything but the cold; the excitement, the feeling, the love. She screamed and arched her back, and he leaned up to kiss her lips to silence her. He took her head in his hands and pressed his forehead against hers, their eyes droopy and tired, but they didn’t feel it much.

“You’re so hot,” he groaned as he thrusted his hips and moved his lips against her soft skin once again. “You’re body’s so hot. I could touch you forever.”

“Then don’t let go,” she whispered breathlessly. “Don’t stop touching me.”

She he didn’t all through the rest of the night, with the sun eventually rising after what seemed like the shortest three hours, and he was gone. The needle, a piece of plastic, and her being the only thing left on the rooftop. The sun wasn’t particularly bright and it didn’t warm her any, doing the opposite actually, and she was chilled to the bone.

 Her skin was paler than normal and the bruises darker than usual when she finally got home after another hour of wandering the grimy streets in a town she didn’t know. After finding the train and figuring a route home, she wasn’t any warmer when she actually got there.

“Harry,” she said through chattering teeth. “I’m home.”

She called out again, the slightest bit more power in her voice, but there was no answer; the place was almost as empty as her.

As she walked with dragging feet further in, there was a note scrawled on a napkin that started with Lola. She reached for it, but her cold bones wouldn’t allow her to go far. So she squinted and squirmed closer until she was half-collapsed on the floor beside the table where the note sat.

Lola,

 I’m not sure where you’ve gone or why you haven’t been back in a while. I stayed up waiting each night, you know? I waited for you every night you didn’t come. Did you realize how long you were gone? I’m writing this Tuesday, November 19th at around midnight and you’re still not back. It’s almost been two weeks and I don’t know where you’ve gone. Maybe you caught a train or a bus or a plane and you’re never coming back. Or maybe you’re waiting until I’m gone to. So that’s what I’ve decided to do. You’re no longer here, so why should I be?