you're my dragon,
and i love you.
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This time it wasn't my dream. It was yours.
"I remember that u were wearing a sweater with red & white stripes & there was no audio! & when the dream sarted I had my eyes closed & then I realized it was u"
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There are times when he’s not the Mukuro they know.
There are times, when she dreams and finds herself in that familiar place he’s made for her, that haven. The sky is blue and clear, light and soft as it meets fine grass, each blade claiming its own shape as it blows in the warm breeze. The trees are tall and full, branches firm while leaves dance amongst each other, some floating to the ground, or some slowly twirling in the fresh, crisp air until they land silently on the lake, sun’s reflections bright around their perfect edges and glistening through the ripples.
He sits among small, pale flowers of whites and pinks and blues, and blows at the dandelions, tiny white seeds then to float free across the sky. Some get caught in his hair, a soft white visible even more in that breathtaking blue, where they stay until the wind can take them again.
She catches every detail, every bit of white slipping through navy strands, only losing them as they pass the sleeves of his shirt, clean and white and a little too big.
She watches as he never shifts from that lazy seat, watching the lake, or her, or when he closes his eyes.
He whispers sometimes, mouths some slow melody she could only imagine the beauty of but wonders if it’s as beautiful as he is, and knows the answer before his lips soundlessly smooth over the next verse.
He’s not their Mukuro.
She sits in her space, hair longer and clothes lighter, like Nagi, the Chrome only he can see. She’s always somewhere between in and love when he calls for her, a whisper that will reach her ears no matter how soft, and as a butterfly, a sun-kissed-yellow and pretty thing, sits on his knee, he holds out a pale hand.
He is not invincibility and damnation. He is not merciless, apathetic. His humor is not cold. He is not enemy laced with ally. He is not blood and leather and dark, and he is not six levels of Hell.
There are times when he is just Mukuro. Her Mukuro.
She makes her way to him, grass warm under ivory feet, the hem of her dress flowing to the side as the gentle wind passes. Her cheeks are pink, and glow ever rosier as he comments on it with a smile. His cute Chrome. When he says it like that, she can almost believe it.
This is the Mukuro who looks after her. This is the Mukuro that does not use her.
This is the Mukuro that she lives for, willingly and forever. This is the Mukuro she gives her life to...
...Gives her hand to, and as she stirs awake, her torso feels just as warm as her fingers did in that gentle grip.
by iiaiiaparadise
you're my dragon,
and i love you.
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