The Morning After Sentence Starters

atomicblnd:

        “I’ll give thanks where thanks is due.” She never asked to be saved. But she’s shifting, leaning further back, digging shoulder blades into brick. She never asked for this life. But that’s what she won’t tell you. And something else she won’t ever say? Is that she prefers this weight on her chest. 

        “What’s in it for your? ‘Cause last time I checked, Spider-man never went around lookin’ for thanks from the city of New York. Spider-man just wants justice. Spider-man does it outta the kindness of his webbed heart.” Another shift, crane her neck all the way out, to diminish the very little distance the blonde had put between them. “You ask for recognition. You want somethin’.” The woman before her is no Spider-man. 

        Hands lift and slender fingers go to grasp the collar of her leather jacket to flip it up, to pop it, to create some sort of shield from the cold winds and icy rains that whip and thrash. Her gaze is lowered, fixed on the wet cement below a pair of converse before it flickers up and to the left the moment her senses are able to pick up on something besides the dampened asphalt. 

        “Wanna share? --The uber, I mean.” Voice raises loud enough to be heard but still low enough so that the other doesn’t mistake her offer reserved for someone else. “It’s on it’s way right now. Totally wouldn’t mind. Took, like, an hour for it to actually get here. Must be the weather that has everyone requesting a lift outta the city. Which is fair.” A pause, a beat, to let a wrist twist and fingers flick up towards the clouded skies before an index juts and lulls towards the traffic on the street. “Case and point.” 

atomicblnd:

        A breath is sucked in, sharp and sudden while a gaze lifts to look up at nothing in particular, just to redirect it elsewhere as the gears in her head crank and churn. “You say that like I should be concerned or something.” Emerald orbs drop back down to settle on the profile just an inch or two away from her own and she was to swallow, hard. To push away intrusive thoughts, to keep the itch from spreading, to keep certain urges from growing. “This is just a weekend gig, really.” Nothing new. 

        “You’re not one of ‘em.” She knows. The animal inside of her knows. The woman who has her pinned is giving off a set of pheromones than the ones that were on heels moments prior. “Yet here we are in the usual position.” A pause, a beat, a steady exhale out. “Here we are.” So tell her why hasn’t she gone for your throat, yet? 

angeldcwn:

       “Six hours?” A groan, soft, lightly etched into a collarbone before lips press against for a third time in the same spot. “That’s, like, six hours too many. Try six years.” Six lifetimes would be a better accuracy, honestly. “Which is a good thing, I guess. Because I really don’t think I could’ve survived seven.” 

        Doting hands wander down south to a waist and grip loosely. The pads of her thumbs push into the hollows of a pelvis to rub and to caress, to silently worship as a quiet chuckle breaks during Beth’s mini monologue. “I love you.” It’s the other’s teeny tiny antics and quirks that will always steel the werewolf’s still beating heart right from the cavity of her chest. 

        “I can agree to that. Under another condition.” Grin breaks, crooked and wicked as a head lifts and emerald hues bore down onto hazel ones. She loves you, Beth. Did you know that? She loves you. She voiced it only seconds ago but she also loves you in this very moment while a hand raised to palm a cheek and the edge of a thumb languidly swipes across the highest point of cheekbones. “No clothes. And we stay in bed.” Compromise? Compromise.