lord, I fashion dark gods too;
Because she is his – because he loves her – he considers her question.
(Love is such a stupid word for it. It’s not one he uses. He does not love so much as consume, biting and swallowing them whole, taking and taking and taking. But we use that word anyway, because it’s easier. Simpler, when nothing between them is simple.)
Why is this so different, she asks.
The real answer - because I did not know about it, because I did not feel it - dances for a moment on his tongue, but he swallows it. He is not one to admit his faults, to any chink in the armor.
“You were always meant to be an angel,” he says, and his voice is sweeter now, because the sting of this discovery is fading, and already he is deciding on a plan, a way to find his balance again, to reclaim the thing that is already his.
“Besides,” he adds, voice growing sweeter still, “an angel befits a god, correct?”
As if her entire existence was crafted to suit him, when they live so many separate lives.
He moves closer, then, and in doing so is reminded of the precise sweetness of her presence. He had been distracted from his wanting with the revelation, but as his ire ebbs, it makes way for other things – the need to draw his mouth across her neck, to feel her shuddering exhales, to feel her needy against him.
“Let’s start again,” he says, as if her new magic was a mere slight, as if it was forgiven, “for I have missed you.”
He closes the final step between them, lays the rough texture of his muzzle lightly against her withers. His wine-dark eyes close and he inhales her scent, which is unchanged for all the magic, and sweet. But he reaches out, too, vining his magic into her, reaching, grasping for the threads of the magic imbued in her, gently tugging. He does not yank, but he lets her feel it, lets het feel all of him – his mouth, his magic, and his desire to take and take and take.
c a r n a g e
@Ryatah