Re: rory/wren : church at night
She was fearless, and never irreverent no matter what skin she bared. Her, of doves and divination. The balm of saints blood against sinner's palm, he wanted to touch her, but managed to keep his distance through the assistance of static breathing exercises and newer attempts at manners. Last time, things had not gone well, and he remained uncertain as to why that was and if such magic had followed her here. He didn't feel anything out of place, save for what he always felt when near her. It was an all-consuming need to be closer. Already hell-bound and maybe it didn't matter, but the want extended beyond the prospect of touching her. The want was so catastrophically large, so unnameable, that it was a little frightening. He wanted to be close to her, he wanted to be inside of her, there, beside a soul to be claimed.
Rory thought that she might not ever have looked so beautiful as when she placed herself like sacrifice for the altar, waiting peacefully for the knife or teeth that cometh. Wren looked like a Sunday morning in her dress, and it was fitting for the church, even if it wasn't a Sunday and it wasn't anything close to morning. He took another step closer, testing the air between them like it might have been water to drown in.
"We met," he said of the vampire with a shrug of one shoulder and his footfalls were predatory while he paced before her in the form of an arch. He was getting closer, experimentally so, and taking his time about it.