Stand face to face with your god
A monster.
She wonders if someone has told him he’s a monster or if he has come to this conclusion on his own.
And what constitutes a monster?
Who gets to decide that’s what he is?
The questions clamber up the long column of her throat but she does not ask any of them. Because angels don’t ask questions like this, they ask when the sun might rise again. They ask about the weightlessness of clouds and the cold of rain. Angels ask only the soft things.
She is not an angel, not really. But the stars let her pretend, the stars say that she came from some place other than this.
She is a monster, too. But she does not look like one.
She drags in a patient breath and tilts her fine head, blinking those big, golden eyes. She shifts closer, his name alighting on her own tongue. Fierte. She touches him, just barely, skims her lethal mouth across the surface of his shoulder. He does not feel like anything she has ever touched before and she finds some delight in this.
His question strikes her sideways and she curls herself away from him then so that she can look him directly in the eye. He is a strange thing, certainly, a monster by his own admission. But he is looking at her like she truly is an angel and there is something intoxicating in this.
She smiles, sweet. Demure. Shrugs on a shyness that does not belong to her and never has.
“Why should I be afraid of you, Fierte?” she asks, saccharine. Bats those thick lashes up at him. She breathes stardust, her teeth are fanged, she is coated in a layer of dragon’s scales. She has no reason to fear him. And yet, there is some thrill in the asking. The pretending.
@[fierte]