01-04-2016, 09:07 PM
The final, stubborn vestiges of her broken illusion surrender themselves to him.
Michaelis, unbeknownst to him, takes the void of her fear and doubt; finds a place for the darkness of her apparition among his own real companions.
He waves and lumps with the obscuration. She considers him carefully, compelled by fear and curiosity, both. (The shadowy parts of his body flicker with the tokens of her mind; the teeth and claws residing therein. The implosion of a world, and the greyscale destruction of a great fire. The chipping away of her existence, and Wind... But the fleshy parts of him are a lovely respite. He contains and dispels them at will.)
She watches the affectionate finger of shade move down the plain of his face. There is something tender and penitent about it, searching his cheeks and bridge for his love and attention. She shivers, whuffing softly in his direction. Her ears perk intently, her prosaical eyes catching a lusty glint, fed by his invitation and by the siren of those wanton curls.
Her caution is allyed, just the shamelessness of her coveting is left.
She reaches her muzzle forward to meet his extension, lipping at the air near his chin; jerking back as the tendril snakes, before pressing forward again. She wills it onto her own skin, but she is not him, and it does not oblige. She is nothing like him. The shadows do not move for her, only around and against her. They skulk close to their master – but she yearns for them so. Burned by their avoidance, the red woman snorts, lightly nipping close to his cheek, lost in the moment of his patient reach. “They are rather attached.” There is a girlish sulking to her voice.
But she can understand that. He is magnetic, to them and to her, still eyeing the shade but with a petulance now. “That must come in handy...” Like a child, she cannot keep mad – not at something so delightful.
Blinking, her vision fills with the sweetness of possibility.
A ghost precedes us. A shadow follows us
And each time we stop, we fall.
Michaelis, unbeknownst to him, takes the void of her fear and doubt; finds a place for the darkness of her apparition among his own real companions.He waves and lumps with the obscuration. She considers him carefully, compelled by fear and curiosity, both. (The shadowy parts of his body flicker with the tokens of her mind; the teeth and claws residing therein. The implosion of a world, and the greyscale destruction of a great fire. The chipping away of her existence, and Wind... But the fleshy parts of him are a lovely respite. He contains and dispels them at will.)
She watches the affectionate finger of shade move down the plain of his face. There is something tender and penitent about it, searching his cheeks and bridge for his love and attention. She shivers, whuffing softly in his direction. Her ears perk intently, her prosaical eyes catching a lusty glint, fed by his invitation and by the siren of those wanton curls.
Her caution is allyed, just the shamelessness of her coveting is left.She reaches her muzzle forward to meet his extension, lipping at the air near his chin; jerking back as the tendril snakes, before pressing forward again. She wills it onto her own skin, but she is not him, and it does not oblige. She is nothing like him. The shadows do not move for her, only around and against her. They skulk close to their master – but she yearns for them so. Burned by their avoidance, the red woman snorts, lightly nipping close to his cheek, lost in the moment of his patient reach. “They are rather attached.” There is a girlish sulking to her voice.
But she can understand that. He is magnetic, to them and to her, still eyeing the shade but with a petulance now. “That must come in handy...” Like a child, she cannot keep mad – not at something so delightful.Blinking, her vision fills with the sweetness of possibility.
And each time we stop, we fall.
lines and shading
by bronzehalo
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