[It was a shimmering moment in time, feeling the bones pressing together in his fingers, the pounding of his own heart and Mercy's as well as the pulse beneath his palms. Of course it couldn't last, of course he couldn't be allowed to continue; it almost certainly didn't all culminate in a wicked impulse enjoyed with startling, shameful indulgence. With the passion and the heat so high, though, who could blame him for succumbing?
Not Mercy; though she seizes him by the hair and calls him bad boy, her lips, and even her teeth, are more like a reward than a rebuke. He doesn't expect her to one-up his audacity by tearing into him, though, and as her throat fills with his blood (Augustine's? Whose, truly?), he is rigid against her, breath stuttering and sharp as she devours him before the tension draws to a point, releases in a bloom of thought-obliterating violence, and leaves him blinking and panting against a sprig of rose-gold curls.
Then it all comes crashing down, again, and in a flurry of displaced motion he spins to face, full-on, something he believes he's seen before. John's omen, after all, looks a great deal like the herald.
Disoriented, he reaches for John, a fistful of fabric and the haul of a stumbling, dragging several steps, before-
Sunlight. A park bench, with Mercy's fingertips still on the tome between them. He yanks it hastily back, snapping it shut, shifting his position awkwardly so that he can hold it over his lap.
His eyes are as wide as ever. His cheeks are flushed a deeper red than any fever or exertion has ever stained them, only outdone by the blood staining his shirt.]
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Not Mercy; though she seizes him by the hair and calls him bad boy, her lips, and even her teeth, are more like a reward than a rebuke. He doesn't expect her to one-up his audacity by tearing into him, though, and as her throat fills with his blood (Augustine's? Whose, truly?), he is rigid against her, breath stuttering and sharp as she devours him before the tension draws to a point, releases in a bloom of thought-obliterating violence, and leaves him blinking and panting against a sprig of rose-gold curls.
Then it all comes crashing down, again, and in a flurry of displaced motion he spins to face, full-on, something he believes he's seen before. John's omen, after all, looks a great deal like the herald.
Disoriented, he reaches for John, a fistful of fabric and the haul of a stumbling, dragging several steps, before-
Sunlight. A park bench, with Mercy's fingertips still on the tome between them. He yanks it hastily back, snapping it shut, shifting his position awkwardly so that he can hold it over his lap.
His eyes are as wide as ever. His cheeks are flushed a deeper red than any fever or exertion has ever stained them, only outdone by the blood staining his shirt.]