Silver Moraine [m] i'll cut the soft pockets, let bleed

his own approach is met in kind, and while the wordless mutuality does little to soothe his wariness, something draws him forward further. something he can't quite place. he pays little attention to the feeling — as little as he pays to the growing tension in his own body as he draws ever closer. too close for comfort, now, but that doesn't stop him. nothing about his existence is comfortable as of late, particularly in the past few days. the molten heat in his veins controls him now, more than the ice at the center of his heart ever has — and while he doesn't understand how or why, the pull of instinct is strong enough that he knows what will soothe the fire at the core of him. he knows that this stranger can provide it.

in this moment, little else matters.