SWORD
we watched the night under moonlight mixed in ocean air
the salty breeze tickled our necks
and we counted galaxies forgetting boundaries,
imagined reaching for them,
like for each other
Not quite the reign of terror and danger he once exuded; but enough to send the hastening of amusement curling up his spine. He did watch from the open field, to see where the patterns and droplets ricocheted, splattered, or collided, pleased for unearthly reasons, connotations, and pure, wicked amusement as they volleyed and struck, reveling in the feral exposition her features bristle and seethe with. It was contentment in devilish, playful antics, rather than the maelstroms of unease, of apprehension, of treachery, of LongNight’s knives, the actions they mused and molded with frequency and upheaval. Challenges, dares, provocations, stoked by either, and brandished by both, a tactic employed when everything else couldn’t be matched, scorched, or contained.
He expected retaliation; awaited it with open arms as she sprung and moved, as he twisted and turned, too late as the mud struck along his shoulders, sliding down fabric and clothing. The General intended to make a break for it, to race across the field, but she’d always be faster, swifter, lighter due to size, and he was seized, possessed, for a moment as filthy hands grabbed hold of his arms, as they threaded their way down muscle and flesh, a trail of muck and mire dashed in prints, in tattoos, in halcyon remnants. He laughed, a warm, rapacious, boyish sort of glory, taking the opportunity to reach down, palms attempting to lift her over his shoulder, cart her around, deeper and deeper into the field of mud.
He expected retaliation; awaited it with open arms as she sprung and moved, as he twisted and turned, too late as the mud struck along his shoulders, sliding down fabric and clothing. The General intended to make a break for it, to race across the field, but she’d always be faster, swifter, lighter due to size, and he was seized, possessed, for a moment as filthy hands grabbed hold of his arms, as they threaded their way down muscle and flesh, a trail of muck and mire dashed in prints, in tattoos, in halcyon remnants. He laughed, a warm, rapacious, boyish sort of glory, taking the opportunity to reach down, palms attempting to lift her over his shoulder, cart her around, deeper and deeper into the field of mud.
SHIELD
the stars lined our heartbeats,
and we fell
so much harder,
than we ever had
before
