[P] but I'd risk it all just to be with you

[Raum]

 
Raum knew what would come of his request. He knew her answer even before she spoke the words. He watches her face paint its emotions upon his soul and wonders what went wrong. How, exactly, had this girl been born of sand and sun in a land where they were only born of inky darkness.
 
He looks to his fire girl, to the salt of her skin, as she breathes a little more heavily and tires more readily than he has ever known her to. Already their love is weighting itself across her slim shoulders. It is swelling in her abdomen too; what an error they had made! He does not think fatherhood would ever pick him. Should tell her to find someway to be rid of it? But those words promise to be ash in his mouth and something awakens. It is visceral and bright. It throws shadows back and lights his blood like gasoline. Raum is ascending, fast and wild and a smile begins to curl at his lips. It is joy limning his bones and turning him bright, bright, bright.
 
There is pleasure, in those lips of his. It is small and shadowed and fleeting, but it is there. It is there even as Rhoswen denies him, curling her body against his. They are heart to heart and Raum cannot feel his for the rhythm of hers. There is no tandem heartbeat here, their twin hearts are a cacophony, fighting, pulling warring. Rhoswen’s is a savage thing within her chest, it thunders like rain from a stormy sky and he thrills to have her wild heart so close.
 
The Crow sighs against her skin, smoke across embers. Her mane fans, silk tendrils rippling like flame. Where is the black of their fire? Where is the moon to ease the heat of them? He looks up, blue eyes falling into an even bluer sky. Like a droplet into an ocean his gaze is consumed. This world is vast, and of all the places she has to run to why here? Why was his love sculpted from sand? Why him? A crow in love with a flame.
 
“You can.” This corvid creature counters as soft as midnight wings sweeping up her spine. That voice is velvet and whiskey to warm their fractious muscles. “But you don’t want to.” He answers for her, daringly. In every way he assumes to know her and in so many he gets it wrong but maybe it is to hear her fight, to feel her heart run faster, faster. He should never bait a lioness, but oh he keeps going with Rhoswen. “Will you deprive our daughter of her father then? There is no protection for either of you here when I am gone. You know this, Rhoswen.” Light up his blood sings to her, static crackling along his skin. She is too still, too weary.
 
Those words whisper softly into her ears and along her skin. They are the hand upon a riled cat’s spine; he aims to soothe her, but never tries hard enough. Raum longs to burn and she will always grant him that. He should send her a rose every day from Hell.
 
The Crow is smiling before she is, and it is maybe the closest he can get to something genuine. It is a scythe upon his face, wicked sharp and promising blood. Oh yes, he baits his daylight lioness ever more, “You ask a Crow to not make a ruckus, to promise to stay out of trouble?” The blade of that smile scores along her cheek, up and up to the shell of her ear. “Rhoswen, I think you might not know me at all.” Intimate whispers, full of knives, just for her, his love, his life.
 
For once they have not stepped apart. He and Rhoswen are still heart to heart, a ricocheting of beats and blood and love. Then, his smile is gone and he is more serious, he is the quicksilver boy threatening to melt away into the black like assassins might. “You know I cannot promise you that.” It is a whisper, soft and so full of unspoken lamentations. 

They fall apart, for to stay close to her is danger and life. He turns turns, leaving, and knows it might send her from him.

@Rhoswen She can slap him.