Brontide.
Her fingers skimmed against him, carving patterns into marred and disfigured skin. Slim digits traced their way down his body, gooseflesh rippling from her touch, small shivers shaking down his spine. His breathing came in tiny gasps, feathers of her name cascading from his mouth, syllable by syllable, falling like raindrops from his lips.
He didn't know how to feel about it. In fact, he used to hate it. He'd look in the mirror and see it: the ugly mark that scored through his chest, tearing tanned skin into white, ugly branches ripping through the otherwise consistent complexion like a tree planting its roots. And while he wore it proudly – it was for a great cause, bigger than him; it had been for her.But it didn't stop the reminders of what he was, didn't stop the hatred for the wound because, maybe it were possible if he could've saved her withoutgetting hurt – if only he were stronger.
She'd assured him otherwise, of course, through their quiet nights together, and through moments like these. She assured him it was beautiful as her lips caressed his flesh, warm and lively and Maka,as she left little nips then a feathered kiss along the way. He couldn't help the grumble in his throat as she reached lower down, her fingers skimming against his waistband, before she came back up. And her eyes were sparkling – facets of emerald and green and lush and alive –and he lost any further coherency as her lips found his, slow and loving. Worshipping, in the same way he worshipped her.
He was alive.
With every touch, every kiss, every moan, he remembered he was still alive.His skin may be marred and he may never see himself the same way again, but blood pumped through his veins – whether it were black or red. Blood flooded to his fingertips as he reached to touch her, too; warmth blossomed from his touch, from her skin, and he was alive. As her fingers were quick to respond to his, fumbling around his jeans, sliding them off, he couldn't help but to grasp her shoulders – just a little –before he loosened his grip. Before he lost all sensation.
He groaned and his back arched. A low throaty sound erupted from his throat before he bit his lip, just a little, stemming moans of her name before they could spill. His hands found her head but they didn't clutch, didn't grasp; they merely feltas silky robes of ashen hair threaded between his fingers like velvet.
It was slow, deliberate – and all the while, caressing. Devoting. Fingers traced nicks and scars and proof of their partnership, the bond they shared. Meanwhile, their voices whispered, gasped, and moaned, bits and pieces of their names when they managed but otherwise only quiet white noise to their love making. She was utterly beautiful, she was the one he'd risk it all for, the one he'd gladly die for.
She was everything to him.
And as their sweating cooled and their breathing died down, she snuggled into his arms. She tilted her head upward, just a bit, and it took not another second before their lips met once more. And it was everything he wanted, everything he needed: soft, sweet, loving, devoting.
Vaguely, he could hear the low rumbling of distant thunder.