[se] chasing the rapture

Deimos Were this some other game, he might have thought she was intentionally distracting and deterring him from processing any assemblage of thought. But these ones seemed drowned and weighted in a particular set of innocence, not meant to truly beguile, ensnare, or thicken the plot: no one is in danger of their capers and crusades, knocking the world and its inhabitants asunder, so he silently reveled in her fleeting touches, leaning in, in, in, as she traced, etched, and sketched, the lightest ripple of a growl forming in his throat. Then her lips are on his knuckles, his fingers, and he arched a brow, breath billowing and teasing, and his eyes slid to a narrowed assault, mouth and teeth and tongue aching to bite down on something. She was likely fully aware of the current bout of torment, so he consumed and devoured the incensed wake in his lungs, drowned it out with mischief and devilry, stare rekindled to absolute ferocity. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at her first response – intentionally vague, already a challenge just by mere happenstance and a lack of potential questions. The second though, proffered something of a nuance: if he wouldn’t find it as a tool, it was most likely not a weapon, a shield, or any sort of hunting, gathering material, as it is. The trial and tribulation continued though, since there were no other opportunities or chances to inquire – left only with the light intentions and the brooding potentials. He had no idea. His brows furrowed, no longer a pretense but an obvious role he’d taken as reality, machinating mind rumbling and rambling over the slight pieces he’d been granted. He supposed it wasn’t living, which narrowed down an assortment of choices, and it would have to fit in her basket. Was it ornamental, since that had been her inquiry? Could he adhere it to something later, impart it as munitions and ramparts? He wished he’d been able to have more inquisitive measures, and he then he sighed, irked that there wasn’t a probability of him winning the game. Eventually though, even the calculating depths of his skull were worn out, and he was left to break apart the silence. “Metal?” Metal – not yet worn or hammered by a forge’s grace, unwielded, but capable of becoming something. Then it was her turn – he watched her brows knit, considerations being made, crafted, back into the heart of the festival. He found he didn’t mind the intellectual side of their antics; but craved more of the physical, the rambling, the ambling, the jousting. “Quite useful.” It was why he’d crafted it - practical for her use, not a beast to inspire, incite, or create treasures and trinkets. It required purpose. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime