(the soil parts too easily for his fingers. in it, voryn finds nothing alive. this feels like losing everything, so certain after receiving its blessing that the great tree had been their liferaft home. now he is certain that they are lost, untethered, adrift in a starless night.
in his anguish, he does not mind set's approach. he is heard, but he is not addressed. this is a mistake.
hair tears from his scalp in strands, caught between the fingers of an unyielding fist that forces him to cry out in pain and in rage. it is swallowed by set's mouth, insistent on his own, and in two ways voryn retaliates against the taste of bittersweet sap on his ally's teeth: he pulls red hair in a strong mimicry of set's hold over him, then penetrates through the protective dam to enter the god's mind. in an instant, communion is established—compelled—and in comes the flood.
his thoughts are a great, churning sea. as they wash over them, savant connection unable to be severed, one incessant question begins to itch, then chafe, and finally become raw. what are you doing? what are you doing? whatareyoudoing? whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing
light is introduced into his veins, acting like fire against the zenith sap that makes his muscles tense all at once. this only reminds him of home, which inspires him to fight harder against set, back arching to leverage a powerful body off with his own. there is no pause in their fight that instinct doesn't fill, first a warrior and second a diplomat. using the momentum afforded to him by the raising of his hips to follow through with his knees, he rides set down into the dirt to loom over him.
a hand is raised, and its palm is held flat. with a hard smack, it comes down on set's cheek.)
Are you mad? (voryn spits to the side, saliva pink.) What is this? You would give your own light to me? Answer me!
cw: forced kiss, blood... these two being themselves...
in his anguish, he does not mind set's approach. he is heard, but he is not addressed. this is a mistake.
hair tears from his scalp in strands, caught between the fingers of an unyielding fist that forces him to cry out in pain and in rage. it is swallowed by set's mouth, insistent on his own, and in two ways voryn retaliates against the taste of bittersweet sap on his ally's teeth: he pulls red hair in a strong mimicry of set's hold over him, then penetrates through the protective dam to enter the god's mind. in an instant, communion is established—compelled—and in comes the flood.
his thoughts are a great, churning sea. as they wash over them, savant connection unable to be severed, one incessant question begins to itch, then chafe, and finally become raw. what are you doing? what are you doing? whatareyoudoing? whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing
light is introduced into his veins, acting like fire against the zenith sap that makes his muscles tense all at once. this only reminds him of home, which inspires him to fight harder against set, back arching to leverage a powerful body off with his own. there is no pause in their fight that instinct doesn't fill, first a warrior and second a diplomat. using the momentum afforded to him by the raising of his hips to follow through with his knees, he rides set down into the dirt to loom over him.
a hand is raised, and its palm is held flat. with a hard smack, it comes down on set's cheek.)
Are you mad? (voryn spits to the side, saliva pink.) What is this? You would give your own light to me? Answer me!