06-27-2017, 12:40 PM
don't put my love on your back burner; never let anything that hot get cold
There is no flicker of smile – no gleam of light in the darkness of his gaze, settled heavily upon her, tracing the feminine features of her face (hardened with resolve, at times, but still visually soft), down to the tense muscle that lay beneath her skin. He is often warm, forthcoming – and yet with her, he is drawn into himself – quiet. Calculating. There is a definitive itch where the feathers one lay across the broad edge of each wing; an itch of what was missing. He knew little of how capable she was, and the subtle threat to his manhood was both unnerving but altogether expected.
Women did not know how to level themselves with men without intimidation.
(His mother was no exception.)
She is, however, unabashedly honest – he could not think of many who would freely admit to their bruised ego as to a cause for revenge, and though he finds it decidedly petty, he has little leverage against her. The gentle breeze sweeping up from the jagged bluff tangles itself within his dark, haphazard tresses, and the temptation to wield it – to force her through the tangle of dry brush and over it to an inevitable death with a gust of wind was almost impossible to swallow.
But he does not.
She had yet to harm him (there is a simmering ire at the sensation of his bare, useless wings tucked tightly against his sides, but there is no pain). There had to be something more to it.
She rebukes him; he is hardly offended. If anything, he is relieved.
(She is beautiful – he would be a fool not to see it; not to feel some stirring of attraction – but she is spiteful, biting, bitter.)
”She won’t come looking for me,” he mutters finally, unblinking, his gaze boring into her unapologetically. It is a risk to tell her such information (she could use it against him; keep him against his will – but if she had no desire to abuse or to use him, it seemed doubtful). ”I never stay in one place – no one will think to come looking for me. You’re wasting your time.”
Women did not know how to level themselves with men without intimidation.
(His mother was no exception.)
She is, however, unabashedly honest – he could not think of many who would freely admit to their bruised ego as to a cause for revenge, and though he finds it decidedly petty, he has little leverage against her. The gentle breeze sweeping up from the jagged bluff tangles itself within his dark, haphazard tresses, and the temptation to wield it – to force her through the tangle of dry brush and over it to an inevitable death with a gust of wind was almost impossible to swallow.
But he does not.
She had yet to harm him (there is a simmering ire at the sensation of his bare, useless wings tucked tightly against his sides, but there is no pain). There had to be something more to it.
She rebukes him; he is hardly offended. If anything, he is relieved.
(She is beautiful – he would be a fool not to see it; not to feel some stirring of attraction – but she is spiteful, biting, bitter.)
”She won’t come looking for me,” he mutters finally, unblinking, his gaze boring into her unapologetically. It is a risk to tell her such information (she could use it against him; keep him against his will – but if she had no desire to abuse or to use him, it seemed doubtful). ”I never stay in one place – no one will think to come looking for me. You’re wasting your time.”
CANAAN
(son of magnus & ellyse)