This came at the inspiration of music by Two Steps from Hell.

Rating is set at M for intimate content. It likely could be lowered but I would prefer to stay on the safe side.

This is not meant to be read all that quickly. Please take your time.

He isn't very good with words.

This is too swift a deduction.

It's more that there are some particulars amongst them that he dislikes.

"No."

"Yes."

"I missed you."

"I'm sorry."

He says the latter often these days. Sometimes for reasons not readily discernible. He holds himself to impossible standards.

At other times, it is in the dark. When in spite of the fragmented pieces he has broken my mind into, I lie next to him.

Common words are not enough.

It is as if he is past his time. Of a forgotten age. When proud beasts would not attempt the crude tongues of simpler beings.

He doesn't abandon it.

He cannot abandon it.

His language.

In it, he speaks.

With his hands. Palms smoothing along my skin. Over rises and shallows. Fingers in serpentine trails ending in slow grasps. There. Gripping. Drawing me to himself.

Near. Against. Encircling.

He is and I am. Tremendous and tremulous. In the midst of my reception. Steady saturation. Of him into my senses.

"I'm sorry."

He says this.

With his breaths. Faint and incessant on my lips. Whenever his are not there. Whenever he does not utter the one word he makes an exception for. Mine.

"I... shizu..."

Breaking.

As he is. In moments like this. When he is upon me and within. Without. Continually.

Slowly.

I welcome the dark scales falling over me. They are everything he is. Unyielding. Weighty. Made so by the demons he bears.

All shed in a glimmering shower when I speak. Whine. Breathe.

And invoke his name.

"Seto."

The way only I know how to say it. At his ear. My hands grasping at the arms at either side. Unsteady pillars that they are.

He speaks. Wordless. Languid. He is slow and hard and his ministrations are... Are...

Every thrust is another. More. A sliver of metal or a bright stone chiming where it lands amidst the number already amassed. One after another.

I am not as eloquent. Not when he is like this. Terrible and wonderful. My expression is accented. Impatient. With nails biting into his shoulders.

"I forgive you."

And more. I will go mad.

For all my struggle, he feigns ignorance. Then worsens it. Remaining within. Hips wickedly ground into mine. In such a way I know it is a matter of time before he will find what he is in search of. The very place which would be my undoing, my –

Bright exhalation.

Then a curse. As loud as it is vicious.

Something about what I will inflict upon him. If only I could. If only I had not allowed him to trap me. If only he does not do all.

In his timing.

To suit my crude tongue, he is adamant and so awakens a lioness. A growl upon my tongue, claws rake upward. Catching in his hair.

When I have him, I attack. Lips and teeth at his.

"Give it to me."

The end to this madness. This thirst for final discourse.

Pronounced as only he can.

As only he does.

To me.

He rises and I miss him the instant he does. His weight. The unique intimacy which is granted only when he is so close. It is good but beyond it is better. There is no pause, instead a smoothing of one cadence into another. By no means is he gentle. There is too much anger. His and mine. For mistakes and for allowing them.

There is such a thing as making fierce love.

It is the kind we make when he has nothing and everything to say.

As he does now.

Verbalizations erratic. So loud the air itself trembles. He commands it. He always has. By his will, its articulations grow. Smaller. Fainter. Faster. Fading while everything draws taut. Winding in final coils. We are. Constant. Aching. With nerve ends like sparks. Muscle twitches like fiery snaps. And him. Shuddering against my skin when I accept. Rise. Wrap. My legs around his hips and ensnare. Bid him remain.

Surrender.

Expressed is a last utterance. In an arcane tongue he taught me.

Everything slips. Away. Fragment by fragment. Shattering. Until I am nothing. But his. Until I know nothing. But him. The world frays at the edges. Torn to reveal luminosity greater than eyes might bear. So I close mine. And still, I see. Feel. All at once it is both. A vision of a faraway place. Then another, the present. Each collides.

Warmth brims over from the fire within him which can never be quelled. Only for me is it transmuted. Molten. Raging in impossible heat. All consuming in one illustrious moment.

Seared away is our sustenance.

Light dies and behind is the memory. Of words and fire. Filling silent darkness when we are divided.

In restful listlessness there is a little more.

Of his language.

In it, he speaks.

With his hands. Palms smoothing along my skin. Over rises and shallows. Fingers in serpentine trails ending in slow grasps. There. Gripping. Drawing me to himself.

His steadily quieter breaths are warm in my hair.

In this way we exist. Dissimilar creatures. I having learned to listen.