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Title: prayers worth keeping
fandom: Exalted
square: bloodplay
word count: 551
summary: She writes prayers and memories of dreams across her lover's skin in blood, and smiles at the crackling displeasure of the Neverborn that she can feel in this close proximity. Let them be displeased: she'll remind her lover what it feels like to live, written in pain and blood.
content notes: no standard content notes apply
Dreams of Forgotten Grace smiles down at the other woman, her head tilted birdlike. "The knots are tight enough, aren't they?" the Night Caste murmurs, demurely and dreamily, her long blue hair falling over one side of her face, and behind her hair, her iridescent eyes shine. She doesn't wait for an answer, for she knows that the knots would be too tight for anyone but the once-dead woman who is bound to the bed, blood flowing in dead veins.
The Supplicant smiles. "Tighter," she asks, dead eyes bright with something approaching life, and Grace obliges her, both because she is in the business of granting true wishes, both small and large, and because she is so beautiful like this, the only time she remembers life and living and is something approaching whole, rather than ten thousand shards like her title.
(Grace sees the Neverborn's wish written in the Supplicant's bruised-purple eyes, the same way she sees everyone else's. It is not a wish she will ever grant, even if it lies within her power, because she wants Creation to live and she wants the Supplicant to live, too, and this isn't the Supplicant's Wish, she wants to live, too, more than anything, and Grace wants to give her that)
Grace giggles, sweetly, as she flips a knife into the air, catching it by the hilt as it comes down. First she traces the pattern she intends to carve with one long lacquered nail, pressure carefully calculated: blood wells up once her nail has passed, until in delicate red tracery blasphemous patterns are laid out against pale skin. Prayers to their gods, if they worshipped any still: the Supplicant left behind the Neverborn, and Grace has never bowed reverence to the Sun who chose her nor the Yozi who are her distant kin by way of her father.
(they do not belong to the gods who chose them and who bore them: they belong to themselves, and no other)
And then with the knife: again, pressure is carefully calculated, Grace simply wants to cut her, to make her bleed, not kill her again, and the Supplicant on the Altar of Ten Thousand Ivory Shards moans, sound low in her throat. And she almost looks a supplicant on some unholy altar, tied spread-eagled, her hands and wrists bound by silken straps, blasphemies written in blood across ivory skin.
(her blood tastes of stolen dreams and half-shattered memories: Grace loves her for it, still, as much as either of them can love)
The knife traces prayers to Makarios, the Sigil's Dreamer, across the curve of one small breast, then the other, before lower yet, leaving blood and pain in its wake. Grace smiles at how the Supplicant moans, and draws designs across a narrow hip, and across one pale thigh, calligraphy in a language older than both of them, from the Old Realm that died long before any of them were born or more than some distant dream yet to be dreamed.
She writes prayers and memories of dreams across her lover's skin in blood, and smiles at the crackling displeasure of the Neverborn that she can feel in this close proximity. Let them be displeased: she'll remind her lover what it feels like to live, written in pain and blood.
fandom: Exalted
square: bloodplay
word count: 551
summary: She writes prayers and memories of dreams across her lover's skin in blood, and smiles at the crackling displeasure of the Neverborn that she can feel in this close proximity. Let them be displeased: she'll remind her lover what it feels like to live, written in pain and blood.
content notes: no standard content notes apply
Dreams of Forgotten Grace smiles down at the other woman, her head tilted birdlike. "The knots are tight enough, aren't they?" the Night Caste murmurs, demurely and dreamily, her long blue hair falling over one side of her face, and behind her hair, her iridescent eyes shine. She doesn't wait for an answer, for she knows that the knots would be too tight for anyone but the once-dead woman who is bound to the bed, blood flowing in dead veins.
The Supplicant smiles. "Tighter," she asks, dead eyes bright with something approaching life, and Grace obliges her, both because she is in the business of granting true wishes, both small and large, and because she is so beautiful like this, the only time she remembers life and living and is something approaching whole, rather than ten thousand shards like her title.
(Grace sees the Neverborn's wish written in the Supplicant's bruised-purple eyes, the same way she sees everyone else's. It is not a wish she will ever grant, even if it lies within her power, because she wants Creation to live and she wants the Supplicant to live, too, and this isn't the Supplicant's Wish, she wants to live, too, more than anything, and Grace wants to give her that)
Grace giggles, sweetly, as she flips a knife into the air, catching it by the hilt as it comes down. First she traces the pattern she intends to carve with one long lacquered nail, pressure carefully calculated: blood wells up once her nail has passed, until in delicate red tracery blasphemous patterns are laid out against pale skin. Prayers to their gods, if they worshipped any still: the Supplicant left behind the Neverborn, and Grace has never bowed reverence to the Sun who chose her nor the Yozi who are her distant kin by way of her father.
(they do not belong to the gods who chose them and who bore them: they belong to themselves, and no other)
And then with the knife: again, pressure is carefully calculated, Grace simply wants to cut her, to make her bleed, not kill her again, and the Supplicant on the Altar of Ten Thousand Ivory Shards moans, sound low in her throat. And she almost looks a supplicant on some unholy altar, tied spread-eagled, her hands and wrists bound by silken straps, blasphemies written in blood across ivory skin.
(her blood tastes of stolen dreams and half-shattered memories: Grace loves her for it, still, as much as either of them can love)
The knife traces prayers to Makarios, the Sigil's Dreamer, across the curve of one small breast, then the other, before lower yet, leaving blood and pain in its wake. Grace smiles at how the Supplicant moans, and draws designs across a narrow hip, and across one pale thigh, calligraphy in a language older than both of them, from the Old Realm that died long before any of them were born or more than some distant dream yet to be dreamed.
She writes prayers and memories of dreams across her lover's skin in blood, and smiles at the crackling displeasure of the Neverborn that she can feel in this close proximity. Let them be displeased: she'll remind her lover what it feels like to live, written in pain and blood.
