ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ?
ｍ ｏ ｎ ｓ ｔ ｅ ｒ ｓ
do it
Ｂ Ｅ Ｔ Ｔ Ｅ Ｒ
(Source: flirtiings)
I’m trying to design Marion’s “pet” monster, Baby, but have run into that age old dilemma of “how many eyes should it have?”
If she has Baby, does that mean Delilah is no longer considered her “pet”?
“Tell me again what you said at the revel,” he says, climbing over me, his body against mine.
“What?” I can barely think.
“That you hate me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Tell me that you hate me.”
“I hate you,” I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
He kisses me harder.
“I hate you,” I breathe into his mouth. “I hate you so much that sometimes I can’t think of anything else.”
At that, he makes a harsh, low sound.
One of his hands slides over my stomach, tracing the shape of my skin. He kisses me again, and it’s like falling off a cliff. Like a mountain slide, building momentum with every touch, until there is only crashing destruction ahead.”
“Kiss me again,” he says drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.” I feel those words, feel them like a kick to the stomach. He sees my expression and laughs, a sound full of mockery. I can’t tell which of us he’s laughing at. He hates you. Even if he wants you, he hates you. Maybe he hates you the more for it. After a moment, his eyes flutter closed. His voice falls to a whisper, as though he’s talking to himself. “If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.” He drifts off to sleep, but I am wide awake.
─ The Wicked King, chapter 5
“Star-pale, celestial, neither flesh nor blood,”— Marya Zaturenska, from The Collected Poems; “The Seven Shadows,”