❛ comb . comb fingers through my muse’s hair .
The Underground is not a place for softness. It is a place to brandish blades, to lash out with sharpened claws. It is a place of hunters and prey – eat or be eaten. Every day, lives are on the line – souls teeter on the edge of oblivion. Theirs, others. Lives are lost, taken. Some are even taken by their own hands.
And yet, in private, these hands find other purpose.
Alexi rests his head in Rosalie's lap. His hands are folded now. No blade does he wield; his claws are retracted. Hues of honey blink up at her, then shut as she runs her fingers through his hair. Soft. Peaceful. Such gestures are out of place for the Underground, but are they out of place for them? Or are these little glimpses of gentle affection the most natural thing about them?
❛ Mmm. That feels nice. ❜ A rumble from the back of his throat; he peeks an eye open to look up at her again. Corners of his lips upturn into a grin when he is met with her gaze in return. His other eye opens, and his eyes search hers.
The Underground is not a place to be soft. But maybe, just maybe – here, where it is just the two of them – they could make an exception.