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Entry tags:
16. love
if it wasn't this
It wasn't a secret, so he said it as often as he liked.
He remembered the first time, and smiled often to himself at that memory. Hoarse and rough and deep, with big hands on small shoulders, and then repeated over and over until the blood elf seemed satisifed. Daimd hadn't been certain, at the time, that Quinn would be satisfied—he seemed to be searching for some falsehood in the repetition, needing something different to latch onto and argue with, but it had been true, and so calmly, and honestly, he'd repeated it until there was no more need to say it.
That day had been one. He made a promise to himself then that Quinn would not go a day without knowing it.
He had never, personally, had a need to hear it. There was a neat slot in his life into which Quinn fit (or rather, a sizeable hole through which he overflowed, now). That he also had a similar space, whatever size or shape, in Quinn's life, was enough for him. That they could wake together in the morning was enough for him. That he could laugh.
It was the way they moved together. Be it through conversations with oblivious outsiders or in the throes of their latest obscenity, there was a delicious feeling of belonging and being that he had found no where else. It was feeling alive, and loving that feeling. For that feeling, he would do what he could. What he had to.
He said it every day.
He would say it while they walked, while they rested, while they fought. He would say it even when someone else was listening—he'd say it differently when no one else was. He'd say it in a thousand different ways every day, through teasing and touch and all manners of attention. He said it with his mouth and his hands, his tongue and his hips. Sometimes in growls, sometimes in whispers, and sometimes in silence.
He said it, above all, because he loved to hear it and know its truth. He said it because it was no secret, and the person who heard it was the one person above all he would not have forget it. He said it because it simply needed to be said.
It wasn't a secret, so he said it as often as he liked.
He remembered the first time, and smiled often to himself at that memory. Hoarse and rough and deep, with big hands on small shoulders, and then repeated over and over until the blood elf seemed satisifed. Daimd hadn't been certain, at the time, that Quinn would be satisfied—he seemed to be searching for some falsehood in the repetition, needing something different to latch onto and argue with, but it had been true, and so calmly, and honestly, he'd repeated it until there was no more need to say it.
That day had been one. He made a promise to himself then that Quinn would not go a day without knowing it.
He had never, personally, had a need to hear it. There was a neat slot in his life into which Quinn fit (or rather, a sizeable hole through which he overflowed, now). That he also had a similar space, whatever size or shape, in Quinn's life, was enough for him. That they could wake together in the morning was enough for him. That he could laugh.
It was the way they moved together. Be it through conversations with oblivious outsiders or in the throes of their latest obscenity, there was a delicious feeling of belonging and being that he had found no where else. It was feeling alive, and loving that feeling. For that feeling, he would do what he could. What he had to.
He said it every day.
He would say it while they walked, while they rested, while they fought. He would say it even when someone else was listening—he'd say it differently when no one else was. He'd say it in a thousand different ways every day, through teasing and touch and all manners of attention. He said it with his mouth and his hands, his tongue and his hips. Sometimes in growls, sometimes in whispers, and sometimes in silence.
He said it, above all, because he loved to hear it and know its truth. He said it because it was no secret, and the person who heard it was the one person above all he would not have forget it. He said it because it simply needed to be said.