you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly
She didn’t need to heal him; Deimos had done that himself. Stitched over old wounds and bound lacerations tighter together so they resembled the other scars, drawn inward and coaxed down into marrow and bone. But there were other ways to mend, to learn again what it meant to trust and confide and find safety in more than just legions of shadows and one’s capabilities. To not visibly retreat into haunting eaves because those were the most familiar and the most comfortable, to not hide behind all those carefully crafted walls. He’d be lying if he said he still wasn’t tempted to slide straight into wreckage, to avoid the dread and sorrow. Sometimes it was all he’d ever known. Forged by fire and wounds again and again until his head rose above everything else, treading water, snagging at the air coating his lungs, keeping the ghosts out of his eyes.
This time he didn’t utter some age-old mantra (I do not deserve you). This time he didn’t refuse or dream or haunt, wage through battle after battle just to succumb to another. This time he didn’t do anything but feel; weights lifted from chest and shoulders and hearts, forgoing fear for courage and defying what life had told him once more.
Evie was laughter, crimson highlights against the stark ivory of snow, fixtures of light windings her way towards the sun. Evie was repose and antics laced and woven into some ridiculous force, compelling him to strive onward, into more complexities, into more devilry. And sometimes Evie was quiet, peace and repose, serenity and tranquility.
Closer and closer still until there were no gaps at all; hands sliding further down, tender and gentle on her cheeks and jaw despite the callouses, despite the way crusades had scorched and carved him. Mouth moved over hers the instant the touch flared, deepening, pressing, skin undulating under fingertips along nape and shoulders. If he was a little breathless, he’d freely admit it, breaking away several moments later merely to laugh, a light coaxing of warmth over her nose, pressing his brow against hers.
He almost asked for what but let it be, settling for a joke instead. “All right. One less lap.”
This time he didn’t utter some age-old mantra (I do not deserve you). This time he didn’t refuse or dream or haunt, wage through battle after battle just to succumb to another. This time he didn’t do anything but feel; weights lifted from chest and shoulders and hearts, forgoing fear for courage and defying what life had told him once more.
Evie was laughter, crimson highlights against the stark ivory of snow, fixtures of light windings her way towards the sun. Evie was repose and antics laced and woven into some ridiculous force, compelling him to strive onward, into more complexities, into more devilry. And sometimes Evie was quiet, peace and repose, serenity and tranquility.
Closer and closer still until there were no gaps at all; hands sliding further down, tender and gentle on her cheeks and jaw despite the callouses, despite the way crusades had scorched and carved him. Mouth moved over hers the instant the touch flared, deepening, pressing, skin undulating under fingertips along nape and shoulders. If he was a little breathless, he’d freely admit it, breaking away several moments later merely to laugh, a light coaxing of warmth over her nose, pressing his brow against hers.
He almost asked for what but let it be, settling for a joke instead. “All right. One less lap.”
DEIMOS
