❛ 𝘿𝘼𝙀𝙍𝙆𝙉𝙎𝙎 ↻ fitch daniels .
fitch daniels doesn’t ache in ancient tongues, he doesn’t bleed while spitting his heart out for a pretty face. his insides don’t twist and turn at the thought that he just might lose somebody. he’s stone cold, untouchable [ unlovable and unbreakable ] and, yet, here he stands. he’s quite literally knelt at delphine cavanaugh’s feet, fingers of his left hand wrapped firmly ( though not tightly ) around her wrist as fingertips of free hand ever so lightly trace flawless skin of her forearm. if only, he thinks, the horrors his hands have committed weren’t invisible to eyes which rest upon them, he might never be allowed to touch a beautiful thing again.
a sharp canine is exposed as fitch offers her a lopsided smirk, his real unhidden eyes looking right at the one who could never fear him and, yet, he fears her completely. proverbial threads made out of blood stretch out of his mouth, his heart dangling at the ends, vulnerable to her and her only, at risk of being devoured and destroyed. she can chew him up and spit him out if she chooses to and the worst part perhaps is that he’d claw at his own skin and dig a hole through his own chest just to make it easier for her to do so. such a morbid way to love but, if it is love at all, it’s the only way he knows how to feel it. sick, twisted, monstrous. fitch stands, all too quickly moving his right hand to the back of delphine’s neck, thumb placed beneath her chin and pushing upwards so she’ll look at him. the witch and the cambion, the darkest of tales. “ you’re not worried you might rot if i kiss you? “ the lilt to his lips indicates a joke but something behind devilish eyes wonders if, unknowingly, he just might be speaking the truth.
flirting with death. dancing with the devil. she craves what isn’t good, because good does not live in her. a demon with angelic façade. most would have run when witnessing what lies beneath. love isn’t meant to be a possibility for one who was created to be alone, to not be touched. except he’s here and he’s knelt before her as if in worship. like she’s a saint and his words are prayers. delphine wants nothing more than to answer them, than to give in. she’s growing weak against her impulses. his fingertips leave an inferno in their wake, a fire which begins to spread. touch, no matter how innocent, had been forbidden for so long. just as love had been. the last person to bare their heart to her had met a horrid end. marcus reid had been all too human, too good. fitch daniels couldn’t be more different.
allows herself to be sculpted to his liking whenever he stands. cerulean hues meeting the stark white and black of his own. their beauty and uniqueness will never be lost on her. this willingness to drown, to rot as he colorfully puts it, terrifies and thrills her. “ not even a little bit. ‘sides, i can think of worst ways to fade away. “ black painted fingertips reach towards his lips, running against bottom one as if testing if her flesh would begin to crumble at their touch. they continue to move and land at his jawline. desire only continues to flourish until it’s hard to resist. “ only one way to find out, right? “ lips quirk into a smirk, before free hand curls around the collar of his shirt to tug him downward, pressing a kiss against his lips. contrary to the many romantic comedies she’s spent nights watching on motel beds, fireworks do not shoot off into the air and butterflies do not flutter in her gut. nothing so sweet. instead it is lights flickering and the feeling of moths wings, frantic and torn, not butterflies. the kiss continues until she needs to come up for a breath of air. the witch, however, does not stray far. the hand that curled around his shirt comes up to tangle in his hair, and forehead rests against his. “ ... so far, so good. should we keep testing our luck? “