you need a big god; ryatah

[Carnage]

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He’s pleased, watching as she stumbles into view, pleased to have her before him once more. They’re linked, and though it’s a connection he could sever whenever he so chose, he has not yet chosen it, has not gotten bored of her. She says his name, and though her voice is quiet he can practically taste her pulse in his mouth. He likes it, that she finds pleasure in this, that she is ready and pliant under his power, that he can drown and revive her and still have her willing. A breath, and he restores her vision so that she might behold him, so that he may meet her eyes and know he’s seen. “Ryatah,” he says, and his own fetid smile curls on his lips, glad to have this moment, to be reunited in the meadow. He steps closer, to touch her in greeting, yes, but to reclaim her, at least for now – he wipes from her skin the scent of all others, so that he is not reminded of the others (he is not jealous – gods have no jealousy for mortals – but such things can be distracting). His lips touch her withers, where he’d once drawn blood, then his brand, bright on her skin. “How are the girls?” he asks, tone conversational, as if they’d happened upon one another. He hasn’t seen the children that came of their last coupling, save for a few glances through her eyes. This doesn’t bother him, his offspring have disappointed him, time and time again, and he has never been known as much of a father. (He’d liked their names, though, found it both bold and amusing of her.) He draws back, though he’s already hungry to touch her more, to reacquaint himself with her. “I’ve thought of you,” he says, which is almost a tender statement, coming from him. Almost romantic.

@[Ryatah]