09-11-2017, 06:54 PM
You're looking at an absolute zero;
I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.
The pale moonlight drapes over the finely preened feathers of her winged appendages, drawing his gaze away from the endless intensity of her golden flecked eyes, tracing the gentle slope of her spine and the rounded curve of her hip. His gaze is settled somewhere between where the subtle protrusion of her hip becomes the arc of her hindquarters, and the simmering flame flickering inside of him becomes a blistering inferno, burning hotly within the scalding hearth of his chest. Her dark tresses entangle with his own, where his teeth delicately untangle a twisted knot that lay close to the base of her arched neck. The temptation is heavy and difficult to stifle, but as his eyes become transfixed once more upon her own, he can feel the very same tangible heat burning from the surface of her russet skin. I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.
It had been so long since he had felt anything beyond lust. Certainly, he desired her – he is carved out of pure testosterone, bone and muscle, and even the weight of time had yet to sate his sensuality – but there is something more within the darkness of her stare, boring into his own, tempting him closer while keeping him at a distance. He can feel in the marrow of his age-old bones that she is aching and longing as he is, but she, too, is scarred from a lifetime of heartache and loss, and so it douses their flame just so to keep him from drawing her closer, from tempting the flickering fire from within her soul.
It is more than carnal desire – her secrecy, her fiercely guarded heart and mind only draws him closer to her, perhaps in part because he carried the very same desire to keep his own close to his heart. He had given himself so completely to another not so long ago, and she had spurned him, fearful of his potential, wary of the experience that had wrought the ice away from him and instead etched fire into the very fiber of his being. She had pushed him away, and he had done so as well, keeping her safe from the dark and tightly kept secret of his anguish and agony, when in truth he had done nothing more than wound her by creating such a grave and deep chasm she could not possibly hope to cross.
He was unreachable; he had lived too many lifetimes and he had not trusted her to share the burden with him.
He cannot keep these heavy thoughts away from his mind, while the warmth of her breath intermingles with his own (he is yearning to close the gap, to draw her near and to feel the softness of her dark lips against his own, but apart he remains). The sheer intensity of the attraction that urges him closer to her is nearly unbearable, but again, it is laced with so much more – interwoven is the promise of potential, of something more tangible and whole - but each of them were wounded, carrying the weight of their own burden, longing for someone to carry it with but wary of what it could mean.
When he finally does feel her brush her own lips ever so gently across his jawline, he is drawn back to the moment, where his heart is thrumming and his veins are heavily laden with desire and uncertainty. He never shied away from sexuality – desire was easily sated with a fervent touch and a breathy gasp, but he had barred himself so long ago from truly feeling anything else that there is a small flicker of something so unfamiliar to him, so foreign and forgotten - fear.
Tell me, she says softly to him, with an edge of the ferocity that had brought him to her as if he were a fluttering moth to her irresistible flame. What do you see?
”I see that you have been hurt,” he murmurs huskily across her skin, reaching out to brush his whiskered mouth over her cheek, pressing his own against it to feel her heartbeat through her skin. ”I see that you are afraid of letting someone in, of being hurt, just as I am,” and more quietly, ”I see you.”
OFFSPRING
another zealot with the weight of the fucking world