✘ ( YESSSSSSS )
a single breath gets stuck in her mouth — frozen still, like moving might make reality shift back to a faster, sharper pace. letting this moment fade would be a crime, a vile heresy in the face of the sacred act he’s performing. tracing the frayed coastline of a scar that runs from her shoulder to her collarbone, a present from a past chase of monsters through the dark — he’s cleansing the skin he touches, a ritual to make dead skin born again. robin can’t utter a single sound while he does this, lest she breaks the spell, rips apart the gentle fabric of his spell. shifts instead, places a hand on his shoulder as if she might lose balance & fall ( though they’re both sitting on the floor, warming up to a fire that should be burning brighter, letting beer compensate for that instead ). hazel hues fixed on him, pupils shrinking against the light from the fireplace but still observant of his every reaction — robin tilts her head, allowing him better access to the cut on her skin, & doing so means her face is closer to his, now: his breath against hers, finding each other’s pace, turning into a single one. she’s still silent as she leans closer: lips against lips, though it doesn’t feel any less sacred than his soft, heavenly motions.
@ablindsavior / your muse tracing mine’s scars / not accepting.
