I loved him (i think) -
stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse
stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse
❀
If you were a god I’d be dead, and where Bexley should laugh or smirk or respond with some quip she almost falls silent, the smile dropping quietly off her face, the warmth in her chest slipping away as she thinks with somewhat more seriousness about how wrong he is: it almost makes her soft.
If she were a god there would be no space left between them, no vast miles separating Denocte and Solterra. If she were a god, the rest of the world would be dead, not him. If she were a god, there would be nothing left outside the two of them and the heat they make, and the universe would be quiet but for the way he breathes against her skin, as simple and awful as any one feeling can be: even the too-casual bump of hip to hip or shoulder to shoulder ratchets the heat in her stomach up to a forest fire, sets the magic-buzzing under her skin to a crackle of real electricity, not that he has any right to know that.
Anyway. If she were God he would be Isaac. Death does not become him.
Above them the elm trees sway so many shades of gray, and in their shadow she and Acton are their own gods, their own art, two hateful things painted into the heart of love. His breath, hot against the weakest part of her throat, turns the already too-loud panting of her heart so intense it beats a tattoo against her brain. The steel of his eyes is nothing against her ice.
"How do you think," comes Bexley’s reply, and the easiness of it would be convincing but for the way her voice breaks at the end, fading and falling and stumbling all over again.
Simmering with heat so potent it bleeds into the air around them, she leans closer and shudders slightly at the scrape of his teeth. How to pray: pain, gold, pomegranates. Sacrifice above all else. "I’d ask you to say it out loud, that you worshipped me."
She raises her head a little, opens the soft part of her throat to eating. The river, just beyond them, rushes as loudly as it ever has, and above that she hears her own heart, feral and lusty.
