11-05-2016, 01:45 AM
He eyes the things that follow her, and something savage stirs – a hydra, with many lips. A base, ignoble barbarity that holds kingdom in his lizard brain. They crowd at her hips
(– his hips; their hips, rhythmic and feral; that had been the sweetest dominion, as damp and spent, he had planted a flag and more in the smooth earth between thighs)
—they make her motherly, and that too is his, not theirs.
(of course, he loathes the maternity just as much as he glories in the fertility rites
he can shoulder the inconsistencies, he buries them in separate tombs in the name of separate gods)
The hallowed smears of cells in the scalded lining of her body arouse something else entirely in him. Queer reflexs he has never felt before, because always he has
Furrowed.
Sowed.
And then left.
It is not a paternal awakening, but a provocation of something much purer and animal – selfishness, aggressive preservation; a brutal instinct to spill their other-blood and free her hips for him and his labours.
(He does not know they are god-made, but god or worm, they are hostile usurpers.)
He likes the way she says his name – with just enough want to feed the prideful part of his nature. For a second it draws his black eyes from them to her and his stomach gurgles its craving shamelessly. She is not the only one to ever weaponize his name, or her wily, female ways, nor the first. But her tongue contains a singular power.
(Like iron on iron. He hopes she never grasps the enormity of herself – the way she says his name and the way she comes to him even though he is naked.
That would be a dangerous revelation.
He would take little pleasure....)
“Sinew,” he curls around her, separating them from her with his body for a moment and in that moment he imagines all the ways he could make that severance final. (The lizard licks out, with forked tongue, tasting the warmth from their skin on the dry air.) He will let them stay, if he must. If it means she will stay, deferential and wild-willed, all at once. Even if he suspects she might never be His (not in the way he knew his other things to be – Thyndra, Astri, the nameless girl of pale purple – those baptized in the ultimate nature of their own blood), he still thinks he holds those cards, like Pale Death, in his bony hands.
That is enough for him, for now.
He runs his lips and teeth over the dusty places in between the mounds of her belly and haunch, testing the skin pulled taut over her ribs (beneath, the joint fruits of their exertion dig deep into the hostile wastes of her womb and they grow). It is a greeting that holds all the tensity of sensuality and violence unified under one touch. It is the only way he knows skin – to wield it like a double edged sword; like a threat and with all the control.
All the way around he works until he reaches the peeled scar on her neck and stops, standing side-by-side, examining it with hard, flat eyes. “Who?” he grunts, and the temper in his voice makes clear the wakefulness it has caused him.
(– his hips; their hips, rhythmic and feral; that had been the sweetest dominion, as damp and spent, he had planted a flag and more in the smooth earth between thighs)
—they make her motherly, and that too is his, not theirs.
(of course, he loathes the maternity just as much as he glories in the fertility rites
he can shoulder the inconsistencies, he buries them in separate tombs in the name of separate gods)
The hallowed smears of cells in the scalded lining of her body arouse something else entirely in him. Queer reflexs he has never felt before, because always he has
Furrowed.
Sowed.
And then left.
It is not a paternal awakening, but a provocation of something much purer and animal – selfishness, aggressive preservation; a brutal instinct to spill their other-blood and free her hips for him and his labours.
(He does not know they are god-made, but god or worm, they are hostile usurpers.)
He likes the way she says his name – with just enough want to feed the prideful part of his nature. For a second it draws his black eyes from them to her and his stomach gurgles its craving shamelessly. She is not the only one to ever weaponize his name, or her wily, female ways, nor the first. But her tongue contains a singular power.
(Like iron on iron. He hopes she never grasps the enormity of herself – the way she says his name and the way she comes to him even though he is naked.
That would be a dangerous revelation.
He would take little pleasure....)
“Sinew,” he curls around her, separating them from her with his body for a moment and in that moment he imagines all the ways he could make that severance final. (The lizard licks out, with forked tongue, tasting the warmth from their skin on the dry air.) He will let them stay, if he must. If it means she will stay, deferential and wild-willed, all at once. Even if he suspects she might never be His (not in the way he knew his other things to be – Thyndra, Astri, the nameless girl of pale purple – those baptized in the ultimate nature of their own blood), he still thinks he holds those cards, like Pale Death, in his bony hands.
That is enough for him, for now.
He runs his lips and teeth over the dusty places in between the mounds of her belly and haunch, testing the skin pulled taut over her ribs (beneath, the joint fruits of their exertion dig deep into the hostile wastes of her womb and they grow). It is a greeting that holds all the tensity of sensuality and violence unified under one touch. It is the only way he knows skin – to wield it like a double edged sword; like a threat and with all the control.
All the way around he works until he reaches the peeled scar on her neck and stops, standing side-by-side, examining it with hard, flat eyes. “Who?” he grunts, and the temper in his voice makes clear the wakefulness it has caused him.
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)