Hold on to Me
Hold on to Me love stories
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honeythighs
honeythighsi believe.
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
the story of a delicate winter.

Hold on to Me

by honeythighs

you'd never looked so beautiful, my dear.

the stars and moon must adore him, all grand and speckled with white.

the snow danced deftly—with utmost care—amidst the deeply lilac strands of his hair, as though they were silken fingers gliding over a harp, softly casting the most glorious of sounds.

the snow settled over the faint bronze of his face—rendered dull through the overcast atmosphere of a winter in full bloom—melting on the florid flesh under his liquid eyes.

the cool dew drops remained on his flushed skin, soon dripping to translucent rivulets that reflected the mellow lighting of a nearby streetlight.

the dense scattering of white in the softness of his hair was stark, startling.

it clashed wildly with the rich redness of his overly large sweater, one he insisted he don as a tribute to the holiday season.

even as you would tell him how utterly ridiculous of a sight he was, the loud hue of his sweater paired sharply with a pine-green scarf—

it was wound loosely around his delicately arched neck, framing the sweet tenderness of his blushed cheekbones—

you couldn't help the smile that spread swiftly across your lips like water from a cracking dam.

your hand, tainted red at the knuckles from the profound chill in the air, went up to trace the line of his sharp jaw.

his eyes, deep black and sharp-edged, bearing the shape of a slim almond, widened at the frosty quality of your skin, before fluttering shut as your fingers settled on the apple of his cheek.

"let's go home," he said, eyes still shut and thin lips quivering, "it's cold."

"as in . . . my home?" you inquired as a response. your hand slipped from his rosy skin and into the warmth of your woollen coat pocket.

"yeah. that is, if you're okay with that?"

you pondered that thought for a moment. you two had been out for quite a while, wandering the city as hues of red and white overtook it.

you didn't mind going home, judging from the crick in your neck and the cramped stature of his shoulders.

you were spent, and you longed for nothing more than the warmth of a house, even though your living quarters were less than ideal.

you led the way, step by step, as he gawked at the winter wonderland unfurling before him.

tree bark went stiff with white as they were enveloped by snow, car roofs grew misty with the oncoming downfall.

the lights wrapped around chimneys and front doors gleamed brightly, flashing reds and greens and blues, brightened even more so by the neutrality of the snow.

"christmas is overrated, but at least it's pretty," he said, sweet laughter underlying the monotonous façade in which he has uttered those words.

your laughter in response was loud, obnoxiously so, and it echoed across the dusky sky.

a swift beat passed before he joined in as well, and the sounds escaping your lips mingled like two lost souls finding one another.

your apartment loomed before you, a tall structure with limited appeal, yet it was the only one that you could afford with your mediocre job as a part-time waiter.

he didn't seem to mind, however, as he stepped into the building and up the stairs with the agility of one that had been there a thousand times.

and you wondered how he did it, this effortless nonchalance, especially when he was accustomed to endowment.

a tarnished key slipped into the keyhole and a brandished bronze knob was turned. you stepped into the familiarity of your two room home, overlaid with tones of brown and white.

he wasn't too far behind you, and once he had wiped his soaked boots onto a welcome mat wholly faded, he treaded inside.

"this is so cozy," he said, eyes slinking over tall coffee mugs and thick navy blankets draped over a worn couch.

"um, thank you?" you replied, puzzled yet thankful at how easily he disregarded the wrongs and highlighted the rights.

there must truly be something about the holiday season, something undeniably optimistic, that brought on such modest yet prudent miracles.

and he smiled that smile, where his striking eyes thinned into upturned crescents, and his pink lips pulled taut in a show of delight.

you encircled him tightly in your arms, felt the shuddering thump of his heartbeat, smelled nothing but the sharp scent of cinnamon on his skin.

and you felt the motions of your body slow as he pulled back and kissed you, dizzyingly hard, uncharacteristically impatient.

he tasted of gingerbread, the underlying flavour of the eggnog he had downed earlier still lingering.

your hands moved, seemingly at their own accord, from his neck to the ruddy skin underneath his closed eyes, and you thought of how undeserving you were of this luxury.

he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you, and you were afraid your heart would stop beating as his nimble fingers sifted through the darkness of your hair.

some things were fathomable, such as the curve of a smile and the sound of laughter whistling through trees, but you would never grow weary of the feeling of his arms wrapped around you.

"you're so beautiful," you whispered, lips pressed against the delicate shell of his ear, "and i love you, i love you, i love you—"

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