@witchkillr, making demands.
just admit that you love me .
love hides in the smallest of cracks. apex predator, it sits in the underbrush, waiting to pounce, counts down millennia between heartbeats. love grows on patience like moss on wet soil, and in her chest there is space for a forest. and so when agatha asks - demands - seeks, it settles over her like dew.
the hour is late. mura ( and oh, to be mura again. to exist devoid of artifice, here in this little room, in this place so far from home. to strip herself bare, when for so long her leathers had stuck to her a second skin, and now at last, at last !! she can breathe again ) has undone her braid, hair spilling like rivers of ink across the sheets, a brush in a hand that freezes, motion aborted.
admit that you love me.
has she not ?? mornings find her with her mouth to agatha's shoulder. she has bathed blood from her skin, has sought to undo hurts knotted along her spine, the steady slow stillness of a lake that will not drown her. language feels at times immaterial and vain, crude renderings of a world painted colours with no name. it lives now in the corners of her mouth as she smiles, indulgent, raising so the sheets pool around her waist, sets aside her brush.
❝ have i given you reason to doubt that what i carry in my heart for you is love ?? ❞ teasing, like truth often has to be with her flighty heart. grasping fingers reach for fingers, a kiss planted in the middle of her palm like a seed, safe under the blanket of winter. ❝ i love you. it is as easy and as strange to me as breathing. ❞
