05-06-2017, 07:31 PM
He is silent with his lips pressed to her withers, quiet when his tongue slips past to taste the morning gold etched into the dapples on her skin. She closes her eyes and softens for him, always and ever undone by him in these close moments when they press together like this. Where his mind clings to memories from the past – the birth of Argo, their first, and of pressing his lips to her skin like a mapmaker learning his lines – she wonders at the present. At the worry in his brow and the reasons for his nightly absences, at the darkness in his face that seems as though even her light cannot reach it.
But then he is reaching and wanting, gentle as always, pressing the heat of his mouth to every part of her that he can reach from over her shoulders. There is want in his touch, she thinks, or maybe some unnamable kind of need born from the dark in him, but she arches her delicate body against him, pushing closer, closer even as she starts to tremble. “Offspring?” She whispers, asks, pushes the name against his shoulder with the soft of her lips until she is breathless and aching and coming undone against his chest.
Her lips find his cheek now, warm and gentle like the creeping sunshine around them, and she takes one small step back so that she can watch him. It is impossible to think with his lips pressed to her skin, his tongue warm and damp and suckling against all those dark, gleaming dapples. She covers him with kisses instead, quiet in their intensity, soft and affectionate until he softens and those burning eyes open to find her again. She is surprised by the emotion there, by the wet and gleaming of unshed tears that catch and tremble like diamonds along the lid. “Offspring.” She says again, reaching up to brush his forelock smooth with her lips, to leave kisses at the corners of eyes like living coals.
I have lived a thousand lifetimes, Isle, she pulls back but not away, lifting her chin to watch him in an uncertain way with her eyes dark and her brow furrowed, I am one hundred and thirty-seven years old. She is quiet until his finishes, silent until he is, too, and even then she can only watch him for a moment, only drop her gaze to trace the dozens of scars that lay pink and puckered against the smooth black of his skin. A scar for every lifetime, perhaps. She wants to ask him why, wants to know what reason he had to keep this from her so long, why this had to be a secret when he knew all of her. But when she lifts her eyes to his face and finds it dark and jagged and stained wet with his pain, the question dies on her lips.
Killdare, he’s gone. He stumbles over the words like he almost cannot say it, like it is a blade against his tongue and he is trying not to choke on his own blood. At once she is against him again, pressed to his chest and against his shoulder, trailing kisses over skin that ripples beneath her lips. She can smell it on him now – not death, but the sand and musk and, strangely, smoke. She should have noticed, should have known not to push him, now.
His chest heaves against hers and he reaches for her again, pressing his lips to her cheek which she lifts to him willingly. I can’t lose you, too, I love you.This close, his voice is more hum than volume, a sound she can feel in her skin rather than hear with her ears. “I love you, too, Offspring.” She says back, wishing she had more to soothe him with, wishing she could promise a forever like his. But it is out of her reach and out of her grasp and all she can do is press closer and against him, paint his skin and his scars with quiet kisses meant to soothe the ragged tremble of his chest. It is no secret how she ages, the crinkles in her skin at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes – not deep, but enough to erase the hope that maybe she might be immortal as he is – betray the truth that weighs so heavily on both of their minds.
When she lifts her face to him it is sad and dark and furrowed, the tangles of her black forelock hiding eyes that search his painfully. “I’m yours for as long as I have – for as long as we have together.” She hides the brokenness in her chest with a soft smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth and settles shallowly in her eyes. “I’m not so old, yet. You’ll be stuck with me for a long while.” But even as she says this she wonders at the cruelness of it, wonders if it would not be kinder to pull away now and break his heart so that he can remember her in some barbed way, in such dark light. Death would be worse, she thinks, he would always remember her in a way colored by longing, let time warp his memories of her into something greater than she truly was. But she hides this from him now, hides the worry in her eyes and the furrow of her brow so that he will not see it, will not know her doubts.
Instead she softens, presses kisses to his face and his throat and the thick of his neck, runs gentle teeth along the ridges of bone to coax his mind from his worries and to the depth of her affection for him. “I love you.” She says again, so soft and quiet, dropping her nose to his elbow, her lips to that soft skin just behind it.
i am well aware of the shadows in my heart
But then he is reaching and wanting, gentle as always, pressing the heat of his mouth to every part of her that he can reach from over her shoulders. There is want in his touch, she thinks, or maybe some unnamable kind of need born from the dark in him, but she arches her delicate body against him, pushing closer, closer even as she starts to tremble. “Offspring?” She whispers, asks, pushes the name against his shoulder with the soft of her lips until she is breathless and aching and coming undone against his chest.
Her lips find his cheek now, warm and gentle like the creeping sunshine around them, and she takes one small step back so that she can watch him. It is impossible to think with his lips pressed to her skin, his tongue warm and damp and suckling against all those dark, gleaming dapples. She covers him with kisses instead, quiet in their intensity, soft and affectionate until he softens and those burning eyes open to find her again. She is surprised by the emotion there, by the wet and gleaming of unshed tears that catch and tremble like diamonds along the lid. “Offspring.” She says again, reaching up to brush his forelock smooth with her lips, to leave kisses at the corners of eyes like living coals.
I have lived a thousand lifetimes, Isle, she pulls back but not away, lifting her chin to watch him in an uncertain way with her eyes dark and her brow furrowed, I am one hundred and thirty-seven years old. She is quiet until his finishes, silent until he is, too, and even then she can only watch him for a moment, only drop her gaze to trace the dozens of scars that lay pink and puckered against the smooth black of his skin. A scar for every lifetime, perhaps. She wants to ask him why, wants to know what reason he had to keep this from her so long, why this had to be a secret when he knew all of her. But when she lifts her eyes to his face and finds it dark and jagged and stained wet with his pain, the question dies on her lips.
Killdare, he’s gone. He stumbles over the words like he almost cannot say it, like it is a blade against his tongue and he is trying not to choke on his own blood. At once she is against him again, pressed to his chest and against his shoulder, trailing kisses over skin that ripples beneath her lips. She can smell it on him now – not death, but the sand and musk and, strangely, smoke. She should have noticed, should have known not to push him, now.
His chest heaves against hers and he reaches for her again, pressing his lips to her cheek which she lifts to him willingly. I can’t lose you, too, I love you.This close, his voice is more hum than volume, a sound she can feel in her skin rather than hear with her ears. “I love you, too, Offspring.” She says back, wishing she had more to soothe him with, wishing she could promise a forever like his. But it is out of her reach and out of her grasp and all she can do is press closer and against him, paint his skin and his scars with quiet kisses meant to soothe the ragged tremble of his chest. It is no secret how she ages, the crinkles in her skin at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes – not deep, but enough to erase the hope that maybe she might be immortal as he is – betray the truth that weighs so heavily on both of their minds.
When she lifts her face to him it is sad and dark and furrowed, the tangles of her black forelock hiding eyes that search his painfully. “I’m yours for as long as I have – for as long as we have together.” She hides the brokenness in her chest with a soft smile that pulls at the corners of her mouth and settles shallowly in her eyes. “I’m not so old, yet. You’ll be stuck with me for a long while.” But even as she says this she wonders at the cruelness of it, wonders if it would not be kinder to pull away now and break his heart so that he can remember her in some barbed way, in such dark light. Death would be worse, she thinks, he would always remember her in a way colored by longing, let time warp his memories of her into something greater than she truly was. But she hides this from him now, hides the worry in her eyes and the furrow of her brow so that he will not see it, will not know her doubts.
Instead she softens, presses kisses to his face and his throat and the thick of his neck, runs gentle teeth along the ridges of bone to coax his mind from his worries and to the depth of her affection for him. “I love you.” She says again, so soft and quiet, dropping her nose to his elbow, her lips to that soft skin just behind it.