[ The injuries he sustains now will be worsened, in time. Another round of combat awaits him, and the illness he will accrue from acting in antithesis to his desire — but, for now, he holds his aches and pains at bay and marches to her with his head held high. To flinch and act an invalid before her would be the greatest of insults, both to his pride as a man and god, as well as a show of how undeserving he is of her prayers. To her, he can be nothing less than something unstoppable, something indomitable.
In the cradle of her legs, he sits. His skin warm, but the energy within him dark. Zenith wars strongly for purchase, seeking to find the point within him that will draw him in — against her, Meridian's light takes courage, and continues to resist with its kitten teeth and claws. While naturally a warm body, it is obvious in the purposeful drape of his limb and loll of his head into her hands, that she is warmer still. Below her hands, his hair is heavy and dense; a sheet of red, pure red, root to ragged ends, but along the left of his head, away from the torn patch he had clawed apart, her fingers will find the weight of his sunbeam.
It is woven into a lock of hair by string and metal charm, warm and kept close to the same ear he had sacrificed to her and the Dryad. Easy to hide behind the curtain of his hair, easy to tuck behind his ear to keep it from swinging wildly while he is in motion. It is that streak, the one bound irrevocably to the idea of his world, that is black as night. The proof of the hold that she has on him, manifest as the red in her own hair. Small acts of fealty and promise, made true by the magic of the world.
He leans back into her, lifting his chin in order to find her face, her expression. Battered hands rise, stretching the line of him into a sinuous strip of trembling, pain-ripe skin. He takes her face into his palms, fingers light along the edge of her jaw. ]
Yes, [ he smiles, despite the split in his lip. ] That you frustrate and dazzle me are not mutually exclusive, nothing about you is something I would desire at the expense of the rest of you.
no subject
In the cradle of her legs, he sits. His skin warm, but the energy within him dark. Zenith wars strongly for purchase, seeking to find the point within him that will draw him in — against her, Meridian's light takes courage, and continues to resist with its kitten teeth and claws. While naturally a warm body, it is obvious in the purposeful drape of his limb and loll of his head into her hands, that she is warmer still. Below her hands, his hair is heavy and dense; a sheet of red, pure red, root to ragged ends, but along the left of his head, away from the torn patch he had clawed apart, her fingers will find the weight of his sunbeam.
It is woven into a lock of hair by string and metal charm, warm and kept close to the same ear he had sacrificed to her and the Dryad. Easy to hide behind the curtain of his hair, easy to tuck behind his ear to keep it from swinging wildly while he is in motion. It is that streak, the one bound irrevocably to the idea of his world, that is black as night. The proof of the hold that she has on him, manifest as the red in her own hair. Small acts of fealty and promise, made true by the magic of the world.
He leans back into her, lifting his chin in order to find her face, her expression. Battered hands rise, stretching the line of him into a sinuous strip of trembling, pain-ripe skin. He takes her face into his palms, fingers light along the edge of her jaw. ]
Yes, [ he smiles, despite the split in his lip. ] That you frustrate and dazzle me are not mutually exclusive, nothing about you is something I would desire at the expense of the rest of you.