Demonology [Mayuri/Retsu, PG]
Title: Demonology
Characters: Mayuri/Retsu
Rating: PG
Summary: There is pomegranate juice on her throat.
Genre: General/romance
____________________________________________
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”- Oscar Wilde
____________________________________________
There is pomegranate juice on her throat.
Mayuri rests his fingertips against her skin, her pulse fluttering beneath the press of his fingers. She lays asleep beside him, the long fall of her hair like so much dark cobwebs against the sheets. He's fascinated by her hair; the length of it is impractical and almost ludicrous, but he can't imagine her any other way.
His golden eyes linger on her face a moment more, before flicking up to the half-eaten pomegranate still clutched in her hand. With a careful touch, he takes her hand in his own, juice spilling out from between his fingers. He watches a droplet of it roll slowly down the white expanse of her inner wrist, the color of fresh lilies.
Even when he presses his lips against her skin, Retsu remains asleep.
He wonders what color she would bleed, if he should sink his teeth into her flesh. A part of him already knows - redder than the pomegranate staining her neck, redder than anything in the world. Red is an un fitting color for her; this woman who lies sleeping in his bed, the embodiment of insanity and whatever she calls the Devil. She's called him that, once.
When they come together, he's the Hades to her Persephone, but they create their own Hell when they're alone.
She stirs. Mayuri watches her dark eyelashes flutter, and her dark eyes open at last. They're the most damning feature of her face, so wide and gentle are they, when at her core, he knows she's anything but. Beneath her healing hands and kind words lies a demon of guilt and desires any other man would quail before.
Mayuri does no such thing. He welcomes it.
He withdraws his lips from her wrist, smirking down at her.
“I never pegged you for a heavy sleeper,” he says, voice full of glittering knives.
Her full mouth narrows, soft, thin brows coming together upon her pale forehead.
Retsu's fingers are sticky with juice as she drags them across the jut of his cheekbone. His skin is dark, the color of those easily tanned in the sunlight. The redness of the pomegranate seeds looks more like droplets of blood along his flesh.
Without words, she leans up and bites his lips, hands going into his hair, a shock of blue in the darkness of his bedroom. The warmth of their skin meeting breathes through the air like the flames of a candle.
Mayuri's hands fall to her full hips, the bony ends of his fingers digging into her flesh. Retsu sighs into his mouth, those damning eyes gazing up at him from under spiked lashes.
He plunges into Hell with her.
____________________________________
Her hand finds the nape of his neck.
Mayuri shudders. “Your fingers are cold,” he says, plainly.
He can't see it, but she smiles in the darkness. She buries her face in the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, lined with surgical scars and the marks her teeth have made. He's flesh now, a man with a face, not a mask, and the only thing left for him to hide behind are his words.
She rises from the bed, naked, lathed in her own dark hair.
In the palm of her hand, she grasps a few pomegranate seeds. She squeezes them until they pop, smear-dying her hand bloodletting red. The juice drips onto the sheets.
Retsu smears it across his lips, in a sloppy, uncaring way. Then, she traces her own lips the same way.
“There,” she says, and he doesn't know who is Hades or who is Persephone, “now we match.”
Characters: Mayuri/Retsu
Rating: PG
Summary: There is pomegranate juice on her throat.
Genre: General/romance
____________________________________________
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”- Oscar Wilde
____________________________________________
There is pomegranate juice on her throat.
Mayuri rests his fingertips against her skin, her pulse fluttering beneath the press of his fingers. She lays asleep beside him, the long fall of her hair like so much dark cobwebs against the sheets. He's fascinated by her hair; the length of it is impractical and almost ludicrous, but he can't imagine her any other way.
His golden eyes linger on her face a moment more, before flicking up to the half-eaten pomegranate still clutched in her hand. With a careful touch, he takes her hand in his own, juice spilling out from between his fingers. He watches a droplet of it roll slowly down the white expanse of her inner wrist, the color of fresh lilies.
Even when he presses his lips against her skin, Retsu remains asleep.
He wonders what color she would bleed, if he should sink his teeth into her flesh. A part of him already knows - redder than the pomegranate staining her neck, redder than anything in the world. Red is an un fitting color for her; this woman who lies sleeping in his bed, the embodiment of insanity and whatever she calls the Devil. She's called him that, once.
When they come together, he's the Hades to her Persephone, but they create their own Hell when they're alone.
She stirs. Mayuri watches her dark eyelashes flutter, and her dark eyes open at last. They're the most damning feature of her face, so wide and gentle are they, when at her core, he knows she's anything but. Beneath her healing hands and kind words lies a demon of guilt and desires any other man would quail before.
Mayuri does no such thing. He welcomes it.
He withdraws his lips from her wrist, smirking down at her.
“I never pegged you for a heavy sleeper,” he says, voice full of glittering knives.
Her full mouth narrows, soft, thin brows coming together upon her pale forehead.
Retsu's fingers are sticky with juice as she drags them across the jut of his cheekbone. His skin is dark, the color of those easily tanned in the sunlight. The redness of the pomegranate seeds looks more like droplets of blood along his flesh.
Without words, she leans up and bites his lips, hands going into his hair, a shock of blue in the darkness of his bedroom. The warmth of their skin meeting breathes through the air like the flames of a candle.
Mayuri's hands fall to her full hips, the bony ends of his fingers digging into her flesh. Retsu sighs into his mouth, those damning eyes gazing up at him from under spiked lashes.
He plunges into Hell with her.
____________________________________
Her hand finds the nape of his neck.
Mayuri shudders. “Your fingers are cold,” he says, plainly.
He can't see it, but she smiles in the darkness. She buries her face in the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, lined with surgical scars and the marks her teeth have made. He's flesh now, a man with a face, not a mask, and the only thing left for him to hide behind are his words.
She rises from the bed, naked, lathed in her own dark hair.
In the palm of her hand, she grasps a few pomegranate seeds. She squeezes them until they pop, smear-dying her hand bloodletting red. The juice drips onto the sheets.
Retsu smears it across his lips, in a sloppy, uncaring way. Then, she traces her own lips the same way.
“There,” she says, and he doesn't know who is Hades or who is Persephone, “now we match.”