#✖┋❛ &. there's something in the wind › memes.

[mythsought]

@cursegiven​ asked: “ if someone makes you feel, let them. ” - For Ophir B)c || MISC QUOTES

 The concept is only startling in that it amuses him so deeply, the thought only tremendous in that its absurdity is almost as delicious as Simon’s piercing resolve. It is not the first time he has attended Ophir’s troublemaking, duty-bound to succumb to the Lord’s pettier hungers for sport and mirth--but it is the first time he has proposed something so bold. So interesting. So ridiculous.

The thought thrills him.

“That would be bold of you, to imply that you can make it so in the first place. And what am I to believe that I shall feel from you, Belmont? What great and tremendous feeling indeed should you like to believe you can make burn inside me?” His gait is purposefully loud over the stone of his temple floor (not his, stolen and usurped), heels ringing sharp with each purposeful stride as the midnight colour of his cloak surrendered from his delicate shape to the moonlight puddling the floor below. And vanished just as quickly, blown over stone and starlight by the heady summer breeze carrying away a swell of feathers where once there was silk. Ophir’s laughter is louder than the wind, sweeter, song-like and sure in the bright, silver night. His breath is cool against Simon’s jaw as he passes closely by.

“Pain, joy? Shame?” His lyrical voice softens to a purring whisper in the hunter’s ear to join the deceiving gentility of a slender hand blushing the length of Simon’s chest and throat with cold as it passes from breastbone to jawline; an undressed palm and moon-pale fingers deliberate and soft catching under the point of the man’s chin. “Pleasure?” The word is crooned, mocking and sharp on Ophir’s tongue as his lips curl against the white of his fangs. “Are yours the hands that shall carve this empty flesh into something feeling and bright, yours such lips that shall touch my wounds and melt through my agonies--yours what flesh shall wash mine clean, scars and all? Your words, man of God, that shall bring me to my knees?”

From behind, his slim hands fan wide on the other’s shoulders, strong and broad and distantly warm to Ophir’s dull senses as he lifts himself to seethe out another purr in the hunter’s ear. “Tell me, Simon Belmont.” Teeth graze, the point of his fangs dangerously near to the warmth of his skin as his lips press to the softness found behind Simon’s ear. “Tell me that you think yourself greater than my curse. Tell me that you can stop me. Tell me what you shall do with me.”