06-25-2017, 10:42 AM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
There is nothing that has kept him apart from what his heart has longed for but his own selfishness; his own suffering. He is, beneath the façade of strength and stoicism, a simple man – longing for affection, desiring stability, craving attention from only one.
Yet, in the absence of her affection (she is wary of him; frightened of him – he cannot blame her), his mind is wandering – provoked by a loneliness stirring from memories that haunt him still within the deep, enveloping embrace of slumber. An isolation that can only come from the survival of such horrors that left deep, festering wounds that the naked eye cannot see, open and infected – his heart, splayed open, with the vivid image of his beloved and their children, bleeding, dying.
He can still see their lifeless bodies, bloated and swelling, whenever he closes his eyes.
He pushes it further, and further away. Deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind, but there is no abyss large enough to swallow the imagery whole. He cannot escape it, try as he might. It is a pervasive nightmare (so much so that he cannot bear to look at her, at times – not with her pleading, watchful eyes). Isle does not know the extent of his heartache, of the visions of death and decay he has seen. Only one has ever known his anguish (her own sister, at that!), but Malis has drawn away into herself, grieving the loss of a loved one, drowning beneath the smothering hand of an unkind world.
Alas, he is alone – utterly, and completely alone, and though he yearns to share the deepest, darkest parts of himself with her, he cannot. She is carved of strength, and of purpose (a wonderful mother, a beautiful lover, kind and gentle – his Isle), but she is not made of impervious material, and he worries that she might surely crumble beneath the weight of his secret.
Beneath the weight of his darkness.
He is lost to his own memories as she presses against him, her own heat stirring beside him as her gaze is settled somewhere beyond on the horizon, as sunlight slowly touches each crease and crevice kept in the shadow by a dark and dense woodland. He is quiet – though he cannot hear anything else over the pounding urgency of his own heart; not even the deafening roar of the rushing water. The darkness is stirring within him again, and his chest is hot – scalding, even, as he attempts to quell it, struggles to quiet it – but he cannot.
It is slowly touching the very edges of his heart (thump, thump, thump it goes), and the surface of his mind, and he is listening, but beneath a stoic surface of calm, a war is waged.
”There is not weakness in fragility,” he murmurs softly, thinking of the vulnerability of love, of childbirth, of comradery. ”there is only weakness in greed.”
He knows too well.
He is weaker than he has ever been.
The darkness searches the line of her feminine curves in a way he might not have (he might have turned away, pulled away, but the darkness reaches for her, for her power, for her strength), and the lustfulness is stirring yet again within him. Her mouth is pressed upon his shoulder, untouched by the blistering heat burning inside of him, unphased by it – and his dark gaze follows the slope of her spine, to the curve of her hip.
She is rife with emotion, torn between falling apart and pulling him closer, and he is caught between. Captured within her embrace, as the darkness presses nearer to her, the heat of a fervent kiss left upon her neck, her shoulder, down the length of her spine – she is beautiful, with thick, feminine curves longing to be touched and bitten, and he does not wait; she has writhed against him long enough to stir the beast from within and a primal urge has risen with a dark shadow.
Greed - the word echoes in his mind as his weight is settled onto her, drawing her nearer, pulling her closer. His teeth press into the delicate nerves of her withers, gripping her flesh between as the heat of his breath falls across her shoulders; he is inside of her and a part of her, and she, a part of him, but his mind is heavy with lust, with a blackness that is stifling and overpowering and he is not himself. The rhythm is as heavy as the loud pounding of his heart – his need flooding through him with thick, clawing urgency – a growl rumbling within the confinement of his throat.
The sun has already begun to rise into the morning sky, touching the surface of his skin – hot, burning, a flicker of flame trailing the length of his spine as he is spiraling into a pleasurable descent, spent, sliding away from her body with soft, but rapid breathing. He mouth touches the curve of her hip again – warm, from the heat of his body, tasting of sweat and of summer and of sex, as the darkness of his eyes (no longer red, no – but black; a dark insidious black) searches for her own, vivid and green.
”You hardly know me, Reagan,” he says, breathlessly, his voice gruff and laced with hunger still. ”you have no idea what I am capable of; what I can do – magic cannot protect you from darkness,” and his teeth press into her hip, as he grips a piece of her flesh between the alignment of his mouth - guilt has already begun to settle in, as the darkness begins to fade away, leaving a broken and worthless shamble in its wake. ”and I am nothing of what you want or need.”
Yet, in the absence of her affection (she is wary of him; frightened of him – he cannot blame her), his mind is wandering – provoked by a loneliness stirring from memories that haunt him still within the deep, enveloping embrace of slumber. An isolation that can only come from the survival of such horrors that left deep, festering wounds that the naked eye cannot see, open and infected – his heart, splayed open, with the vivid image of his beloved and their children, bleeding, dying.
He can still see their lifeless bodies, bloated and swelling, whenever he closes his eyes.
He pushes it further, and further away. Deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind, but there is no abyss large enough to swallow the imagery whole. He cannot escape it, try as he might. It is a pervasive nightmare (so much so that he cannot bear to look at her, at times – not with her pleading, watchful eyes). Isle does not know the extent of his heartache, of the visions of death and decay he has seen. Only one has ever known his anguish (her own sister, at that!), but Malis has drawn away into herself, grieving the loss of a loved one, drowning beneath the smothering hand of an unkind world.
Alas, he is alone – utterly, and completely alone, and though he yearns to share the deepest, darkest parts of himself with her, he cannot. She is carved of strength, and of purpose (a wonderful mother, a beautiful lover, kind and gentle – his Isle), but she is not made of impervious material, and he worries that she might surely crumble beneath the weight of his secret.
Beneath the weight of his darkness.
He is lost to his own memories as she presses against him, her own heat stirring beside him as her gaze is settled somewhere beyond on the horizon, as sunlight slowly touches each crease and crevice kept in the shadow by a dark and dense woodland. He is quiet – though he cannot hear anything else over the pounding urgency of his own heart; not even the deafening roar of the rushing water. The darkness is stirring within him again, and his chest is hot – scalding, even, as he attempts to quell it, struggles to quiet it – but he cannot.
It is slowly touching the very edges of his heart (thump, thump, thump it goes), and the surface of his mind, and he is listening, but beneath a stoic surface of calm, a war is waged.
”There is not weakness in fragility,” he murmurs softly, thinking of the vulnerability of love, of childbirth, of comradery. ”there is only weakness in greed.”
He knows too well.
He is weaker than he has ever been.
The darkness searches the line of her feminine curves in a way he might not have (he might have turned away, pulled away, but the darkness reaches for her, for her power, for her strength), and the lustfulness is stirring yet again within him. Her mouth is pressed upon his shoulder, untouched by the blistering heat burning inside of him, unphased by it – and his dark gaze follows the slope of her spine, to the curve of her hip.
She is rife with emotion, torn between falling apart and pulling him closer, and he is caught between. Captured within her embrace, as the darkness presses nearer to her, the heat of a fervent kiss left upon her neck, her shoulder, down the length of her spine – she is beautiful, with thick, feminine curves longing to be touched and bitten, and he does not wait; she has writhed against him long enough to stir the beast from within and a primal urge has risen with a dark shadow.
Greed - the word echoes in his mind as his weight is settled onto her, drawing her nearer, pulling her closer. His teeth press into the delicate nerves of her withers, gripping her flesh between as the heat of his breath falls across her shoulders; he is inside of her and a part of her, and she, a part of him, but his mind is heavy with lust, with a blackness that is stifling and overpowering and he is not himself. The rhythm is as heavy as the loud pounding of his heart – his need flooding through him with thick, clawing urgency – a growl rumbling within the confinement of his throat.
The sun has already begun to rise into the morning sky, touching the surface of his skin – hot, burning, a flicker of flame trailing the length of his spine as he is spiraling into a pleasurable descent, spent, sliding away from her body with soft, but rapid breathing. He mouth touches the curve of her hip again – warm, from the heat of his body, tasting of sweat and of summer and of sex, as the darkness of his eyes (no longer red, no – but black; a dark insidious black) searches for her own, vivid and green.
”You hardly know me, Reagan,” he says, breathlessly, his voice gruff and laced with hunger still. ”you have no idea what I am capable of; what I can do – magic cannot protect you from darkness,” and his teeth press into her hip, as he grips a piece of her flesh between the alignment of his mouth - guilt has already begun to settle in, as the darkness begins to fade away, leaving a broken and worthless shamble in its wake. ”and I am nothing of what you want or need.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING