I loved him (i think) -
stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse
stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse
❀
Of course it would be around him, that her magic came back.Already as they find their way into the Creek she can feel the ebb and flow of the power coming back like so much glitter in the veins, like the song she has been singing into the void is now, in the voice of white noise, singing back to her.
It feels good.
She says nothing of it at first. It would be better, she thinks, or at least safer, not to stroke his ego with the idea that that gift was his to hold. But as they walk and walk, the newfound energy starts to burn a pit in her stomach, she can feel it buzzing oh-so-loud under her skin, blooming floral under her skin, and when has she ever been strong around him, anyway, or found the energy not to give up the gun - well, it’s not like starting now would make a difference.
Predictable as ever glitter begins to glow over her skin, new heat wafts off her in waves; as they walk she tosses little balls of white-yellow sparks up into the air, letting them float a few feet upward, then quashes them again with casual ease; under the gothically bare branches the two of them shine extra-warm, extra-bright. (As is their talent.)
"If I were a god," Bexley repeats, and humor glimmers in the weight she puts on the first word: when she meets the amber of his eyes her expression is as dangerous as it can be without becoming uncanny. Still she shivers at the ghost-touch of his lips on her skin. Still this want feels like a novelty, and as she leans int this touch it is only possessiveness that keeps her anxious about how long any of this will last before it comes crumbling down.
What a mortal worry.
"What makes you think I’m not one already?"
