the cost of my desire
The weight of her perfume drowns him. It devours his soul like smoke devours the lungs. Arawn is ice-cold still, when her fevered roses bloom wildly against his mane—when he feels them catch like teeth against his skin, against the ivory bones woven into his hair. In serpent fashion their two shadows collide down upon the earth; they coil together in sin entanglement.
Like her roses, he feels her violent soul, rooting into his heart like a promise. A vice. It feels like sin, and promise, when their breaths cloy together in the dying, night breeze; their tousled manes floating upon the zephyr as a moaning howl swept from the East. Within the moon-touched beams she paints an image of both threat and desire. When he sees himself within the red storm-seas of her gaze, he can see the promise of her hell. Within their pulsing ruby-light, his reflection is not ethereal but visceral. To her, he almost wants to yeild in full submission, as she whispers the word 'imagine', as she utters 'you' upon a deathly tongue—he wants her beauty to own him.
But she makes him drunk on the moon-glory of her. She makes his muscles ache with a different kind of heat—and the chill of his gaze ensnares her, as an arrow, dipped in ambrosia, ensnares goddess-flesh. While their bodies dance close, he devours her in silence. He hunts the sleek curve of her pale, white skin. He hunts for the ghost-melody of her heartbeat. He wants her joys, her sorrows—her violence. He wants the unshed tears within her eyes. He wants her teeth to leave bloodied imprints on his skin, and call them moans—or prayers. "Maybe in a dream, or a nightmare, you'd imagine—either way; come haunt me," The arrogance curls his voice, till it becomes a sharpened caress. There is no trace of emotion within him, even as traces of laughter may silver his words. His hunger is a wicked thing. It whets the backs of his fangs with venom.
There is the promise of war on his lips. There is thunder sighing in his blood, a kindling—a whirring fever. His hunger becomes raw at the nearness of her. His soul, bares its teeth like a devil seduces the whole world with lust and wealth. His muscles turn to wildfire, for the way they ache to brush alongside hers. His blood, burns (and hungers) for the heat of her touch—for the wild poison of her lips as she lays into him with teeth. With her kiss sharp enough, poisonous enough, to be called a bite. He nearly laughs then when she leaves upon him her delicate kiss. He nearly presses his own mouth to her cheek—let his secrets, let his demons, slip against her flesh with a rough growl. But Arawn is a man of control. Her words do not make him smile. His lips brush down the tip of her ear, instead, that same shadow-laughter echoing within their male tenor. "Maybe, when you grow tired of your hunt, your violence, I could teach you other things besides chasing me—"
When he feels darkness pulling at his flesh, his fangs graze down upon his bottom lip. Hunger draws his soul like salt an open wound. There is snickering laughter hidden within him—somewhere in his darkened stare—a wolf bares its hackles and laughs with sharp, yellowed teeth. Still, he does not move. Still, he does not yield. His skull lowers next to hers, and when he finally allows himself to truly touch her, it is a dark kiss placed intimiately between her slim, porcelain shoulders. "If you stay, Danaë," He murmurs roughly into her hair. "We would consume eachother," And when he angles his horn back towards the city, it is both offering and reprieve, to the holy light, to the divinity of her.
@Danaë
