12-29-2019, 05:22 PM
How sweetly she trembles.
How prettily she tilts her head as he emerges from the shadow,
every stoic, galactic inch of him.
She quivers still, not with fear but with exhaustion. But it thrills her so completely to know that he could have extinguished every last ounce of light in her. Would she be missed, she wonders. How delightful it is to think that nary a tear would be shed for her, the viper’s daughter. She doubts that even the viper would weep for her. She’d caught word of a brother, another child born from the union of her nopetiful, vicious mother and the insufferable fool. No, there would be no reason at all to cry for the daughter. Perhaps this is what makes it such a thrill.
And what a sight he is to behold, she thinks. It twists something awful at the very center of her as she openly, unabashedly studies his dark face. The simper remains, sweet in a kind of unconvincing way as he peers down at her. She finds herself hungry for the heat of him. Is this close enough? He asks and the simper lists and fades and tilts her own fine head.
There is a beat of silence that passes between them. It is not close enough, she thinks but does not say. Instead, she edges closer still. Until she can breathe the heat of him. How heavy it lingers on her tongue as she shifts her focus from his face to the galaxy stationed on his shoulder. She breathes out a sigh, long and slow. “Touch me,” she says. Tilts her head so that she can catch his eye. And perhaps there is some glint in the gaze that could be mistaken for innocence, something soft and secret.
How prettily she tilts her head as he emerges from the shadow,
every stoic, galactic inch of him.
She quivers still, not with fear but with exhaustion. But it thrills her so completely to know that he could have extinguished every last ounce of light in her. Would she be missed, she wonders. How delightful it is to think that nary a tear would be shed for her, the viper’s daughter. She doubts that even the viper would weep for her. She’d caught word of a brother, another child born from the union of her nopetiful, vicious mother and the insufferable fool. No, there would be no reason at all to cry for the daughter. Perhaps this is what makes it such a thrill.
And what a sight he is to behold, she thinks. It twists something awful at the very center of her as she openly, unabashedly studies his dark face. The simper remains, sweet in a kind of unconvincing way as he peers down at her. She finds herself hungry for the heat of him. Is this close enough? He asks and the simper lists and fades and tilts her own fine head.
There is a beat of silence that passes between them. It is not close enough, she thinks but does not say. Instead, she edges closer still. Until she can breathe the heat of him. How heavy it lingers on her tongue as she shifts her focus from his face to the galaxy stationed on his shoulder. She breathes out a sigh, long and slow. “Touch me,” she says. Tilts her head so that she can catch his eye. And perhaps there is some glint in the gaze that could be mistaken for innocence, something soft and secret.
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
