[private] then it turned into something repeating

[fenris]

you know, I think it was born of a feeling that I got when I left from your home

then it turned into something repeating and I couldn’t let it alone

He could leave. Gods know that he has become so painfully good at it over the years. He barely left a thumbprint anywhere that he was because he never stayed long enough for it to settle. He was as volatile and fleeting as the sand that he could summon but never control. How fitting that he too could shift with the winds. Could leave on a whim. Could just go, go, go without ever needing to look back.

Except with her.

Because from the first moment she had looked at him, he had felt a hook in his belly and he had been stuck. He had wandered then, but he had felt it always—dragging him back, drawing him back to the source. Until he didn’t even pretend anymore. He no longer moved forward and left. No longer tried.

And now, with her looking at him, her breath a thunderclap in his veins, he knows that he couldn’t.

“Luster,” he says her name softly and with a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips. There is always a laugh there, something he would forever try to coax out of her, but it is muted today, darkened as she draws near. It’s like a drug in his system, the need that flares to life when she is so close. It makes no sense. Has no business being as potent as it is, but he cannot deny it and does not smother the life from it.

He fills the space that she leaves yawning between them, an addiction the creeps forward, the hunger building. He does not touch her though—not yet. He feels the way his breath fans over her neck as he stands there and the way that his stomach clenches, his pulse pounding in his head. “When have I ever listened to you, little bird,” a nickname he cannot shake no matter how ill-fitting it is looking at her now.

She is magnificent.

She is the storms and the sea.

There is nothing little about her.

But still, here next to him, he calls her that. Breathes over her neck and wonders at what kind of man he must be to want so desperately for the thing that would kill him in the end—that which has never wanted him with the same ferocity. “I do not want to be saved,” he says with a smile, eyes dark and unflinching.

who’d have known that I’d ever be reeling simply from being on my own

oh, I craved and I craved and I craved and I craved to get back that feeling I’d known

@luster