♖: Having their hair washed by your muse
acts of intimacy | my muse having their hair washed by yours. (not accepting)
He’s seen her in ways others have only dreamed; ways that he ought covet had it mattered to him. The truth being that they had seen each other stripped bare long before this; barely held together at the seams in their weakest moments. Here, he feels much the same, but without the crippling despair to match.
“ Why… did you want to wash my hair? ”
A simple question manicured fingertips cut short. Hands never having known meniality, smoothed their way to the nape of his neck, to a crown of coarse gray. Fingers trailing sparks in their wake, setting synapses alight in ways his persona could never, causing him to shiver despite a tepid bath.
“ …They say dogs don’t like to appear vulnerable in face of their enemies. ” that tone is indiscernible from behind.
Still, she beckons, loosening tension with a scrape of the scalp. Lathering with familiar roses, and sandalwood musk, recognized as her own. It’s comforting in ways he could not say. Pleasurable in ways he would not admit. Affectionate, and kind, strong, but willful; a prosopopoeia of the gelid empress she held within the recesses of her breast. The thrums of which let themselves be know with every brush of fingers, and drag of nail. He forgets already what brought them here, his neck cradled back when he deems to see her eye-to-eye.
“ …are you calling me a dog? ”
She hums her laugh; an elegant chime. The barest brush of fingertips placed between the eyes in jest is the same he fits the muzzle of a gun. His exhale is a breath he hadn’t remembered holding.
“ Of course not, ” Those hands that trail fire creep further still. Past his neck, and knotted shoulders, into dissolving suds that threaten decency.
Soft, and sweet, is the breath that plays at his ear, and chills him to his core.
“ …It’s proof… that you trust me. ”
