Juniper,
If he is the darkness, then oh, she is light. The taste of cotton on a summer wind, the splayed wheat stalks heavy and ripe, ready for the autumnal harvest, the sun burning down, the laugh of a ghost from your past on the breeze. She is light, light, light and freedom.
Sleep does not crease her brow, it rests gently on her parted lips, her upturned face. It is a body that reaches for him, for the warmth he provides, for the protection he gives, for the love she offers. Like a snake, the Pegasus winds into him in her sleep, presses close, breathes down everything that is El Rey and sighs out everything that she is until there is no she and him but them; a single thing twined together in the soft light that filters through her swamps.
There were rumors, she'd heard. Such terrible rumors. But Juniper is not one who was taught so very well how to hate; only how to love and love and love even when that love was set on fire, even when it was plunged into the ice, even when everything about it said "this is wrong, he has sinned, this will damn you for eternity," for she only learned how to love and love and love. Like the laughs she gives as freely as her sweet, sugary smile.
So when Rey asked her to come in that childlike hand, the one that curled letters and her name all the same way and made her stomach do funny little flips, the goddess-girl could do naught but answer her sweet bull.
His sigh now that presses into her shoulder before his nose presses into the down of her feathers goes up, travels to her ears, pulls thin, golden whiskers on their currents, and wakens the priestess. Doe-eyed and lovely, she looks up, up, up the dark side of him, the swollen side of him, the guilty side of him where blood once splattered, and finds those equally dark and tender eyes. Where his body is muscle, she finds his heart in the dark, pulls it from him like nectar from a flower. He is her flower, and she is his sweet, soft, stinging honey bee. “Have you slept at all, my earthling?" she croons, still not quite in the world of waking, still somewhere in the fog, but her concern for him bleeds out like the cuts he placed upon the skin of so many. “What is it you're thinking? Let me think it, too."
And their lips the secret kept,If in ashes the fire-seed slept.
