no matter what they say, I am still the king
It is a tricky thing, to stand so close next to Him. Your emotions become something tangled and dangerous - (calmcalmanger, strengthstrengthweakness, lustlustlove) You cannot know what is real and what He is giving to you on a golden platter. What have you created and what has He decided you deserve? You are placid and following - a mewling kitten, languidly following that little ball of yarn (blood red, it is - perhaps a foreshadowing?). You are content to bolster yourself with the strength He has given you (yes, yes, of course you brought this brawn to yourself, not He). And then - you burn, you explode, you are a ferocious feline in the wake of His comments (angerangerfury).
You are murmuring, mumbling, a mess of unspoken words thrumming in your parched throat. Speak up, speak up - your father’s voice twines through your teeth, bolstering your flustered words of stopstopstop - speak up he says, encouraging, cajoling. Speak up, little serpent - for He cannot hear you. (Or perhaps, he chooses to ignore your timid voice?) Your frustration seeps, tendrils stirring twisting out into the atmosphere. Tighter and tighter, they lash to hold on to (to grip to smother to suffocate). Building; tension like a spring. He knows, He sees the tension, He hears that whisper in your head. (desiredesiredestroy).
You leap forward, like the coiled and striking thing you are - but he does not falter back. He saw the plunge in your mind, the anger and hurt and injustice. He knows, you are a snake, you will strike. You are so hungry (for what? For who?) - you yearn for that metallic sweet and sickly taste once more. You have sipped from the cup, and now you cannot stop from coming back.
You two paint a masochistic picture. Your lips wrapped around Him, drinking to your life (and death, do you not know that?); and He stands, solidly waiting for you to finish, for you to drink your fill and for your fury to subside. There is a shadow of a smirk on his face, the sting of your venom coagulating his blood into mud (His magic fighting tightly against it, flowing it further and further into your mouth - will you drown on it? Can you swallow it all quickly enough?). The acrid burn, the salty lick of your lips; that sweet slip of His blood down your throat- drink your fill. (thirstthirstquench).
And then - he has had enough. His blood turns poison - a vicious mix that no longer tastes like salt honey wine rain - it is sinister in your mouth, a burning, flowing river that will not stop pouring into your mouth, down your throat, into your lungs. Choke on it, see what greed tastes like.
“Enough.” (as if you had a choice) His voice is flecked with authority, but not anger. “You live here now, Sabbath.” The rest of His blood that trickles down your body turns back into the saccharin taste it once was. “You are mine now, Sabbath.” Can you feel it? That pull in your body? The chair has been kicked from under you, the wolf has settled on your hearth. Your body yearns for what he carries. “Any questions.”
(now, the storm is coming in)