storksummer - Tumblr blog

storksummer · 2 days ago

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SIGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. big big sigh because rage is not just one of the best but the best unpublished writer i've ever had the pleasure of reading. her writing is a cross between literary proverbs and the personification of cultivated and cultured and complex women from italy to new york to the deep marshy south. no matter what she writes, she writes with a level of mastery rivaled only by her intense love for the art she studies and surrounds herself with. madeline miller, george rr martin, ottessa, and shakespeare have birthed a beyond talented amateur writer and tumblr should be GRATEFUL she resides on this app

no matter what you read, i suggest you read rage's writing because her writing is a meal that everyone should consume. its flavorful, colorful, and meaningful.

the biggest pisces to ever pisces. imo.

a sexy little drabble i’ve been sitting on for a year or so <3

Your eyes blink open slowly and the details of the world quietly right themselves, straight lines and harsh angles emerging out of the watercolors of sleep. You must have dozed off unwittingly, succumbing to sleep after an endless day on the beach. Your mind is still hazy and half-gone after hours of sun and sangria, and the last thing you remember is stumbling sandy and barefooted across the terracotta brick floors of his studio apartment.

There’s no reprieve from summer in this dusty, dark room; it bakes in the heat of the waterfront city, feeling as though it’s carved out of the sun itself. Everything is red and brick and orange and yellow and you think the sangria must have really caught up to you, because more memories of the golden afternoon are surfacing, and now all you can think about is him untying your sarong beach skirt and kneeling before you. You remember his lips trailing up your salty thighs, you remember him muttering in something romantic– Italian? Spanish? You don’t even recognize the language in your memory, and he’d almost been too quiet to understand anyhow, but you had recognized the word for beauty, the word for want, wanting you.

You roll over and lean out of the window, one arm dangling over the windowsill, letting your eyes adjust to the sudden influx of light and taking in the rare peace on the busy streets, the early evening lull. An older man, bronzed and mustachioed, steps out of the little wine bar across the street; with only three barstools, it’s hardly larger than an office cubicle. He throws a small copper trough of water onto the street, and you watch it shimmer and slither between the cobblestones in the setting sun. What time is it? 7:00? 8:00? Dinner will be soon, you really should take a shower. You think you remember showering earlier, maybe with him, but you clearly hadn’t been too parsed about scrubbing yourself well if the stickiness of saltwater still clinging to your skin is anything to go by.

No sooner has the thought of dinner crossed your mind than your attention diverts to your other senses. Something spicy is tickling your nose, making it twitch. You turn to your other side, pulling the sheets to your chest to protect an already-tarnished sense of modesty, one that has no place here in this alcove of an apartment. An ocean breeze kisses that smooth skin in the middle of your back that you’ve never managed to lay a finger on, and you roll your shoulders into the feeling. After a moment of squinting, your eyes grow accustomed to the dark of the apartment, and his fuzzy shadow glimmers into focus, tan skin and the round lines of his muscles growing clear. He’s cooking something or other, cigarette dangling from his lips as he flips a pan full of mussels. Little flames erupt where the oil hits the fire of the stove top, and you wonder if that’s where those miniscule, circular scars along his hands had come from, this labor of love burning itself in between his knuckles. He notices you and grins around the smoke.

“Tesora,” he beckons you, and you obediently pull yourself from the bed. You slink around the huge, half-finished canvases and vintage side tables that clutter the small space, bringing that heavy, dusty orange sheet with you. He’s so warm, bronze and lean and shining with the remnants of your heady afternoon lovemaking and the muggy work of cooking over a flame in the stifling summer heat. When he kisses you, he’s gentle and quick, pressing his forehead into yours and snaking an arm around the small of your waist, tugging your hips together and rocking your bodies to the rhythm of the Piccioni song warbling out of the ancient record player in the corner. You’re enveloped in warmth, feeling yourself bloom open in the heat like the mussels in his skillet, wanting him to flip you and cook you and suck you onto his tongue.

“I fell asleep,” you mumble, moving your mouth against the hot skin of his shoulder. You lick your lips, tasting that spicy, musky man-smell of him, and you bite back a smile. He’s all yours.

He hums something of an agreement above you, moving your swaying bodies towards the other corner of the small kitchen, grabbing a pinch of something out of a pot and sprinkling it into the pan. The spice catches in the flame, little embers floating into the air. He brings his fingers to your lips, lets you suck the paprika off of his fingers until your toes curl.

“Better wake up,” he tells you, and you can hear the dimple digging into his cheek. “I told Gabriel we’d be coming by tonight. Fresh oysters on Thursdays.”

You know about the fresh oysters on Thursdays, know that Gabriel will be expecting the both of you to saunter into his bar in that fashionable state of undress that rules the street style here, have a seat and polish off a cocktail or two. It sounds lovely, really, but your sleep-addled mind protests at the idea of leaving this kitchen, of him hiding the sharp wings of his shoulder blades and the boomerang scar on his ribs with one of his breezy linen shirts. You want him bare and unclean, carnal and prophetic twisted in the sheets with you. Maybe he’ll take you to the ocean tonight, as he so loves to do, and bury himself in you on that plateau of rock that only takes a little climbing to get to. Your thighs tense.

“You have to open them for me if we go.”

“I always do,” he tuts, reaching a long arm down your back to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing playfully. You realize it was a gesture of goodbye when his hands leave you, turning to grab a long, serrated bread knife and a baguette you remember buying at the market yesterday. “And we’re going. No ifs.”

You let the bread answer for you; it sounds off its prickly agreement to being cut and consumed by the noisy crunches it makes as the knife slides through it, spitting crumbs out left and right. Your mouth waters as he plates your dinner, listening to the pretty tinkling of shells falling into the porcelain bowl and watching the soft cloud of bread turn golden as it sucks up the broth.

Feet dangling over the same windowsill you’d woken to, you sit side by side and let your ankles knock together, pulling the mussels to bits and sucking the juice off each other’s fingertips. He holds up a mussel shell, then another, then starts busying himself with how he might take it to an artist, guild the edges of the shells in gold, how he might have a necklace crafted for you out of them. You offer nothing more than a hum of approval, knowing better than to interrupt on brainstorming process. He has a visionary’s soul. The careful creativity with which he toys with a new concept is best left unmarred, no matter how often he asks for your input.

You’re entirely content to listen, anyway. His pink lips and quick tongue curl so beautifully around every letter, r’s rolling more prominently out from between his teeth as they’re prone to when he’s spent too much time by the sea. He mentions Gabriel and the oysters again, a look cut toward you with knowing green eyes; he knows your brain is still occupied with thoughts of him wrapped in white bedsheets, evidenced by the hand tight around your thigh and the curve of his smile. You nod, resigning yourself to a short few hours of sharing him with the city with a smile.

He only wants to spin you around, he insists, show you off. You can hear the slow crooning of an accordion down the street, the instrument wheezing itself into the proper key as the sun sinks into the ocean.

Of course you’ll let him, you answer back, smiling as a Dean Martin song floats towards you, two young lovers perched on a postcard windowsill.

The sunset wishes you a good night with oranges and pinks streaked over the sky just as he pulls you back through the window, smothering you with tan skin and whispered bits of poetic filth, mixing his Italian and English like olive oil and balsamic in a plate, peppering his words with soft kisses. By the time you’re off to Gabriel’s, you’re practically hopping down the stone staircase ahead of him, squealing that you’re already late and tugging one sandal on your bare foot.

Another heavy, summer evening in the city awaits you at the bottom of the stairs, greeting you with the lively spice of Italian conversation, the earthy, chest-warming scent of cigarettes and red pepper flakes, the crisp whisper of an ocean breeze sneaking through narrow streets. As one of his arms slides over your shoulder, the flick of his lighter bringing the end of each of your cigarettes to life, you try to tug him along, reminding him of the oysters and of Gabriel and the fact that he was the one that wanted to go anyway. He doesn’t listen, of course, taking advantage of each alleyway and divot of stone to tug you aside, plant aftershave-scented kisses along your neck. It doesn’t take long for you to give up, sighing contentedly into his mouth as he teases what’s to come later, after the bottle of wine and the street musicians and the playful jabs exchanged around a table with friends. You fall into the rhythm of the city easily, sandals carrying you over the cobblestones at the pace of the waves crashing against the rocky foundation of the city where the sea meets the land, and you let him guide you through his past, pointing out the same seafood stalls and wine bars he always does, nodding thoughtfully along with the stories of his sun-soaked childhood.

It’s another night by the sea, another night under the moon, and another night of being in love.

#love her #rage my love

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