pairing: blossom/brick (HOLY CRAP I KNOW I WROTE THEM FOR ONCE 0Д0)
disclaimer: i dig smoothies. don't sue me please.
summary: practicality and flame just don't mix. my summaries suck. also, i like metaphors.
notes: endless thanks to mathkid for beta'ing. SEND HER COOKIES! major, MAJOR kudos to those of you who catch the e.e. cummings ref. also, the first fic of mine in a long while to have only one title!
"I don't want to do this," you whisper against his skin, urgently, only it doesn't come out sounding very urgent at all, and you aren't really sure he's heard you until he stops kissing your neck and brings your wrist up so he can whisper against it.
"Neither do I," he says in a voice, a voice that deserves its own language, a language that travels up through the inner muscles of your legs, opens into your chest, wraps around your head and shoulders and curves its way back down the dome of your back, but wait, maybe those are his hands, you're not really sure at all.
Brick is so handsome. He is so handsome when he stops being stoic and silent and brooding, when he stops being himself. It's as if his eyes are matches that suddenly spark and explode into flame, and like all fire it courses through his body quicker than water can douse it, forcing his arms around you, sweeping your practical hair into a mess of tangles as the heat of it escapes into your mouth when he kisses you, and fire burns everything in its path, you cannot help it, it burns logic and sense and practicality into ash, and all that's left is the fire.
So in a way, you really mean it when you say you don't want to do this. For a moment.
But then he kisses you, breathes, "Blossom," against your lips like it's a prayer, in that voice, that language of his, that sucks the air between the both of you away as he draws you close.
And suddenly there is nothing. Nothing but him and the air between you two that isn't there, that still won't go away because there is never enough skin on skin despite all the heat, all that fire. Nothing in your head can make you believe this is a bad idea, nothing that makes you think of good and evil or right and wrong or who he is and who you are.
He's repeating your name into your hair as you gasp for breath, wishing there was enough skin and less air and that he would stop, no, never, you never want him to stop.
But—like all fire—it runs its course.
At the end of it all you drop each other, unceremoniously, like it was a mistake (it's always a mistake, though, isn't it), and amidst all that ash you pull away from each other, retreating into your logic while he retreats into his stoicism and you both go back to denying feeling when feeling is first, when feeling is what draws you to each other over and over again.
"I don't want to do this," you whisper against his skin, urgently.
"Neither do I," he says, and kisses you.