Newt’s lips are soft. Warm. They brush against yours with ease, absorbing any word or worry and instead replacing it with a dizziness. You melt into his arms, once again in shock at how much of a good kisser this man is, as you marvel each and every time. His mouth guides yours, lips clashing with lips in the most delicious of ways. His tongue glides against the tender, plump flesh of your bottom lip before he completely ravishes you.
Often times you couldn’t find the strength to not kiss him; hours tick by regrettably slow if you haven’t felt his mouth on yours. The taste of him makes you shiver: sweet and sugary like the smell of vanilla. Although Newt is the exact opposite of vanilla. You bring out a different side of him; he utterly worships you and can’t hold himself back from showing you which is precisely why with you two there’s no such thing as a “short and sweet kisses.”
His hands slide along your thighs, slender fingers digging into them before moving them apart, allowing his hip to rest against yours. You move a finger to his lips which makes him pull away. “What’s wrong?” The worry in his voice is well hidden.
“I wanted to see your eyes again.”
Newt admires your features while you admire his. Each of you have swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Newt’s hair is in disarray from you combing your hands through it again and again. Yours is splayed out against the pillows and grass of the makeshift bed you’ve made somewhere in the case.
“I love you,” Newt murmurs. You have no time to tell him the same when his mouth is on yours. But he knows.
With fluttering eyes, Newt pulls you close. The feeling of your hands around the back of his neck excites him, your nails pressing against his skin in a way that doesn’t hurt but still sends shocks down his spine.
But your eyes are open; open and tear filled: open because every time you close your eyes the happiest memories of him play. All that your mind can see is Newt Scamander; in every possibility of a future you see, Newt always remains.You kiss him back hardly and happily, releasing every emotion you feel into that very kiss. Your eyes are locked on the stars above. The stars that remain imprinted on the blue velvet sky, always and forever, burning because they have no other purpose. As they twinkled indefinitely, you and Newt would age and grow old and eventually die. The thought made you ache, but why dwell in the future?
There is only now: Newt’s mouth on yours, your bare bodies pressed together. There was a distant ringing, like tolling of light bells. For a moment you imagined the stars were laughing; speaking to you. Maybe they were.
All you knew for sure is that the bells were a prophecy.
One for a happy ending with Newt.
And midnight lays quietly draped
across your shoulders, cascading,
flowing, down your slender figure.
Its stars sparkle, sequined into
constellations; a beautiful dark
velvet sky with accents of moonlight.
A/N: This is my entry for @hunters-from-stark-tower ‘s 3k Movie AU challenge. Follows Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge pretty closely, save some parts. (Note: there are quotes in this that do not belong to me)
You’re one in a million blizzards, spinning the breath out of burning towns that are still learning how to extinguish themselves, and you’re spilling over onto roads and gracelessly stumbling into the carcasses of trees that rip you apart with their clawed-out branches, only to clothe themselves with your skin.
You’re fumbling with a blue pill, breaking it softly with your thumbs and watching the constellations spill out of every inch of their dust, spilling onto the sun like acid, eating it up from the inside until it’s nothing but a hollow sphere of dark matter trapped in innumerable continuous geometric patterns made of meshes of starlight, struggling to escape their own web delicately spinned into poetry by the rhythmic movement of the planets, turning their orbits into threads bunched up in a knot in the middle too tightly to be unraveled again.
So you lift your scissors and cut it off, letting the sun breathe a little easy but the planets don’t stop weaving and you’re trapped in the middle, struggling to scream with the thread digging into your neck and your hands desperately trying to clutch the constellations that can’t fall into place anymore.
But there’s novocaine coursing your veins and you can barely feel the cosmic bruises lining your spine so you pick every joint of your backbone apart to escape this prison that was slowly trapping you within and you carry your bones in your arms so that you don’t become weightless and float like an abandoned meteor in outer space where you don’t know whether you’re falling or flying.
And when your skull gets too heavy for you to hold and you do let go, you turn into a meteor ricocheting off galaxies and you turn into a shooting star burdened by whispered wishes you can’t grant.
You fall into the earth’s atmosphere, burning up every crater on your skin while falling with maximum velocity, getting reduced to ashes before you reach the wind shrouding the barren soil.
And then the sky tears itself apart, the sun drowning and splashing the colours of the sea on the velvet canvas sky, painting it one more time before it sinks, before the hues just drip back into the ocean, leaving the twilight burning until it is charred black.
And the sky has torn itself apart and you were ashes caught in the clouds, trapped within droplets of freezing water, waiting to spill.
You’re one in a million blizzards, waiting for the impact on the ground to scatter you all over again.
And while you’re trying to pick yourself up while looking at the night, you realise that the sun is just part of a constellation you’ll never really see.