He’s devastatingly beautiful—a creature of shadows that shimmer with an almost unholy light. Dark, yet luminescent, like the glow of moonlight trapped in the velvet folds of night. The sight steals his breath, every glance leaving his chest tight with something perilously close to reverence. There’s a haunting familiarity about him, a bittersweet pull, like the echo of a dream that slips away with waking or a melody that teases the edges of memory but never resolves.
He’s drawn to him, irresistibly so, like a moth to flame. Yet the darkness is the flame, and it threatens to burn him alive. He’s eager to drag him from the depths of his shadowed world, to pull him into his brilliance, to consume him and make him his own.
But he resists.
That defiance only sharpens the allure. It fuels his obsession, turns want into need, and paints his affection with a fierce, relentless brightness. The protests—the way he thrashes, the way his fire flashes in his eyes and his body stiffens against surrender—they are intoxicating. The hissing and biting of the serpent only deepened his longing, each sharp sting a tantalizing promise of what lay ahead.
Every act of defiance fans the flames higher, a challenge too exquisite to ignore.
He is perfect. A masterpiece carved from defiance and despair, tempered with brilliance and fragility. The mere thought of him, of his touch, his voice, his being, sends a bloom of incandescent longing surging through his chest, brighter than the sun and just as scalding.
He must have him.