(no subject)
happy birthday cenea!
I wrote you something for your birthday. (Others can read it too!)
A thin fingernail of moon hung over the house opposite. The incubus perched on the roof, his wings wrapped around his body. It was dark enough to do this and not be seen.
He could sweep down, prise open a window with a magic touch of fingertips, gorge himself on the sleeping body inside. He could feel the fight inside him. The desire to do it to the occupant of this house or another. It was fighting against something else inside him, something deeper, something that ran against his nature. He was getting weaker every night.
He counted the stars normal eyes couldn’t see. He ignored the trembling in his body. Turned still as stone when a midnight wanderer walked by on the street below. Hoped he passed as a gargoyle.
And then, the pink rim of dawn and the white fingernail far gone across the night. He dropped lightly to the ground. He let himself into the house through the backdoor. The key from under a flowerpot by the bins. He was never original, he laughed to himself. Crept up the stairs; his wings, with the dark, receding. He was a naked human by the time he reached the bedroom door - at least, that’s how he looked.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, but he was clumsy again, like this, in this form. He always forgot it.
The occupant of the bed turned towards him, opening sleepy eyes and blinking at him in the first light.
“James, he murmured. “Come back to bed.”
“Alright,” replied James, softer than a whisper.
He climbed in as Richard held the covers open for him, grateful once again that Richard didn’t notice half the bed was cold.
I wrote you something for your birthday. (Others can read it too!)
A thin fingernail of moon hung over the house opposite. The incubus perched on the roof, his wings wrapped around his body. It was dark enough to do this and not be seen.
He could sweep down, prise open a window with a magic touch of fingertips, gorge himself on the sleeping body inside. He could feel the fight inside him. The desire to do it to the occupant of this house or another. It was fighting against something else inside him, something deeper, something that ran against his nature. He was getting weaker every night.
He counted the stars normal eyes couldn’t see. He ignored the trembling in his body. Turned still as stone when a midnight wanderer walked by on the street below. Hoped he passed as a gargoyle.
And then, the pink rim of dawn and the white fingernail far gone across the night. He dropped lightly to the ground. He let himself into the house through the backdoor. The key from under a flowerpot by the bins. He was never original, he laughed to himself. Crept up the stairs; his wings, with the dark, receding. He was a naked human by the time he reached the bedroom door - at least, that’s how he looked.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, but he was clumsy again, like this, in this form. He always forgot it.
The occupant of the bed turned towards him, opening sleepy eyes and blinking at him in the first light.
“James, he murmured. “Come back to bed.”
“Alright,” replied James, softer than a whisper.
He climbed in as Richard held the covers open for him, grateful once again that Richard didn’t notice half the bed was cold.