#conquest fluff

You’re the first thing he truly allows himself the pleasure of touching. Even now he conflicted as his raised hand falters. He knows what he is shouldn't be touching who you are. He lifts his hands again and gives your arm a gentle graze. A whisper of a touch. A silent test of whether or not you’ll crumble beneath his touch. He’s ruined everything his fingertips have ever held. He's infectious. His people a plague. He sees it now. Your skin is soft and supple, his ragged and rough. His face has scars while yours has moles; his skin has gashes where yours had scabs. He traces your features and works his way down. The slope of your nose, the taper of your shoulders, the rise and fall of calm breathing. He stops at your knee. There’s a small patch darker than the rest of your skin-a sign of healing. You tell him it’s from the time you ran on the playground in elementary. He didn’t know that there was innocence in pain. He imagines your wild laugh as you bolt through the blacktop and the innocence of the once bloodied bruise. He tells you how he lost his arm. He doesn’t touch you with his metallic arm. He believes it an extension of violence unto you. You’re soft, fragile, and he’s holding you afraid you’ll break. He’s afraid to be Conquest- a purpose born of torment. He was bred in bloodshed, and you are loved in light.