[ throat bare, spine strung like a bowstring, the flush of his mouth as dizzying as a storm-fire. it's a wonder that childe hadn't seen through him within days of landing -- he's a heart-shot made flesh, the kind of missile that lives to find its mark.
it would have been a simpler match, then. through the seasons, something's shifted. childe's fingers curl, and for a moment, all he can parse's the tilt of childe's body towards him, his eyes all fever-bright blue, everything lost between them but the echo of adrenaline and body heat.
his grip clenches against the wood. behind him, the stele thrums with one last pulse, and evaporates. the spear snaps into the floor; the pillars quake with its echo. in an instant, his arm's looping along the curve of childe's spine, pulling him flush to keep him from tipping backwards. ]
I seem to have misunderstood the purpose of the match.
[ as if he weren't speaking with childe's hand still curved against his throat. the spearpoint's struck by their feet, a gaunt and edgeless glittering at the edge of his vision. all this time, and still neither of them's drawn blood.
deliberately, he leans into childe's space, chasing the ragged curl of his breath.
he's played games with higher stakes, but none so urgent as this. ]
no subject
it would have been a simpler match, then. through the seasons, something's shifted. childe's fingers curl, and for a moment, all he can parse's the tilt of childe's body towards him, his eyes all fever-bright blue, everything lost between them but the echo of adrenaline and body heat.
his grip clenches against the wood. behind him, the stele thrums with one last pulse, and evaporates. the spear snaps into the floor; the pillars quake with its echo. in an instant, his arm's looping along the curve of childe's spine, pulling him flush to keep him from tipping backwards. ]
I seem to have misunderstood the purpose of the match.
[ as if he weren't speaking with childe's hand still curved against his throat. the spearpoint's struck by their feet, a gaunt and edgeless glittering at the edge of his vision. all this time, and still neither of them's drawn blood.
deliberately, he leans into childe's space, chasing the ragged curl of his breath.
he's played games with higher stakes, but none so urgent as this. ]
Were you seeking my blood or my attention?