déodat,Oh what heady passion is this? So sumptuous and alluring, it is mind-blowingly rapturous. He tilts his curious face to her own, sullen eyes now ablaze with heat and the slight tremor of yearning. Each iris has all but blackened the slighted rim of color that once indicated a sobriety long lost to the intensity of her scent, her nearness. He does not want to give in to her feminine pull, but instinct has come welling up from the darkness to cloud his conscious mind. Déodat is lost to her tongue and the way it forms the words he needs to hear, the curve of each syllable reminding him of the incessant moan of victory that he longs to release.
Has he been weakened by the simplicity of nature alone?
Distraction helps him wield the last of his self-control as he gazes along the walls of ice that had once bored him into mundane submission. Now they appear to be alight with cause and beauty, though it is hard to keep his mind focused on the pristine coloring of such frigid attraction when the heat of this mare is so close that he can practically taste her. However, in spite of their obvious want for one another, Déodat can sense a hardening in the way that she speaks of her past. Does she feel the same distance from the pain as he does? “Your scars are but only reminders of better times love. Embrace them.”
Perhaps he would leave his own scar upon that delicate skin so that she might always remember his name, his face. He smiles at the thought, lost in her fragrance of feminine desire, for it is unmistakable now. The pheromones have all but permeated the air and without any more hesitation, the beast groans his approval. He is quieted by her intense gaze and though she is speaking, he cannot make sense of the words she says. They roll along her tongue like water and then tremble over her lips causing him to shiver in response.
“I would not recommend it Confutatis. Such audacity will only incur trouble, wouldn’t you say?” But of course she does not heed his warning and instead pushes him to brink of insanity, testing every shred of willpower that the man has ever been known to possess. He is sick with need, drunk on the power of his desire and yet he cannot move. Her silken muzzle along his skin is more than enough to make him tremble and though he is wild for the moment, he does not indulge- he cannot betray all that he has come to worship in his life. Had he been born any other creature with any other name, he would have given her all that she anticipated, but he was not them and so he stood chilled by her proximity until he was lost in a world of flames that persisted to burn him alive. |
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
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