Soft. That's how it felt to him, soft.
He wasn't used to this, under his clawed fingers and rough hands, calloused naturally, only his palms fleshy and soft.
Not that he could tell. His slitted pupils falling on the sleeping being under his touch, how delicate their face was, how at peace they seemed to be despite his presence.
He heard the birds chirping, signaling dawn is soon to break. Knowing he should leave before the first rays of sun.
He did, lugging his body away from the bed, pulling on the pants he wore before. His shirt on his sleeping lover.
He pressed a kiss to their head and was gone just before the sun broke the horizon.
Soft, thats what his heart felt like after leaving, so soft the ache stayed until they'd meet again.
He had met them in a pasture midsummer's day A Night Dream at least to him at that moment, it was bright always especially at that time of day where the sun rose High they were brave soul.
No one dared to come to his field the Moors and the human realm met at that exact moment. the Ley line between the two.
He was to be king, scales dotting his flesh, pupils slit like a snake; his hands sharp clawed and rough.
But he, he had a gentle heart, a gentle hand. He did not seem like he was to be king of dragons.
King. What a callous word.
He hated it with every fiber of his immortal being, instead craving his lovers soft hands, warm body and tender heart and soul.
//from the story I'll never write.
