07-12-2024, 06:23 PM
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He is startled to find how deep his urge is to forget himself in her. He does not want outside of himself – what better thing to be, than a god? – but here against her, his resolve shudders. There is the temptation to forget this game, her magic wrapped in the fists of his, to dive into her flesh instead, its own kind of magic.
But he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known.
And so it must go. He must destroy the evidence of his failure, so that she will not be marred for him.
He pulls at the magic, ripping it from her like veins. It is not painless – he lets the magic heat and burn within her, so that when he begins to tug it loose, she might celebrate its departure. It has been a moment, since he has excised magic from someone – and those past efforts had ended in their deaths – and so he is slow, precise in his actions. He takes her magic for himself, of course, feels it brush alongside his, a strange new presence in him. He supposes in time it will absorb, join the powers he has cultivated.
“There,” he murmurs, and now that she is rid of that mocking magic he can focus on touching her, on tracing the delicate places across her body. The excision of magic left no physical wounds, but he imagines the spots will still ache in some strange way, and so he touches them with his lips, as close to praise as he will come.
“So much better,” he says, “you did well, Ryatah.”
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