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USERNAME: unsafety netzach library of ruina TEXT • AUDIO • VIDEO • ACTION • OVERFLOW

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Yesod...?

[so they're in another one--? at least it seems it's just the two of them this time, in this huge, empty place. the big room with its coffin, yesod with his music box and an outfit matching the same theme as netzach's: tailored to fit him well, to suit the shape of him in this old-fashioned style.

the candles don't quite make the room warm, only softly lit, and a slight shiver runs through him. his hair is still faintly damp, loosely put up to keep from the same fate befalling his shirt, but that certainly isn't helping with the chill.]

...your hospitality's appreciated, [he says, following at least a bit of the script,] but aren't you cold in here?

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[ He notes Netzach's shivering, and he can smell the scent of the storm on the draft breaching the manor's walls as raindrops strike the windowpanes, trickling down the glass in thin trails, but the chill doesn't reach his own body; he feels nothing of it. Raising his free hand, instinctively, he manages to pause for clearer thought, comparing this desire to touch Netzach with the gestures that they have gradually come to exchange with greater ease, no matter which one of them initiates the contact. It's a craving, a form of hunger, no longer unfamiliar, not even in its intensity — it's as if the unexpected freedom to cultivate and notice such impulses, directed at a specific target, and to treat them as permissible, acted as a switch activating his capacity for it tied to Netzach.

But something is altered to fit the story's purposes, it seems, and it causes what must be unusual hesitation by now, given his conscious efforts to fully express what he feels for Netzach without restraining himself. Netzach isn't his alone, after all. More precisely, Netzach isn't a possession to belong to anyone.

It feels ridiculous to pretend that the two of them are strangers meeting for the first time — and in such a disconcerting scenario. Yesod holds on to that to find his footing. His gloved fingertips brush against Netzach's cheek before they catch a stray tendril of green hair, smoothing it into place behind the shell of Netzach's ear. The script informs him that if he were to remove his gloves, his touch would do nothing to warm Netzach.

What he is, here, prompts a frown. ]

...Not any longer.

[ The script tells him of countless years of solitude, too, an existence binding him to isolation or a cycle of hunting humans and facing hunters. Yet now that someone — not just anyone — is here only to seek shelter, and this guest has availed himself of the manor's offerings, has ventured into this room without recoiling, these unending dark nights might become a little brighter. ]

You will stay?

[ He has a cloak draped over one arm, a new realization as he continues to adjust. While Netzach wears this story's costume well, whether or not he is aware of it himself, perhaps another layer would help against the cold and shield both of them somewhat — his neck, within easy reach, is an expanse of tempting warm skin and the steady beat of his pulse in his throat.

Yesod moves to tuck the music box within the cloak's folds, to wrap the fabric around Netzach's slim frame. ]