[ His thoughts scatter in a few directions: the mundanity of it all, as though they weren't in a magical prison weathering the aftershocks of the walking dead; his unwillingness to take instruction from anyone but her; how long it's been since he's really worked with his hands; the pirates, all of them young, all of them eager and grasping; lovely, a joke, but still not a word no one's ever applied to him in seriousness or in jest.
None of it's important.
A minute of searching his phone keyboard, and then: ]
[ It's funny, isn't it. The way the last Silco must have been from another timeline or universe or something, but is the same as this one in every essential way. She screenshotted a reply similar to this, after all, before his number disappeared (the standing man emoji in response to her running girl). Indulgent of her at his core, in a way no one else is. Trying to understand her. Allowing her rainbow splatter to spill over into his monochrome. ]
[ The color's wrong, he thinks, as he looks at those little hearts. Her blue is brighter, more vibrant. Off, a hair, in shade. It doesn't do her justice. But nothing would. ]
Considerate of you.
[ A pause, where a pet name or endearment should be. ]
[ It's odd β he's not a complete stranger to the act of flirtation, but it feels utterly new with her, like a fresh color daubed onto a palette. ]
You underestimate how easily you spark my imagination.
[ A beat β his fingers hover over his phone keyboard, debating the need for clarification. But this isn't that kind of conversation, is it? Skirting more explicit text is half the fun. ]
I doubt the Balfours would notice if we were late to the table.
[ because it seems β impossible, that he would pick her. that heβd want her above the girls fluttering around him here, sweeter and easier than sheβll ever be. ]
[ A deliberate echo in her cadence rather than his, a gossamer layer of affection.
The fact is that he's never wanted anything that was easy, from Zaun's liberation to his love for her, fatal as it is. But it'd be misleading, too, to say that the difficulty is what makes such endeavors worth it. Rather, he's not the type to snatch the first shining thing that's flashed in front of his face. Things that last require a little more work than that. And his love for her has carried through his death, into uncharted territory.
In the morning, they wake with the liquid amber rays of the sun. Light cuts slices across her pale skin, illuminating the clouds tattooed across her arms and torso, setting the blue of her hair into pale flame. All it takes is for her to roll over, as though to begin getting out of bed, for his arms to wind around her and draw her back, slow and warm and gentle in a way she knows he hides and stows away, hints at a soft, vulnerable underbelly that's been scarred before.
Before, they've traded off the reins, one in control while the other submits, but here it'sβ level. He looks at her with his eyes rounded, glazed over with affection. She's something precious, to be treated accordingly β it doesn't matter that she wouldn't break under pressure. And he wants her to knowβ that he loves her, treasures her, wants her, feels for her a devotion that had placed her above even the city he loved so much. He knows her thoughts have a tendency to scatter, that she doesn't see herself the way he does. Perfect, always. Best to tell her again (and again, and again) while they have the luxury of time.
For now, despite his earlier guess that they'd merely be late: ]
[ She could say something vulgar, diminishing all he promises her with flippancy. For now, she bites her tongue, indulging the fantasy of remaining curled at his side or bound up in his arms. A new variation on the only place sheβs ever been truly safe and loved: Perched atop his lap, head tilted against his own.
(And yet she forgets his promise, by the time she awakes the next morning, or maybe she just doubts it means as much to him as it does to her. Bleary-eyed and lazy with sleep, she looses a soft sound of surprise as he winds her back. For as long as they linger, she canβt stop looking at him looking at her. Kissing and touching until her vision blurs, revisiting every mark sheβs ever left on him until he presses inside her, and she can no longer focus on any time but now, any voice in her head but his own. A rumble like the dregs of a surface thunderstorm. She keeps him there when he tries to pull out, guiding his hand to cup her breast beneath his shirt. Warming his cock as she dozes again, back pressed to his chest.)
[ It's bliss. His face nuzzled against the nape of her neck, one arm cushioning her head, the other snaked under her (his) shirt. She's warm against him, around him, the part of her thighs still a little slick, small in the cradle of his frame. He can feel each breath she takes β each inhale, each exhale, every breath matched with another conscious decision to relax, himself. It's tension he's never let go of before β as permanent to his state of being, he'd thought, as the poison that runs through his veins. But she's a miracle to him, always has been.
(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after β brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
not so fast π·
u can be my lovely assistant silco
just wear something u donβt mind getting dirty tomorrow
[ fancy man. ]
no subject
None of it's important.
A minute of searching his phone keyboard, and then: ]
π
1/2
ππ€π
no subject
wouldnt want u roughing up those hands π
no subject
Considerate of you.
[ A pause, where a pet name or endearment should be. ]
I suppose we'll match.
no subject
iβll have to borrow something from u next time
no subject
no subject
bet u can think of something thatβd suit me
no subject
[ Which is just as much the truth, his shirts appealingly large on her frame, as it is something to tie them together to outside eyes. ]
no subject
more time to sleep in before breakfast too
[ if she doesnβt bother getting dressed. ]
tho it might give u ideas π
[ of what they could be doing instead of joining the rest of the guests. ]
no subject
You underestimate how easily you spark my imagination.
[ A beat β his fingers hover over his phone keyboard, debating the need for clarification. But this isn't that kind of conversation, is it? Skirting more explicit text is half the fun. ]
I doubt the Balfours would notice if we were late to the table.
no subject
[ because it seems β impossible, that he would pick her. that heβd want her above the girls fluttering around him here, sweeter and easier than sheβll ever be. ]
guess youβll have to show me
no subject
[ A deliberate echo in her cadence rather than his, a gossamer layer of affection.
The fact is that he's never wanted anything that was easy, from Zaun's liberation to his love for her, fatal as it is. But it'd be misleading, too, to say that the difficulty is what makes such endeavors worth it. Rather, he's not the type to snatch the first shining thing that's flashed in front of his face. Things that last require a little more work than that. And his love for her has carried through his death, into uncharted territory.
In the morning, they wake with the liquid amber rays of the sun. Light cuts slices across her pale skin, illuminating the clouds tattooed across her arms and torso, setting the blue of her hair into pale flame. All it takes is for her to roll over, as though to begin getting out of bed, for his arms to wind around her and draw her back, slow and warm and gentle in a way she knows he hides and stows away, hints at a soft, vulnerable underbelly that's been scarred before.
Before, they've traded off the reins, one in control while the other submits, but here it'sβ level. He looks at her with his eyes rounded, glazed over with affection. She's something precious, to be treated accordingly β it doesn't matter that she wouldn't break under pressure. And he wants her to knowβ that he loves her, treasures her, wants her, feels for her a devotion that had placed her above even the city he loved so much. He knows her thoughts have a tendency to scatter, that she doesn't see herself the way he does. Perfect, always. Best to tell her again (and again, and again) while they have the luxury of time.
For now, despite his earlier guess that they'd merely be late: ]
I trust you'll be fine until lunch.
π
(And yet she forgets his promise, by the time she awakes the next morning, or maybe she just doubts it means as much to him as it does to her. Bleary-eyed and lazy with sleep, she looses a soft sound of surprise as he winds her back. For as long as they linger, she canβt stop looking at him looking at her. Kissing and touching until her vision blurs, revisiting every mark sheβs ever left on him until he presses inside her, and she can no longer focus on any time but now, any voice in her head but his own. A rumble like the dregs of a surface thunderstorm. She keeps him there when he tries to pull out, guiding his hand to cup her breast beneath his shirt. Warming his cock as she dozes again, back pressed to his chest.)
Eventually, ]
as long as u keep me busy, boss
no subject
(He asks her to hold him like this again the next week, an echo still sleep-warm and flushed with desire. I want you. I want to be inside you. In their bed. He keeps odd hours sometimes, they both do, but he doesn't bring anyone else back to their room.)
Want leads them back to wakefulness, soft, sleepy breaths giving way to sighs, stuttering moans. Not possessiveness, strangely, but a statement of fact. He's hers, as absolute a truth as her place in his heart. He helps her wash, after β brushes and braids her hair as she sits between his knees, finishing each strand with a ribbon. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Rather, the time and effort are the point. ]
Always.