[She'd thought that Matsukaze's mane was the reddest she would ever see. The Red Tiger of the Mountains, he had been called, when he was just rumors of a jinba so terribly strong that her stable master had grown obsessed with capturing him no matter the cost. It had seemed like fire, burning like a torch in the night, somehow untarnished and bright even when the man had been beaten and bruised...
But Set's is redder. Long, elegant fingers marked with callouses and little scars smooth through the tresses until they encounter the snags earned in his scuffle, and then carefully they untangle them. One, two, three... Along the way, (not that she'd been looking, she hadn't), she finds the strand of black... and gently tucks it back behind his ear. Four, five... But she stops when he begins to shift, arching into her, and despite her intent not to lay hands on his skin... the movement drags her fingertips over his neck, brushing against his shoulder.
How does he smile, even in moments like this? She doesn't even know if she remembers how to do it. The muscles in her jaw tense beneath his touch as if she might almost attempt it... but her lips don't curve. She doesn't understand it at all, even with his declaration of "friendship"... how he can accept all of her. How he can accept all of everyone, even her enemies? She despises it so much, she longs for someone who will take her side and tell her that she is right, that they choose her... and yet, she cannot make herself let go of how good it feels- the way she looks reflected in his eyes.
Maybe that was the true power of a god.
Despite her lingering anger, she tilts her head slightly into the brush of his fingers, pulling her own away from his skin. But she tells herself it is only because she needs to reach down into the pouch at her waist, pulling out... the comb he might recognize from that night at the Edge of the World, before everything had gotten so... so-]
My hair.
[His hands are closer now.]
Unbind it, or you will not receive your offerings.
no subject
But Set's is redder. Long, elegant fingers marked with callouses and little scars smooth through the tresses until they encounter the snags earned in his scuffle, and then carefully they untangle them. One, two, three... Along the way, (not that she'd been looking, she hadn't), she finds the strand of black... and gently tucks it back behind his ear. Four, five... But she stops when he begins to shift, arching into her, and despite her intent not to lay hands on his skin... the movement drags her fingertips over his neck, brushing against his shoulder.
How does he smile, even in moments like this? She doesn't even know if she remembers how to do it. The muscles in her jaw tense beneath his touch as if she might almost attempt it... but her lips don't curve. She doesn't understand it at all, even with his declaration of "friendship"... how he can accept all of her. How he can accept all of everyone, even her enemies? She despises it so much, she longs for someone who will take her side and tell her that she is right, that they choose her... and yet, she cannot make herself let go of how good it feels- the way she looks reflected in his eyes.
Maybe that was the true power of a god.
Despite her lingering anger, she tilts her head slightly into the brush of his fingers, pulling her own away from his skin. But she tells herself it is only because she needs to reach down into the pouch at her waist, pulling out... the comb he might recognize from that night at the Edge of the World, before everything had gotten so... so-]
My hair.
[His hands are closer now.]
Unbind it, or you will not receive your offerings.