Fiction

I kiss your neck, drunkenly, sloppily; it’s a wet kiss and I suck a little bit as I feel your breath hitch against my lips. I plant open-mouthed kisses around your neck, and you let me, at first, until I reach your clavicle and give it a small lick. You push me away, softly, slowly, halfheartedly; and whisper my name as a warning.

I already know I’ve won.

I hum absentmindedly and focus on the red spots I’ve made with my lips. I trace them with the fingers of one hand, while my other one undoes the buttons of your polo shirt. You take my hand, the one drawing circles on your skin, and say my name again.

It sounds so pretty on your lips, love, or is that the alcohol?

I hum again, and entwine my fingers with yours as your face changes from shock to concern. I move closer and kiss your cheek, softly this time, and move down to that jaw I seem to love so much. I plant butterfly kisses along your jaw line and you sigh my name.

I’ve won, completely.

I smile against the spot under your ear and give it a soft lick. I suck that spot and feel you give in, finally. You turn your face towards me, and your lips find mine. You teach me how to kiss and how to be kissed properly; our tongues dancing awkwardly at first, trying to get to know each others’ tastes. I fight for dominance, of course, even if I don’t know what it is I am doing. I can feel you smile through our kiss; I amuse you. Your hands tangle in my hair suddenly, and you hold me in place as you teach me the pace, the taste, the feel of being thoroughly kissed by you, and the tables are turned.

I’m grasping at straws and trying to hold on to my drunken courage, but you’re scaring me with the way your lips taste. I pull away and you let me. We stare at each other’s eyes for a few seconds, your hands still in my hair, our chests heaving like we’ve just ran a marathon; and my drunken fog has lifted, while your eyes have turned molten and your lips so pink from me nipping at them.

You say my name in a whisper, in awe and surprise and I feel like you’ve seen me, truly, for the first time. I gulp, I was wrong. I’ve lost this conquest to you and your kiss, and your soft way of saying my name. This is bad. This is wrong. This is… my fault. But I don’t care anymore, so I come closer again, and latch onto your neck as I feel you groan while I lick the side of it. Your hands are on my hips this time, and my hand is inside your shirt while the other is on your bicep. I kiss you like a famished vampire, and you let me, again. 

You push me away and this time it’s you kissing me in the same spot and it’s so glorious I moan your name, and you smile against my neck. You push me down onto the sand, and I let you, a dazed smile on my face as your shirt lands beside me and my hands explore every inch of your body. You’re not done yet, still kissing down my chest and your hand slipping underneath my bathing suit top.

I bite my lip, but you slow down. Your kisses getting softer, more lingering, and I already know your lust-filled haze has lifted. You look up and your eyes meet mine. I can blame the alcohol, you have nothing to blame but your self-control, and I see you realize that. I smile at you reassuringly, trying to tell you I know what I got myself into without having to use words. But you stand and wordlessly put your shirt on, then sit beside me. I prop myself up on my elbows and look at the stars. 

We sit like that in silence for a few minutes, but it feels like eternity and an hour, trying to get our bearings. We sit like that until our friends find us, their drunken laughter reaching us before they do, and tell us it’s time to go. You need to  drive us home.

~Fin~

Every Speck of Gold

You know those people you meet so randomly, like after months and months of feeling gray and dull, there's suddenly this person who makes you feel alive; or at least the inklings of being alive are in your veins again. But you never noticed this person before. You've passed by this floor a hundred times, passed by that cubicle at least a dozen times more, and you never saw him/her, and all of a sudden, BAM! They're there, and it's different, somehow.

Anyway. So yeah, you've met them, right? An introduction here, a few smiles here and there. Then one day you see them, and your hands suddenly become sweaty, and you're really nervous for some reason. They say "hey," you smile back, maybe even wave, but you ask yourself after if maybe you should have SAID something, maybe you should have struck up a conversation. You dismiss the thought, remembering that, duh, why break the routine? It's not like you actually LIKE  this person, right? But, you see, as soon as you ask yourself that question, you already do.

Slowly, and unknowingly, you begin to anticipate meeting them in the corridors; you start to scan the room to see if they're there; and you start to notice your breaks seem to be in sync; and you start dressing up when you know both of you are going on duty. In short, you start putting in effort. Effort to be noticed, effort to be talked to, effort to be... more of a friend, I guess, it depends.

Then you decide, finally, to talk with them. Only, you don't talk, not... really. You pull up the work chat app, and start a conversation with them. You say hey first, of course, and then scramble for a response when they say hi back. Whatever, you just weren't ready. So you go on. This time it's outside work, you chat, you text, but you never see each other.

You find out they like horror movies, and creepy stories. They like The 1975, and RomComs, they want to travel the entire country, too. You find out they have siblings, and they'd rather stay in than go to the beach. They tell you about their plans, a bit of their dreams, and you realize you're falling in love with an idea of a person. But you're in too deep now, you can't pull yourself out.

By now you have already deduced you only have two options: run with it and hope you don't drown, or cut it out.

You choose the former. Because, hey, what have you to lose, right?

Wrong choice.

Because after months and months of feeling dead inside, you feel alive again, and that person starts to become your drug. You're dependent now, dependent on an idea. But then they don't know that. They don't know you've memorized every single speck of gold in their eyes to keep you warm at night, and you've replayed over and over every single conversation you've typed out. They don't know that the drunk texts weren't really drunk texts. They don't know they're the reason you're up at midnight just to wait for them to say Goodnight back. They don't know your heart will cave into itself when you learn from someone else that they're leaving.

But they'll never know, now, will they? Because how do you tell someone you've fallen in love with the idea of their brown eyes staring deeply into yours? How do you tell someone you've fallen in love with their sarcastic banter and perfect use of grammar and commas?

You don't. You just write it down, and write it down again. Then throw it away, burn it, bury it, hide it, whatever. Then the stories in your head, the ones you've kept because they made you laugh, made you smile, made you breathe, you put them under that rug that you love so much, along with every other story that keeps you fighting through life. You keep it there until it's covered by other stories, other golden flecks from brown eyes, other curls from other people's hair, other scars from different heartaches.

Then on rainy days, you sit by your window with a cup of tea or hot coffee, and you recall that one person who told you they hated travelling in the rain, and it will make you smile. Because their brown eyes are flashing in your mind again, and you recall every single conversation, and for a second, you feel alive again.