01-15-2020, 02:27 PM
No, he says.
Whispers it hot against the trembling shell of her ear.
And perhaps she is intoxicated by this, too. Surely she can feel the fingers of his rejection wrapped tight around her throat. And oh, how it almost coaxes a terrible sound out of her. A plea—a pithy, pitiful thing. But she was not built for begging. So, she grits her terrible teeth and she pushes herself to her feet and she steadily meets that golden gaze and wonders why the most dangerous things are also the most beautiful.
She skims her tongue across the surface of her teeth as she studies him. The vision no longer strobes at the edges. The nostrils do not flare. The eyes do not roll in equal measures of ecstasy and misery. She is steady now, though a tremble still lingers in the cruxes of her knees. Still, blood drips steady down her chin from where she’d cut her tongue on her teeth. The effort it takes to swallow it is too much, so she allows it to sink into the dust between them.
Perhaps there something good will come of it.
She drags in a steady breath, blinks those brilliant green eyes, and exhales. How one delights in the fury of being alive after coming so close to death! She does not try to touch him now, though there is a vicious longing in her chest that wants nothing more than to press her mouth into the middle of all those stars and let those pool in her throat, too.
“What kind of magic is this, then?” she asks. As if she might save herself the burning embarrassment of his rejection. As if she’d never asked anything of him at all. And how she resents the weakness, brittle and fickle and fleeting.
“And why didn’t you finish the job?”
Whispers it hot against the trembling shell of her ear.
And perhaps she is intoxicated by this, too. Surely she can feel the fingers of his rejection wrapped tight around her throat. And oh, how it almost coaxes a terrible sound out of her. A plea—a pithy, pitiful thing. But she was not built for begging. So, she grits her terrible teeth and she pushes herself to her feet and she steadily meets that golden gaze and wonders why the most dangerous things are also the most beautiful.
She skims her tongue across the surface of her teeth as she studies him. The vision no longer strobes at the edges. The nostrils do not flare. The eyes do not roll in equal measures of ecstasy and misery. She is steady now, though a tremble still lingers in the cruxes of her knees. Still, blood drips steady down her chin from where she’d cut her tongue on her teeth. The effort it takes to swallow it is too much, so she allows it to sink into the dust between them.
Perhaps there something good will come of it.
She drags in a steady breath, blinks those brilliant green eyes, and exhales. How one delights in the fury of being alive after coming so close to death! She does not try to touch him now, though there is a vicious longing in her chest that wants nothing more than to press her mouth into the middle of all those stars and let those pool in her throat, too.
“What kind of magic is this, then?” she asks. As if she might save herself the burning embarrassment of his rejection. As if she’d never asked anything of him at all. And how she resents the weakness, brittle and fickle and fleeting.
“And why didn’t you finish the job?”
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
