A/N: For calygreyhound. =) 250 words, three minutes.
Sometimes it’s graceless, the way she moves. She’s all slouch and slanted shoulders: all sullen sneers and leers and long, looping tongue, and her grin is a horror of blades and razors and shiny pointy things.
Sometimes it’s graceless, the way she kisses. Her nose jabs. Her mouth bumps: her lips are cold and thin and her chin’s point like a dagger, and given the chance she even slobbers. You think she’ll call you names but she doesn’t—she only laughs at you, into you. Her breath smells of things written of in darkheart teenage poetry, roses at sunset and sick strawberries and slow, slipping scarlet.
Sometimes it’s graceless, the way she loves. She doesn’t say it, not at first, and when she does it’s a whisper in the dark halfway written by the walk of her fingertips up your stomach, by the tattoo of her thumb at your breast. She winces against your cheek: chokes out, “Bonni, hey! There’s something—” Wretchedly she falters, fisting her hands and palming you and pleading with you. “You oughta know I… you… I luh-hrk!”
Sometimes—well. Sometimes it’s just graceless, the way she is. But that’s all right, you reason. You’ve got enough grace for two—for ten!—and you like her like this, stammering and shy and the trellis of her hair cool on your collar.
And sometimes you aren’t much better, come to think. Tucking your face high in the hook of her jaw, you smile and say, “Me too.”