[His mouth is very soft on the back of her hand. In the vacuum of his barricaded mind, the tactile feedback of it is as immediate as is possible. It mingles with the metallic and citrus taste on her tongue, sharp and sweet and complimentary.
Her hand is very still in his. She says nothing.
But the imperfect mirror of her mind chips to shards, the sheet of it slipping from its frame to splinter in a thousand different directions. A glitter of glass, of stars, points of lights racing away from this chamber.
This only matters to a very small selection of herself. Why bother with the rest?, she thinks.
Something flexes up into the space left behind - the spice scent of the tea or rasp of book pages being turned or the hiss of Vulbhan's shears through a netting of roots. It's tea poured from a brass spout to a ceramic cup until it flows over the edge and spreads into the skin of him. She presses into him like the heat of flesh in summer or shoulders set against one another and her other hand, resting on the table, releases the three pronged fork she'd found herself gripping.]
no subject
Her hand is very still in his. She says nothing.
But the imperfect mirror of her mind chips to shards, the sheet of it slipping from its frame to splinter in a thousand different directions. A glitter of glass, of stars, points of lights racing away from this chamber.
This only matters to a very small selection of herself. Why bother with the rest?, she thinks.
Something flexes up into the space left behind - the spice scent of the tea or rasp of book pages being turned or the hiss of Vulbhan's shears through a netting of roots. It's tea poured from a brass spout to a ceramic cup until it flows over the edge and spreads into the skin of him. She presses into him like the heat of flesh in summer or shoulders set against one another and her other hand, resting on the table, releases the three pronged fork she'd found herself gripping.]