The Flames in the Horizon

10

He couldn't stop.

He just can't.

He will live and die a sinner, a stain against the Mother. Azriel has tried, has tried so very hard to not look at males the way he does, and he'd been doing so good until now. He should never have killed Beron. This whole mess, this unexplainable thing going on with Eris, it's all because of him. This is his fault, always has been. He's weak, unable to control his urges.

But gods above, feeling Eris's warm and solid body pressed hot against his own will circulate his mind for centuries to come. Just the smell of the male, the heat radiating from his pale muscled body; it's intoxicating. The flush of his skin, the pink of his soft thin lips, the delirious cloud of lust in his amber eyes— stop! He needs to stop thinking of it, stop fucking thinking!

Azriel grips his head, muttering to himself to shut up, to stop his mind from running. His shadows swarm, a mass of darkness that overtakes the entirety of his guest room. They too can't seem to stop thinking of Eris, as all they do is whisper and shout his name, his features, his desires.

It's sometime later when Azriel regains consciousness, unaware of even falling asleep. He's awoken from a dream sweating and hot and terribly aroused. Images of the new High Lord sitting atop his throne in a crown—nothing else—accost his troubled mind. He fights it, but his defenses are so easily broken.

Azriel glances at the window. It's early still, he has time. His shadows make the first move. The ties on his sleep pants are pulled free by invisible hands and Azriel shoves the fabric down his thighs. His cock is already heavy and dripping due to the nature of his dream. He takes himself in hand, hissing at the first contact, and tugs his bottom lip between harsh teeth. He lays taut as he works himself fast and hard, his wingless back arching off the bedsheets.

Normally he sleeps without a shirt, the room too warm, but he had passed out before he could properly prepare for bed last night. It's no matter now, not as his shadows pull the shirt up until it's bunched under his chin. Ghost touches roam up and down the male's chest, unseeing fingers teasing at hard nipples, hidden teeth marking tan flesh, concealed tongues dragging across hot skin. And of course, behind closed eyes is the revolving image of Autumn's new High Lord. Azriel finishes far too quickly. He's a wreck, mouth falling open to let out obscene noises as he squeezes his cock to the point it's almost painful while his abdomen is painted in his seed.

It's a struggle to regain his breath, panting like a thirsting animal, spots in his vision. When he's once more able to take in air and his heart has slowed, only then does the shame slink back to him like a wandering dog. He pulls himself out of bed and into the shower, watching his taboo desires circle the drain.

He's out in the fields before anyone else, feeling the need to work out lazing muscles. He practices his footwork and beats on a straw dummy while the morning sun makes itself known, the first rays of light streaking across green grass. He warms, slowly, as the light caress his face and thinks of Eris. He thinks of the warm feeling that washes over him when the High Lord looks at him with those unguarded amber eyes.

He wishes this mock enemy that he fights would fight back. He needs it, needs someone to beat on him, and hopes one good blow will fix whatever is wrong with his head. If he was lost to sin, he would provoke Cassian into a brutal tussle, and take the hits like he deserves. But no, he can't because he ruined that too. Everything he's ever touched with these ugly hands taints and turns to ash. What has he done? What has he accomplished?

Hold it back. You're better than this.

You're nothing but filth.

Fight back, he begs.