dovelike | OOM: The Raid

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OOM: The Raid

There is a forest outside Eirene's door, one that stretches up the side of a mountain. The trees aren't anything like Midwestern America - most of them are smaller and bear fruit. Some even bear olives. She finishes moving forward to give Clark enough room to escape the small hut they are exiting from.

"Up there, behind the clouds, is my home." She points at the distance top of the mountain, currently shrouded in low-lying nimbus clouds.

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"That would be okay, too." Pause for another soft kiss. "I will make sure you get home before they send the search parties out."

"There really aren't that many people to miss me." Not to mention time isn't moving in his world while he's here. He thinks.

But there are more important things to concentrate on here, like the very pretty goddess in his arms, mouth barely inches away from his. Until it isn't anymore.

"I can think of at least two," she manages, before it seems more prudent to keep silent, communicating with him in a way almost as old as speech itself. Maybe older.

Her hands lift from his shoulders to tangle in his hair and gently pull him closer, the linen of her robes buffeting against his thighs and waist.

He makes a soft noise of acquiescence and allows her to draw him even closer, and it's beginning to dawn on him that there isn't much closer to get. Not that he minds.

His hands roam freely over her back and even lightly along her sides, though he makes sure he's aware enough not to cross any unspoken boundaries. At least not the ones in his mind.

There are no boundaries with Eirene, save the one she will not cross without his permission. Even so, her attempt to hold back fails spectacularly; lips onc more conveying what words cannot.

Fingertips eventually slide away from his hair, drifting down across his cheeks and nose, his jaw - almost as if she is memorizing his features by touch.

He eases his face away from hers, ever so slightly, in an attempt to give her better access to trace her fingers wherever she'd like, staring down at her all th while with half-lidded eyes. If she's memorizing him with her touch, it seems he's trying to do the same visually.

Eirene can't even begin to understand the flutter of feelings running through her, magnified each time she touches him with a subtle thrill of electric current.

It makes her unable to concentrate on anything but him.

"I..."

He can feel the heat of her touch, light as it is, sparks igniting under his skin following along the patterns her fingers take. It's making thinking difficult.

"What?" Clark asks softly, drawing a finger down the side of her face, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Hold me. Kiss me. Make me forget about everything else but you."

Please.

"Okay."

Clark isn't entirely certain he can achieve that, but he'll try. He gathers her back up in his arms, not that he'd really let go to start, and lowers his head, pressing his lips against hers once more.

It's enough.

Her eyes slide shut, senses other than 'human' opening, expanding for the first time they've met. She feels safe enough to do so there. Now. With him.

To Clark, it might feel like the faint warmth of a friendly hand brushing across his skin.

That's about what it feels like, although Clark doesn't have the presence of mind at the moment to realize it's her doing it, and this isn't just some random reaction reaction from himself.

Regardless, the effect on him is the same: the tension in his body all but melts away and his grip on her tightens, pulling her even closer against him. Her feet might not be in as solid contact with the wall as they have been up to this point because of it.

Eirene doesn't care if her feet touch the ground, or the wall, or dangle in thin air. She has to show him how she feels, without crossing the line she's made for herself, and simply

lets go.

Clark is not kissing a blonde woman now. He's kissing Peace.

There's no ignoring or discounting that there's something different now. And that's it's Eirene doing it. It's just Clark can't seem to be bothered by it.

On the contrary, everything feels right and the last thing he wants to do is give this up before he absolutely has to.

Clark. Don't be afraid. I am Peace.

The voice is in his mind, because Eirene's lips are occupied with his own, and she either won't, or can't, let him go. Not unless he asks.

She told him once, almost a week ago, that her heart had become involved. The subtle light radiating around them is physical proof.

You don't scare me, Thallo Eirene.

He said as much to her earlier in the day, and it's no less true now. He's not afraid, not of her. It's himself he's scared of.

But even now, that doesn't seem to be much on his mind.

'Good'.

It's not so much a word as a mental gesture. A lowering of barriers all across the board, with the exception of one or two that would only be dropped in a more intimate setting.

As it is, even with the added sensory perception, Clark is still making her dizzy, igniting a slow burn everywhere his hands touch, leaving her sole sane option in the 'hang on tight' category.

Those hands are getting a little more daring, sliding around to her front, brushing lightly over her stomach and abdomen, still feeling the glow and the heat even through the fabric of her robes.

As for holding on, Eirene can cling as tight as she likes. Clark isn't letting her go anytime and he's not even remotely tired of kissing her yet.

Daring -- daring is okay when it's Clark. His fingers will draw response; physical - when she moves against his hands, verbal - a soft moan and the sigh, or coo, of a dove. Her own hands slide away from his shoulders, slipping around to splay against his back.

And the air permeates with the scent of fresh rain and rose petals.

Clark has always loved the smell of rain, spring his favourite season. This, along with her reactions which are decidedly positive, and noted and filed away, are ever so slowly starting to chip away at his impressive resolve not to let this get out of hand.

(It already is.)

He wants... he doesn't know what he wants. Part of him is saying more, the other part stop. It's hard to say which one is winning.

Make me forget.

That's what she asked and the result she gets, in spades. Senses overlap, slowly, like the ripples produced when a stone is skipped across a lake: the first point of impact, and the others that follow, producing stronger results the farther away they reach.

Five fingers thread through dark hair, five fingers curl against the nape of Clark's neck, his mouth and tongue sweeping Eirene headlong towards the event horizon.

And the heat flares, consuming common sense in it's path.

It's threatening to do away with Clark's common sense, as well.

Everything's been tuned out but her: the way she feels, the way she tastes, her smell and the rhythm of her heartbeat. And of course, the heat and glow building around them. Clark hasn't felt anything like this before, and he doubts it will be something he'll ever forget.

More! demands her body. What in the name of Tarartus are you doing?! protests her brain. It's the former in charge, molding her curves to his, hands sliding across his shoulders and down his back restlessly.

Until someone coughs behind them.

Apparently the mountain isn't as always as abandoned as Eirene believes. The intruder is a tall, dark haired, dark eyed man in -- surprise, surprise -- dark clothing.

"Eirene, may I have a word with you?"

It takes a moment or two for it to sink in that someone else has just said something, but when it does, Clark jumps back almost a foot away immediately, that infamous blush heating up his face in short order.

"Sorry," he mumbles, trying to regain his composure and glancing at Eirene curiously to see if this is a good or a bad arrival depending on her reaction. "I didn't think anyone else was up here."

It takes more than a few seconds for Eirene's sense of sobriety to assert itself, and then for her to recognize the man hovering in the archway.

"There isn't, mortal. Eirene. Now."

He watches in silence as the goddess steps down from the wall awkwardly, pausing briefly to squeeze Clark's hand before shambling forward. If the boyscout can accurately read her body language now, it will tell him she's bordering on fright.

"What are you doing here? With him."

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