bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
She sparks something in his veins, but it’s not quite passion. It’s interest, curiosity, and he finds himself continually drawn back to it, watching her with his sharpened gaze, the rest of the world beginning to melt away. She is something else entirely, something carved from the winter itself, and he doesn’t know what exactly lives within her breast. If one was to split her open, would they find nothing but snow drifts? Would it be nothing but an icy terrain? The world reduced to the breezes and the icicles of her breath?
He wants to know.
Wants to know the ice in her veins and the snow in her heart.
Wants to know what drives her, what pulls her apart, what drags her down.
She closes the distance between them and he leans into the touch, letting ice crawl up his legs, skittering across his flesh and meeting the armor that connects them. When it touches, it doesn’t overtake hers but instead slips into the middle of it, iridescent blue spidering through her ice, cobwebbing across it.
“You already are,” he breathes, although it is a compliment devoid of unnecessary awe. It’s simply a statement of fact. She’s eternal in this moment. Endless. At her question, something sparks in his gaze, something that recognizes this moment for exactly what it is. She doesn’t seek whatever heart may beat in his chest, and he doesn’t seek hers. She is curious, hungry to know more, and he’s ready to provide.
So he doesn’t answer her question at first. Instead, something sparks in his gaze and he reaches for the ice of her, his mouth skimming across her cheek and down her neck. Snow begins to build up at their ankles as the sky darkens, blood beginning to flow down his stained shoulder. His flesh begins to shift, darkening and then turning to indigo, the color shift like the changing of tides in the ocean.
His mane begins to bleach of color until it is nothing but icicle strands against his neck, and when he opens his eyes to find hers, they are crystalline blue. His breath plumes in front of him as he closes the distance, chest finding hers, teeth grazing across her flesh. “The memory of it’s always been right here,” he rumbles, storms and war drums in his chest. “All you have to do is reach out and take it.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
