send me a "(ʃƪ ˘ ³˘)" and my muse will respond with a kiss that resembles their feeling(s) or relationship towards yours.
more than any liquor, any enchantment, ANY thing in all the world did he treasure the visage of ivory painted deep, deep with inks that would tint him until it was the earth reclaimed his body. EVERY inch of hanzo held something that would ENRAPTURE the gunslinger, a new page, a new discovery, new. Ne’er with THIS MAN was there a feeling of exhaustion when they were entwined so, wrapped, laced together tight, pulled so, knotted like STITCHES, secure, unmoving.
breath in throat, skin on skin, not even the moonlight for it was dark outside, nothing but himself and hanzo in these moments of RAPTURE that were holier, better, more grandeur than any prayer or any love or any wholeness ever had he known.
ebony like silk around fingers, scarred, calloused, they had seen war and knife and LEATHER and all things and scars would mark him as ink marked his lover until the day all things were black but not even the inevitable was upon his mind now. clothes were off cast in favor of flesh and kisses and PHYSICALITY in lieu of words.
❝ i love you, ❞ there was the taste of salt on his lips from the exploration of body and crevice and every angle and movement and the way they were together for the day drew to its close and all they DESIRED was this.
splayed, back, bedsheets of a nondescript (and unimportant) color laying over ankles, forgotten, kicked off hither and thither to be dealt with at a moment that was not right now because not right now was the best time to deal with such things, not right now, NOT IN THIS MOMENT because nothing mattered
and the way his lips split slightly and he breathed in, the way hands CALLOUSED from training, from once holding a blade’s nagamaki once, long, long before they had known one another, the way sometimes when he kissed THERE he would elicit a chuckle, a laugh, some light jubilance that reminded the man, damnit, life is worth living.
and he smiled, too, head resting on the chest of the archer beneath him.
his lips tasted lightly of tea, familiar, the scent lingering as always. and on either side of a strong face were fingers more used to holding a gun than a lover and nails curled slightly, ever so, against hair that was likely in need of another shave, soon, because it was getting longer, soft to his fingertips.
