your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

He’s thankful for the moment, for the time to spend simply admiring her, being there with her, being in her. And he strokes the feathers there, feeling her shiver beneath him as he remains his slow pace but still enough to keep that fire burning, the tension in his gut pooling harder and faster as his own feathers sprout in response. He hums to her as she tells him he is too – though beautiful was never a word used to describe him.

He’s not sure how it makes him feel, but he imagines he can get used to it.

Her own fingers roam his feathers, and he leans into the touch as well, picking up the pace as she strokes the longer feathers, feeling it tickle and ignite in his blood. And he leans down, like some sort of dark prince to the fallen angel, to press his horned head against her forehead, breath hot against her skin. “Keep doing that…” He whispers to her, gaze shuddering, lids closing as he focuses on that touch and the way it has him twitching and the fire in his blood growing stronger. It brings him close to the edge and its evident in the way his muscles twitch in response.

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint