when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
You might not readily call him Don Juan. From childhood he’s adopted the idea of a lesser sex (that would be female, mind you) and his mentor, Lupei, only served to encourage the notion. What female could do what he could not? “We grow life!” They might scream, and his reply would be to match them - it was almost too easy for the shifter to switch sexes, perhaps even easier to become impregnated by a random passerby. “We mature faster!” They could wail and, well, you might be able to imagine the roll of his bicolored eyes. Until recently, Wyrm has never had one fact to prove a woman’s worth above his own - not one!
But when Epithet’s turbulent gaze searches for his own - lit by some otherworldly power he’s yet to build defenses against - his chest seizes, clenches tight with conflicting emotions. He’d been a pompous fool his whole life: there has always been a tool wielded by women to strike down men, he’s just never been caught in the eye of such a hurricane. Seduction teases him with a smirk, drives him to heavy breathing with the shift of her body, and tells him, “I want you, Wyrm.”
Does he … does he want her too? He can’t tell, can barely think with her so near and assaulting every sense. It was already a trial without her pushing against him or trailing those full, dark lips along the crest of his neck. He shudders, from pleasure or pain (he can’t decide) before the primal instinct of their shared trait begins to surface. To have her in this skin, in as many skins as he could imagine was almost too much - it draws the vibration of a growl from his gut. “Epithet,” He groans, the tone rich and resonant. Hungrily he reaches for her, he must have her, he must, or the fear of spontaneous combustion would become an all-too-real circumstance.
There’s nothing left to consider. Halfway gone already and stiff with need he rounds on her, ready to indulge her request but -
But
A thought gives him pause. “Heartfire.” His mind whispers. Sick with himself and responsibility he snarls, throws his head and gaze aside from the very Eve of his rib, and mutters, “There’s something … someone you should know of.”
With an exasperated sigh the man who never seemed to care finally takes an interest in telling the truth. “I’m a father already, though the circumstances behind it are not so cut-and-dry.” He admits, feeling the beginnings of a bitter winter settling into his bones. Epithet, who had never been anything but his match, deserves this at least.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
