KINGSLAY
“Kingslay,” she breathes.
He forgot the way his name on her tongue could prickle the skin along the mountains of his vertebrae; though he is crafted of fire and brimstone, he’s never felt the heat before this moment. A flash of movement, of flesh and fire, and there are pieces of them, then, that come together like Pangaea; a disastrous alchemy of things they dare not name, realized at last. And they could almost be lovers, the way their bodies know one another, the ebb and flow of flesh and bone as they map together all of the forgotten hills and lonely valleys. Almost, until he takes the apple of her throat into his teeth and the wicked curl in his lips spans from jugular to larynx.
They almost were, once.
Once, when she had spilt the contents of her heart out before him and he’d turned his cheek for something better (perhaps if she had written out her thoughts in blood instead he would have noticed). And he had seen the contents of a heart, matter-of-factly, a thousand times or more before that day - dissected ventricles and valves, laughed (if one could call it laughter) against the red spurt of an aorta here or there - but that moment was nothing like the others.
(End her.)
His gut churns; a sickness flexes its knuckles, and clenches fist over every organ he owns. He throws flames against her that whittle themselves quickly into sparks, then smoke. With her pulse in her throat, and her throat in his teeth, the only tangible malice he can offer is the one he holds fast against.
But he doesn’t bite.
He wants to. He wants to bite against her skin and feel her trachea as it bends and folds to his whims - to hear her suffocate, choking against his teeth. He wants to tear her apart from her seams; watch her unravel, and then, to marvel at the insides he sets loose to face their own impending finality (and O, to see the contents of her heart then!). He wants to wear her skin across his own back, hide-to-hide, to feel her against him until the inevitable rot robs him of the luxury as she falls to pieces, hair-by-hair.
He wants to. He wants to bite against her flesh - to feel her trachea bend and fold at his whim, and to hear her suffocating as she chokes against his teeth. He wants to tear her apart at her seams - to watch her unravel, and to marvel at the innards and organs set free to face their own impending finality (to see the contents of her heart then!). He wants to wear her skin across his back, to feel her against him until an inevitable rot robs him of the luxury as she falls to pieces hair by hair.
He wants.
Instead he mumbles, teeth to her throat:
“Are you thinking of me now?”
He forgot the way his name on her tongue could prickle the skin along the mountains of his vertebrae; though he is crafted of fire and brimstone, he’s never felt the heat before this moment. A flash of movement, of flesh and fire, and there are pieces of them, then, that come together like Pangaea; a disastrous alchemy of things they dare not name, realized at last. And they could almost be lovers, the way their bodies know one another, the ebb and flow of flesh and bone as they map together all of the forgotten hills and lonely valleys. Almost, until he takes the apple of her throat into his teeth and the wicked curl in his lips spans from jugular to larynx.
They almost were, once.
Once, when she had spilt the contents of her heart out before him and he’d turned his cheek for something better (perhaps if she had written out her thoughts in blood instead he would have noticed). And he had seen the contents of a heart, matter-of-factly, a thousand times or more before that day - dissected ventricles and valves, laughed (if one could call it laughter) against the red spurt of an aorta here or there - but that moment was nothing like the others.
(End her.)
His gut churns; a sickness flexes its knuckles, and clenches fist over every organ he owns. He throws flames against her that whittle themselves quickly into sparks, then smoke. With her pulse in her throat, and her throat in his teeth, the only tangible malice he can offer is the one he holds fast against.
But he doesn’t bite.
He wants to. He wants to bite against her skin and feel her trachea as it bends and folds to his whims - to hear her suffocate, choking against his teeth. He wants to tear her apart from her seams; watch her unravel, and then, to marvel at the insides he sets loose to face their own impending finality (and O, to see the contents of her heart then!). He wants to wear her skin across his own back, hide-to-hide, to feel her against him until the inevitable rot robs him of the luxury as she falls to pieces, hair-by-hair.
He wants to. He wants to bite against her flesh - to feel her trachea bend and fold at his whim, and to hear her suffocating as she chokes against his teeth. He wants to tear her apart at her seams - to watch her unravel, and to marvel at the innards and organs set free to face their own impending finality (to see the contents of her heart then!). He wants to wear her skin across his back, to feel her against him until an inevitable rot robs him of the luxury as she falls to pieces hair by hair.
He wants.
Instead he mumbles, teeth to her throat:
“Are you thinking of me now?”
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
@etro