01-02-2019, 09:00 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He enjoys when they are fearful, when they shake and quiver before him. But as time goes on, as he grows stronger, fear is almost too easy to come by – it’s an instinctive, base reaction. Easy to elicit.
This is not to say he does not enjoy it, he will sup on fear until the universe collapses within itself – but it can grow tiresome.
So in addition to fear, he’s sought worship, he’s sought those who do not quake before him. Ryatah may not be worshipful (a shame – he might have spared her, if she had), but she is certainly not fearful, and her tone is calm, which intrigues him.
It is dangerous, to be interesting.
I have nothing to offer you, she says, and he tsks, once again touching her. In his belly, there is a distant thrum of wanting, but he ignores it, channels it into other things. His muzzle traces her crest as he takes away the last silver of vision.
“You underestimate yourself, Ryatah,” he coos, “you have so much to give.”
She complies, then, her own lips to his skin. He wonders what her lover – lovers, maybe, he doesn’t delve deep into her mind, he doesn’t know or care – would think of this scene, and he almost asks her, salts the wound of her own desire, but refrains. He likes her like this, docile but unafraid, asking him. Not begging, not quite, but with the please tacked on the end, sweet as honey.
“Of course, my dear,” he says, more possessive now in this strange intimacy, “all you had to do was ask.”
A pause, then, “it might hurt.”
He shifts, muzzle once more to her face, but this time when his lips pass those scars the skin beneath shifts as new eyes form, make their way to the surface of her skin. He watches as they move beneath the healed skin, bugling and growing. He’s never done it quite like this, thinks the process might hurt – he does nothing to dull her pain, at least – as the strange new eyes bloom beneath sealed sockets.
c a r n a g e