
He is purity personified. He is a hurricane with wings. He is a statue, all stoic posture and a constantly serious tone.
His grace shines brighter than a thousand suns, bright blue and translucent. It pulses in the air around him a static charge capable of killing and resurrecting with just one volt.
He is the one of the most deadly beings in the universe, who deigns to heal colicky babies with a touch of his finger. He is a comrade, a friend, no, a best friend.
He is the holiest sacrament I could ever partake of, but I cannot have him.
I am the devil in the body of a man. My soul is twisted, dark and fucked up beyond repair. If I were to touch him my sulfur-covered hands would taint his essence. I would leave sludge upon him, a reminder of my grievous sin.
So I do not dare touch him, I am unworthy.
But one day he touches the shell of my shoulder and I do not burn him. He doesn’t cringe and he doesn’t shy away. He smiles. He smiles!
I smile back and let out a breath when his hand slides down my arm, leaving electricity sparking and popping against my skin.
His smile widens and I am lost, drowning in the flames of desire and he is my only savior.
And I love him, God help me, I love him.
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