afterwards, mornings come to fruition.from a kisses prompt on tumblr:34. kisses that start on their

afterwards, mornings come to fruition.from a kisses prompt on tumblr:34. kisses that start on their fingers and run up their arm, eventually ending on their lips. 43. a kiss pressed to the top of the head.cw: some soulmate (marital?) cheekiness. everyone is sleepy and asexual and you cannot change my mind. this blog says ace!elisadeath rights. It’s one of the rare moments that he wakes up to cold, bright sunlight spilling across the bed. The ceiling of their chambers has given way to a winter sky, the suggestion of bare aspens on all sides of them. Populus tremula. Somewhere close to…With one bleary eye, he watches a brown bear cub try to make a climbing toy out of the bedpost before far off, its mother’s huff has it coming back, little paws leaving indents in the snow.Northern Russia. A first.They rarely had mornings, and when they did, it was either out of boredom, mutual frustration, or creativity.Considering the muttering under his empress’ breath on the other side of him, he’s pleasantly surprised by the obvious third choice. Time is a funny thing in their shadow spaces; and living somewhat closer to the Creator than a clock when it came to such experiences made things a bit fuzzy.Elisabeth has too many pillows propped up against her head, which he knows will do nothing but make her neck ache in a matter of an hour or so; but for now he contents himself to watching her, pen moving almost frantically on pristine white paper, using her knees as a table from where she lay. Write. Mutter. Scratch out. Write. Mutter. Scratch out.“Are you going to continue staring at me?” she asks, but nonetheless somehow turns herself without tearing her eyes from the page and presses a kiss to his golden locks.“Does it bother you?” he asks, and fingers a lock of her hair. She’s willed it just past her waist now, and it’s his favorite length. He cranes his neck to peer at her unborn creation and she snatches the paper away before he can actually read anything of substance. He pouts, her black cat, and takes her hand, kissing her fingertips. “Be reasonable.”“Reason and creativity have no business. I abhor any kind of sense.”“You don’t,” he murmurs, and lets go of her hand only to travel up her arm. She’s such a Greek in every sense, and this morning has kept the short length of a chiton, and spun the cold Artic blue of the ocean into the fabric, deep and dark and drowning. He nips at her bicep and she simply switches the pen to her left hand, a few loose papers falling into the snow.“You’re right,” she says, and when he’s at her shoulder, he nips there too, enough for her to take in a bit of breath. “You’re looking.”“Believe me, I’m certainly not.” Death hums, and his arm wanders to snake around her waist as he finds his favorite spot at the junction of her neck and shoulder.“You’re distracting.”“I certainly am,” he chuckles and she laughs. They play such games because it is only natural. They live and do not. A continual juxtaposition of yes and no. Semantics. Such wild affections and yet no ache between legs, no parting of thighs for such a thing, a thing, yes, of God’s creation, but entirely unnecessary in their own space of existence.“How can those terrified vague fingers push,” he finds her throat, nips at her pulse, “the feathered glory from her loosening thighs?”Elisabeth shudders, and then has to laugh. “That’s not yours. And you,” suddenly she shoves his weight and in a moment straddles her black prince, “ought not to take such words. Yeats-”“He won’t win his Nobel Prize for another 120 years.” Death’s hands smooth over her waist, settle on her hips and take to massaging the spot. “I can afford a bit of… inspiration.”She leans down then, dark hair like a curtain as a peregrine falcon screeches in the sky. “And Agamemnon dead,” she tugs at his ear with her teeth, “being so caught up, so mastered by the brute blood of the air.” Her lips to his pulse, how ironic for such a creature, and soon captures his lips in a bruising kiss, tangling her fingers into his hair and tugging sharply. When she pulls away, he’s the breathless one.“You are no Leda,” Death murmurs.Elisabeth grins, all teeth. “And you hardly a swan.” Another kiss, more wild. She bites his lip and tastes the copper of his blood. “Did she put on his knowledge with his power,” she recites between her affections, traveling to his neck, his throat, claiming him in the cold light of morning with wounds of love. “Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?”The sun climbs further on in the sky. -- source link

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