With each passing moment, he realizes just how much he craves her: her thoughts, her touch, her attention. All of it is toxic, seeping into his skin and settling into his marrow like poison, becoming something that will only fuel his addiction, his utmost need for her to be his. She’s so delicate, poised with perfection and sculpted by magic itself - it’s seen in the way the moonlight dances across and through her translucent body, the diamond-like droplets of water that drip gently down her perfectly chiseled face. He wonders if she’s ever known hardship or trauma - would she break? Would she shatter like the glass she is, piece by perfect piece?
Molech isn’t sure. He does, however, decide that he would be there to witness it. Maybe even cause it.
But, of course, he’s more than ready to be the one to pick up those dazzling, galaxy-laden shards.
He smiles; it’s enchanting and warm on his golden mouth. It’s also genuine - her perpetual happiness within her dreamlike mind is like a drug to him, soothing all those rough and burly edges that are normally fissured and cracked within him. He’d burn the world for her, he realizes, but he wouldn’t hesitate to watch her melt along with it. The young stallion’s head tilts methodically at the thought of it, imagining her crystalline body pool into nothing but glitter and stars, and how beautiful she would even be then. His sweet Clementia.
Molech leans into her touch, satisfied and elated that she has chosen not to lift the coolness of her mouth from the darkness of his teal neck. She’s caught in his web (though it is quite easy to see that he is entangled within her own, though she is much less a web - more like a field of soft meadow grasses, warm and inviting), murmuring into his skin with an intimacy that he knows has granted him not only a cold winter’s night but perhaps all of the nights to come.
Lavender eyes are calm and cool as the twirling of her galaxies reflects in them. Fate. Such a small word, but it holds more power than she could ever imagine as it tumbles like a cloud from her crystalline lips. He’d be whatever she wanted him to be, he muses to himself, but only hums a sound of agreement in his throat. “I am,” he reassures (corrects) her, leaving no room for doubt. He will be her finale, nothing else. “Will you be mine as well, Clementia?”
A question, poised soft on the night air so that when she reflects on this moment, she will remember she had been given a choice.
molech.
@[clementia]