You’re beautiful. But you know that, you egotistical bastard.
I love you, anyway.
When you take the form of man, your skin glistens with the sheen of hand polished bronze. Your muscles hold that form as I run my hands across a body that shimmers with barely withheld heat. I hear you chuckling at my blatant adoration. Feel the bass of your voice in the great chambers of your barreled chest. The desert tan lies to me, with its deep color promising the harshness of sand roughened skin. I rub my face against your hairless chest, and am reminded of the smoothness of the salamander.
Fitting, for a Son of Fire. Yes?
Your laughter explodes around me, as you abandon the guise of a man for the living fire that you truly are. You pour over me in bright leaps of amber and gold. I have become the altar for the flame of the Ifrit. And I surrender to the flames gladly.
Throwing my arms out as I join your laughter, I am surprised to feel cool hands embracing mine. I look, and there you are, a pillar of smokeless flame. Pulling me close, into your fierceness. Fingers of flame play with my hair. A brilliant tongue traces down my arm.
Oh Prince of the Consuming Flames!
Oh Son of the Devouring Rage!
Oh Lord of the Living Fire!
Beautiful Bastard.
But you knew that already.
You laugh once more, and singe my ass with suddenly hot hands. As I yelp in surprise, you lift and return to your world once more.
Bastard.
I love you, anyway.