Stepping Stones: Can I When Slivered
by Alexandra J. Campbell aka FuffyChick45
Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Joss is the man, I but a humble servant.
Author's Notes: F Pov, set during 'Chosen', more late night tossing and turning.
Feedback: YES please :D

Can I?

I wake up covered in a small sheen of sweat layering the cream, half-litted surface of my body. In your bed. I always figured I would be again, just not without you in it. By my side. Next to me. A breath away.

There's a certain amount of care I take grasping the comforter when I wake up. Tracing the thread. The curves. It could just as easily be you laced with an intricately woven shield of strength on the outside and soft contours of fluff within. Difference being, is that you have a hell of a lot more to give. Your heat's a million times more intense. Comforting. Then my smile fades. You're no longer a quilt, but infinite shards of glassy sand running my past fingertips. Cutting me up in the process. Nothing, but the memory of pebble embedded deep between my pores.

You're a tribute to motion. A salute to dexterity. So dry beneath the sunlight others place above your head, capsulating the circular halo, outlining your bleached-mind, with strands of endless gold that reflect it all, bouncing off everyone's eyes to fixate on pure, immaculate perfection. And I lie in it. Curl it between my toes. Sink, almost obliviously, beneath. Perhaps, out of unadulterated worship, grasp it between my lips. Kissing the light I'm bathed in hungerly. Starved. Drowning. Being buried below and stranded in the hole we continue to dig, I only wish was below the surface, at sunset before high-tide.

Am I buried or am I the hole? Did I dig myself out or allow you to do it for me? More indistinguishable segments of haze arise, leaving us undefined, amidst midnight thoughts I'm trapped with, while you're seeking shelter in the shell of a cold, dead body. Bet your ass he never felt half of what I did. What I still, until my dying day and fucking forever after, do. Past tense is momentary wishful thinking that doesn't accomodate my blunt, brash honesty. Honesty searing skin. Obliterating bone. Tensing muscular joints. Cramping nerve endings. Dousing your each and every principal with blood running for them. Only them.

The scar is sealed and covered now, but remains the ultimate proof of devotion. My devotion. A singular mark, though two way street of passion, severing boundries of morality. Thin white line upon, an already too pale, flesh conveying that existing between us. Have you tried to kill any humans as of late? Feel their pulse quicken then fade by your touch? The sensations of just your rage-tainted voice? The scrape of your skin caressing them, with vengeance not lead on by emptiness, but by the need to devour and destroy the others soul because they captured yours eternally by what they've done? Said. Feel. Truth hurts. You could have asked for my breath and I would have given it up, but take is what we do. Who we are. The instinct that controls our every primal move.

Don't fool yourself. Your passive-aggressive technique doesn't change what you want. Demand. Crave. We're the same mind with different application. Intellectual inversion. Equal opposition, but equally opportunistic. You watch what falls beneath with sympathy for the fact you feel none. Guiltless guilt. Shameless shame. Shallow depth. Blameless blame. You're a beautiful contradiction. A marchino cherry covered in a molten, hard-headed, chocolate shell, melting in my mouth, and being bitten into against your will. Popping against my tongue.

And suddenly I don't have the bitter taste of beach grain in my mouth. Your frame is casting a shadow on the wall in front of me, as I lay upside down on your bed. Wooden bed posts far too reminiscent of times gone by to lay against, when I can't grasp on. Or can I?

...to be continued...

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