"kill you? that would be a waste. have i done so poorly at explaining myself? i have no desire to kill my fellow sorcerers, no matter how inconvenient some of you insist on being." he chuckled. "as for compatibility... i can ask you the same. how come you haven't left after all this time? still waiting on me to change my mind about my plan?"
It's similar to a dance. Slight adjustments of their footwork, flowing movements and artful posturing. Their focus is intimately honed on each other's responses- The push and pull of agile limbs, the bend of stretch of joints.
His fingers slide over black and gold silk, running the rough and calloused planes of combat worn hands over the rich expanse of sumptuously woven fabric.
"Death can mean countless things."
‘Attraction’ is a funny, oftentimes contrary thing. It seems the mind and eye are more aroused by what is hidden than what it can see. There was a time when, in Western culture, the sight of a well turned ankle was a most alluring sight to a gentleman. The Japanese had managed to ascribe a word that embodied attraction to the nape of a woman's neck- Those poets and Leo Tolstoy were really onto something.
The neck and back of the head are unique to the individual: birthmarks, the shape of the ears, characteristics of the skin that may be exposed or hidden by a certain hairstyle.
There is a sense of vulnerability.
"You haven't tried to convince me that I'd be wrong in doing so, would I be wrong to think no one has directly challenged your sophistry?"
It comes as no surprise that once he's pulled a gap between the underlayer of linen and the crisply folded collar of his kimono, he sees very little by the way of vulnerability. There is strength apparent in the broadness of his shoulders, the thicker shapes hidden but subtly hinted at due to the sharp angles of his clavicles. Wiry threads of tightly coiled muscle create a slope that seems to gracefully elongate his neck, bony landmarks giving way to pale ochre skin dotted with café-au-lait macules and the darker shading of birthmarks.
The pad of his thumb slides down the ridge of Suguru's breastbone, letting the rise of fall of his far too calm and steady breathing (did nothing faze this man?) push flesh against flesh, warmth bleeding into the core of his palm from his superior's body heat.
