The Nasty Zone

[undeviated]

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[shri]

His hands, like his words, are always softer than she deserves. Silk, to her rough linen. But like fine threads, it pulls her like puppet strings. Arching her back to press into his touch, her upper body curving between his chest and his hand. He is always cool, always regulated, (save where she forbids it with teeth and exact pressure, her hands that grip his body like she grips weapons - dear and commanding) to hers, all daughter of deserts and dry summers, that ran so much hotter sometimes.

She kisses his chest, open mouthed and giving if he wanted to ask. Voice deep, soft, laughing because when there is no one else, she let's herself. Because he might be the only living being that she felt she could let that sound work it's way out of the cage of ribs it usually slept on. "It would seem so. Is it longing or God you want to know of?"

[diplomats]

"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.

Sometimes he wishes there was a reverse for that.