"I don't need a human god, and believe me, I've had enough longing to last a lifetime."
Riots and outrage, petitions and pleas: all of it stems from a cycle of momentum that he can't push aside— from hunger, to simplify it. Whether he takes his ideals with a clenched fist, or asks with hands outstretched, that factor never changes.
Still, here, his eyes drift lazily shut under the coaxing press of her lips, breathing patterns slow and steady and deep. Sparks turned to embers, sleeping and buried low where he traces out circles in the hollows of corded muscle. Organic, warm in a way that automated systems always fail to accurately capture. The subtleties of subcutaneous, diffused heat.
"Perspective, though," He exhales, tipping his jaw as a contrast to the rising angle of his spine, "that never hurts."
He's had years to learn how to be human. He's had lexicons comprised of art and poetry and life. He has her, and soft moments shared in shadowed corners, the scent of stale smoke clinging to faded wallpaper.
no subject
Riots and outrage, petitions and pleas: all of it stems from a cycle of momentum that he can't push aside— from hunger, to simplify it. Whether he takes his ideals with a clenched fist, or asks with hands outstretched, that factor never changes.
Still, here, his eyes drift lazily shut under the coaxing press of her lips, breathing patterns slow and steady and deep. Sparks turned to embers, sleeping and buried low where he traces out circles in the hollows of corded muscle. Organic, warm in a way that automated systems always fail to accurately capture. The subtleties of subcutaneous, diffused heat.
"Perspective, though," He exhales, tipping his jaw as a contrast to the rising angle of his spine, "that never hurts."
He's had years to learn how to be human. He's had lexicons comprised of art and poetry and life. He has her, and soft moments shared in shadowed corners, the scent of stale smoke clinging to faded wallpaper.
Sometimes he wishes there was a reverse for that.