Felltree Marsh catamite on a marble throne

His lips peeled back into a wicked and hungry grimace, and his chest swelled with a sharp breath, a tumultuous wave rising, curling, threatening to crash over the swathe of daring wildfire before him. His eye passed over the kindling's delicate features, a young and tender man; his body years younger than his roaring chestnut eyes and divine expression. Warbone wanted his attention, all of it; a sweltering angel that the chaotic god of death wished to hoard into his black-barred chamber of possessiveness. He feared tainting him. Extinguishing him.

"Then know we cannot mix," he said, his voice slow and crawling, caressing and bracing— both pulling near and pushing away. A shudder passed from the base of his tail to the back of his neck, culminating in a soft sigh, a sound of quivering resignation as he took a step back from the boy and slowly turned his eye elsewhere.