are you ready for a perfect storm? any. {M}

[Offspring]

something has been taken from deep inside of me;
the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.

   He is unbending; a towering reckoning of rounded, spiraling muscle, with height, weight and prowess creating undeniable power in his presence. He is an intimidating force, even without intention – perhaps, it was with wisdom of age and of time that had carved into him such a deep indifference for power. He had seen many wield it, and he had seen nearly as many fall because of it – foolishness, born out of greed and a lustful voracity for something intangible and uncontrollable. He had once been a King – and alas, he was a King yet again, but neither title had ever brought forth the same inescapable, ravenous hunger that so many others felt.

   The same inescapable, ravenous hunger that stirred deep within the fiery pit of his burning hearth, born not of any title, but of a gift that had been unwanted - but of a curse that had become every bit apart of him as the blood pumping through his veins or the collagen of his tired bones. An insatiable craving that touched the frayed edges of his self-containment, stoking the burning fire festering within, fueling its blistering prowess, though he tried in vain to suppress it.

  He can feel the flames touch his pounding heart, even now, rousing a part of him that he tried desperately to contain – stirring a part of him he longed to forget. His throat is thick with emotion, and with something he does not dare explore, though his gaze is steadfast and settled upon her own, watching her pale jade eyes change into a vivid, delicately pared emerald. Her words are careful, plucking gently at his threadbare thoughts, and he cannot silence the vibration of his laughter rising in his throat, nor the wry, sardonic smile tugging at the darkest corner of her mouth.

  ”Do not be foolish enough to think that you know me, Reagan,” he warns, his voice deep, yet laced with a tendril of amusement, willfully choosing to ignore her reference to Isle. ”and do not be arrogant enough to assume that I am not familiar with Tephra, or its affairs. I founded it,” his eyes are steady upon her now, with a darkness lingering somewhere within their crimson depths. ”alongside Magnus. I moved to the shadows, but do not mistake that for being caught unaware.”

  His skin is burning yet again, increasing in temperature as a festering anger seethes deep within, though the terse muscle of his jaw tenses as he tightly presses his teeth together, willing the flickering flames down. He averts his gaze, then, knowing that she would see the feverish fire growing in his eyes, looking towards the two-toned horizon as dusk gives away to dawn, its warmth casting a shadow across their dark, colorless skin.

  Soon, the ferocity of his anger wanes, and he is left with little else but a glowing coal in his chest.

  ”Seeking a confirmation of peace is not the same as an alliance or friendship, Reagan, and being unacquainted with your power does not equate to not knowing who you are.” he murmurs carefully, seeking her eyes once more, though his heart lurches forth as the space between them has become less with each fleeting, passing moment – she is close to him; close enough to feel the burning heat of his scalding skin exuding its warmth – close enough for him to feel the delicate touch of her breath across his shoulder.

.. His broad, thick neck curves, then, as his crimson gaze observes the dark hollow of her cheek, and the mischievous glint of her deep eyes – laden with secrets he could never hope to fully unearth. His heart is pounding, yet again, and he can almost hear hers, beating in time with his. There is a stirring within him (lustful, wanton, but he quells it, quiets it), alongside his fear. Alongside his uncertainty. Her words are truthful, and unabashedly honest – brutally so, carving into his self-preservation and splitting apart his carefully woven mask; and she asks a question of him that not even he has had the strength, nor the will, to ask of himself.

   And though he does not, and will not admit to it, she does know him - perhaps more than he knows himself.

  ”I do not want to lose myself, Reagan,” he confesses, the flicker of anger long gone, and within his hushed murmur, he is vulnerable – as the delicate thread of what has barely kept him together is tugged away at the seams by her careful observation, by her curious wonderment. ”and if I allow it to take hold, there will be something of me lost to it. Magic does not come without a price,” his breath is soft on her cheek, though his skin burns hot still. ”a price I am not certain I am willing to pay.”

wounds so deep they never show; they never go away.
like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.

Offspring