Sun Facing Moon
Sometimes. He thinks they are polar opposites. He smiles at the thought, smoothes delicate fingers over his kimono, waiting for the mononoke to show itself.
A breath that isn't there stirs his hair, warm against the nape of his neck, where his skin is cool. The touch that ghosts over his cheek nearly draws a shudder from him, red claws raking milk white skin, calloused finger tips tracing invisible patterns. The patterns became letters. The letter words. Mine.
He thinks that he is the moon, stationary, calm, smiling. Blue and purple swirling serenely. Lorded over jealously by the fiery sun, all fury and heat and torture. He thinks the other is the sun. Golden, scalding red fire works and sparks. Vengeance and terror.
He thinks that makes them a pretty good team.
"You think too much, sometimes." a near silent voice hums in almost amusement, and painted lips curve dangerously, painted arms wrap around a slim frame. "you're too poetic." Kimono silks rustle as they are shifted. Burning, torturous fingers smooth down a cold chest, trace old scars, and he smiles coyly, sinks into the touch that almost isn't there, almost isn't real.
Behind his eyes, he sees whirling stars and lines to match the pace of the pleasure, red orange, obsidian. Flaring along his thighs or his lips in nonsensical rhythms. Scarlet, obsidian eyes narrow at him in satisfaction, a hot tongue flicking out to taste sweat slicked skin, burning all over until the very feeling of it devours him.
He smiles when it's over, and thinks that if the sun warmed him, then perhaps as the moon, he soothed the heat.
Owari
