Warning: Rated definite T.
I don’t own AF.
Inspired by Maroon 5’s One More Night, but a little fluffier. 🙂
Voir C’est Croire
Inhibitions take a backseat for the first time that night.
He props himself up on his forearms, so not to crush the girl with his body mass, and she writhes beneath him, a fish out of water trapped beneath a bear. He wonders absently if an onlooker would be able to tell the predator from the prey.
Lips move in a frantic dance. The air is thick and muggy with the ocean’s slow breath, clashing with the pair’s ragged gasps. Calloused paws and dainty hands alike grope at clothing, trail up and down revealed skin. Both lovers revel in the glorious friction created. Flame builds inside of their bodies, crackling and roaring and threatening to bake their flesh from the inside out if not released.
He tries to be as gentle as he can, and it drives them both half to madness.
———————————————————————————————————–Morning after drunken morning, Domovoi stumbles to the mirror in the Spartan bathroom. Rests his mammoth hands on the basin. Stares at the wrinkles, the scars, the gray hairs. Stares and stares and stares until he feels his resolve bolster and his eyes glitter with determination. Butler then marches to the kitchen, presses his hand to the hot stove, and ignores both pains with gritted teeth. He starts to make breakfast.
The Frenchwoman saunters out of their bedroom, hair disheveled, and yawns widely. They eat breakfast together at the small wooden table, not saying a word.
Every day, without fail, Minerva searches her lover’s hands. Dom doesn’t resist her. The woman sees the blistering pink skin, clucks her tongue, and goes to get salve. When she spreads it all along his hand, softly massaging the skin, Butler still doesn’t resist. The relief lasts all through the night.
Her hands run across his shoulders and link around his chest from behind. Her blonde ringlets tickle his neck as she rubs her cheek against his affectionately, as a cat might. His arguments catch in his throat, and he smiles faintly, setting down Guns and Ammo.
“Why do you care what they think?” Minerva screams, throwing her hands up in exasperation. This was the root of many of their fights; too many, she thinks. “Why should it matter? I’m already nineteen, dammit! What is wrong with you?”
Butler looks at her standing there with her arms crossed and he sees a beautiful girl, young and whole and with her entire life ahead of her to laugh and love and make mistakes, and he doesn’t know how to respond. His mouth seems to be glued shut.
She takes his massive shoulders in her hands, looks him in the eyes, and glares electricity between the shadow blue and determined green. “We love each other. That’s all that matters.” She says it slowly, searching his eyes for affirmation. He hears the soul in her voice, and it breaks his heart.
Butler’s face remains blank.
They always met at that cottage. Neither was poor; they could easily have afforded something more comfortable. A hotel, perhaps, with a particularly gold-conscious staff. They always met at the cottage by the sea.
It was a plain house, with four bare rooms dividing a rectangular chassis. This was the house of a peasant, someone from a simpler time with simple needs and simple wants. It was like a window to history, or a pocket outside of time.
It utterly baffled her, because he refused to meet anywhere else.
Artemis knew. Butler would declare that he was leaving for a bit – a business trip, he would say – and that he would be back in a few days. The mismatched eyes would peer up at him from over the top of the laptop and look at him coolly. Domovoi Butler – the warrior scarred from a thousand battles – would start to sweat like a schoolboy under the sheer intensity. He would back out of the room quickly, wincing at the mismatched gaze boring into his back and the years of unwavering trust slouching his shoulders. It was times like this when Butler would wonder just what exactly he was running from.
He pins her against the wall; her eyebrows rise. Usually she’s the one to instigate their affections, but it seems he wanted something different. Although, when his hands run down her body and his movements border on feverous, she can’t say she’s complaining.
Domovoi’s internal alarm clock rouses him from slumber at exactly dawn. He feels something warm against his side, a direct pressure on his bare skin. He opens his eyes. As is the tendency of the lonely man, he greets the ceiling moodily in his head. When finished, Butler’s lolls his head to the side. He expects to see a pack there, maybe a stray blanket he picked up while sleepwalking. What he sees is far more beautiful than the ceiling.
Butler stares as he allows his quickly-failing memory to fill in the gaps, and sighs. Tenderly, he brushes a lock of golden hair away from where it crosses her curled black lashes and admires her porcelain features. He’s been all around the world, seen thousands of women, yet no beauty can compare to Minerva’s feisty pride.
The warrior blinks a few times, sighs again, and carefully removes the blankets from his body. Minerva likes her sausage extra crispy.
“I love you, Domovoi.”
She says it over and over until she says it so much it just goes right over his head. She says it when she arrives; she says it when she laughs at a joke he makes, ruminated over for hours; when she cracks an intellectual joke, he pretends to laugh just to see her smile, and they both know it.
She whispers it when the lights dim and she attacks, and her soft caresses make his knees go weak. When he tries to back away and she pushes forward, plays with the buttons of his shirt and whispers until he can’t take it anymore. When she’s exhausted from the physical exertion and falls asleep on his lap, and he strokes her hair and kisses her forehead. Then, he knows she can’t possibly be saying anything, because he can see her lips and they’re at peace for the first time that night; but he can still hear her honeyed voice murmur in his ear.
It’s only when he sits there, with this girl snuggled up in his arms, lips curled upward even in dreams, that Butler starts to believe it.
And yes, I HAD to put the title in French. I couldn’t resist, as fluffily clichéd as it is. : P
Not entirely happy with the ending. Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? X]