When the reaper comes knocking at my door, we'll be going twelve rounds
The world is instantly better the closer to him she is. It rights in a way he didn't realize had been wrong, not until the fit of her body against his reminds him that this is how it ought to feel. He'd stay like this, if he could, draped in the slopes of her, limbs tangled. Forever has begun to feel less like a destination or a passage of time when they're like this. Instead, he's more and more certain they've reached it, that it's obtained in every moment shared with her, loving her.
She never resisted the pull or the hold, but the feel of her softening is there just the same. It's not a defense giving way; she'd already thoroughly stripped herself of those with the way her worries spilled out into the open. It's her finding trust again. The same way sleep reshapes a body that's already submitted, this belief arrives and transforms her in degrees. That reassures him before she's even spoken, although the clasp of her fingers in his hair, the fight of her voice to stay even keel through the toss of doubt, that lands surefooted in his chest.
His grip does not loosen, not yet. He'd weaponized his insistence to spar with her fears, and though he feels victorious, he'd not be so hasty as to skip off the battlefield. Double-tapping is always a good call, even without zombies. His expression does start to unwind from the tension of furious assurance, and a "good," breathes out with enough gust to shift some of the hair against her face. Still, the force of it lifts him up to her, leaning past the pressure of her thumb along him, tugging her faintly down to meet him with the fist of her hair. His kiss sets against her mouth with no hesitation or delicacy, pressed more like a brand, as if he means to mark her exactly as they've discussed. He doesn't content himself with one, intent to steal every bit of her breath and lingering carefulness until they've both softened like the worn edges of a story well told, the folds and creases proof they they've got each other forever and then some.
She never resisted the pull or the hold, but the feel of her softening is there just the same. It's not a defense giving way; she'd already thoroughly stripped herself of those with the way her worries spilled out into the open. It's her finding trust again. The same way sleep reshapes a body that's already submitted, this belief arrives and transforms her in degrees. That reassures him before she's even spoken, although the clasp of her fingers in his hair, the fight of her voice to stay even keel through the toss of doubt, that lands surefooted in his chest.
His grip does not loosen, not yet. He'd weaponized his insistence to spar with her fears, and though he feels victorious, he'd not be so hasty as to skip off the battlefield. Double-tapping is always a good call, even without zombies. His expression does start to unwind from the tension of furious assurance, and a "good," breathes out with enough gust to shift some of the hair against her face. Still, the force of it lifts him up to her, leaning past the pressure of her thumb along him, tugging her faintly down to meet him with the fist of her hair. His kiss sets against her mouth with no hesitation or delicacy, pressed more like a brand, as if he means to mark her exactly as they've discussed. He doesn't content himself with one, intent to steal every bit of her breath and lingering carefulness until they've both softened like the worn edges of a story well told, the folds and creases proof they they've got each other forever and then some.
Kaisel
I ain't afraid to bleed, there ain't a casket strong enough for me
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
