[The first time they fought, it was raw. Stupid. Wild. Gods help them that they didn't know what they were chasing in the moment— cutting their teeth on the madness of affection by way of competitive instinct: where it was always easier for two hunter-killers supped on copper to plunge their daggers into one another, than to admit they were both snared by the headiness of contact; the adrenal beat of both their hearts (oh, how alive his body was back then, gods)— and the vibrant realization that two long-caged things still remembered how to thrill at all.
A few years older (younger, he corrects in sly amusement to himself watching bared tattoos ripple over flexing muscle while Leto turns his head to sip from the mouthpiece of that pipe), and recreation swears it isn't lightning in a bottle. That they don't have to snap and snarl and challenge one another to draw up that first sip of ozone any more than they'd need lightning itself to drum up scorch marks over stone.
They're different now.
Changed and unchanged and changing and all the more glorious for it, considering the static nothingness of use that molded them first for so damned long. And so with that still in mind— armed to the teeth with contentment and the comfortable shifting underneath him (all met, all scuffed back at in sips as languid as that pipesmoke and the sweet kiss it plants deep within his senses)— reprisal means ritual, this go around. Deliberate, meandering, wholly present ritual, and the irony's not lost on him; he wonders at the notion of elven tales he's never heard of, picturing Eladrin and Dalish creatures both pulling steady inhales from carved pipes and tapping branded ink to skin through slender needles.
(Fanciful, maybe. But isn't there divinity in that? Imagining a connection for once, rather than a dividing wall between themselves and the culture that they bleed, but never got to know.
Well. That, he thinks— amused as his own sleep shirt hits the floor— or he's just high as bloody hell and feeling far too much to be coherent.
The latter's probably it.)]
I'm the one marking you so you won't forget me, [he snorts with a slanting of his lip around one canine— punctuated by yet another craning nip against soft skin] that hardly makes it fair, when at this point I'm just effectively removing clothes to satisfy your demands.
[And maybe he's a little fond of being admired by those tsavorite eyes, clad in pants and little else.]
no subject
[The first time they fought, it was raw. Stupid. Wild. Gods help them that they didn't know what they were chasing in the moment— cutting their teeth on the madness of affection by way of competitive instinct: where it was always easier for two hunter-killers supped on copper to plunge their daggers into one another, than to admit they were both snared by the headiness of contact; the adrenal beat of both their hearts (oh, how alive his body was back then, gods)— and the vibrant realization that two long-caged things still remembered how to thrill at all.
A few years older (younger, he corrects in sly amusement to himself watching bared tattoos ripple over flexing muscle while Leto turns his head to sip from the mouthpiece of that pipe), and recreation swears it isn't lightning in a bottle. That they don't have to snap and snarl and challenge one another to draw up that first sip of ozone any more than they'd need lightning itself to drum up scorch marks over stone.
They're different now.
Changed and unchanged and changing and all the more glorious for it, considering the static nothingness of use that molded them first for so damned long. And so with that still in mind— armed to the teeth with contentment and the comfortable shifting underneath him (all met, all scuffed back at in sips as languid as that pipesmoke and the sweet kiss it plants deep within his senses)— reprisal means ritual, this go around. Deliberate, meandering, wholly present ritual, and the irony's not lost on him; he wonders at the notion of elven tales he's never heard of, picturing Eladrin and Dalish creatures both pulling steady inhales from carved pipes and tapping branded ink to skin through slender needles.
(Fanciful, maybe. But isn't there divinity in that? Imagining a connection for once, rather than a dividing wall between themselves and the culture that they bleed, but never got to know.
Well. That, he thinks— amused as his own sleep shirt hits the floor— or he's just high as bloody hell and feeling far too much to be coherent.
The latter's probably it.)]
I'm the one marking you so you won't forget me, [he snorts with a slanting of his lip around one canine— punctuated by yet another craning nip against soft skin] that hardly makes it fair, when at this point I'm just effectively removing clothes to satisfy your demands.
[And maybe he's a little fond of being admired by those tsavorite eyes, clad in pants and little else.]