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“{Eye, dearest?}” Their prophet asks, them in his arms, his hand tracing so gently over an unseen line in the middle of their chest.
They hum a question, and, perhaps in a way that they should not [their prophet’s affections are not for them. They should be reserved for their Heart. …Their affections should be reserved for their Heart.], soak in their prophet’s touch - much like a piece of paper in water, utterly, hopelessly. It almost hurts, how much they like that sweet touch. It is not that significant. Nonetheless, they fold, wings fluttering to vent it all.
“{...What if I opened you up?}”
“[...Opened me up?]”
“{...I could drag a knife down your skin. I could expose organs that weren’t supposed to be exposed. You’d break so beautifully under me. I want you to be the one whimpering as I cradle your heart. I want you under me. Not Heart. You.}”
Something pathetic lodges in their throat. The wings curl around them, as much as they can - attempting to hide them whilst hiding nothing. “[Not Heart?]”
“{I want to see how you would act. I want to see you.}”
They soften.
[It sounds… nice. They find no other words. Their insides alight with what their prophet tells them. As if his hands are-]
“[Surely you must want that with-]” Their- “[the Heart. Not me. I am not for such things.]”
“{Do you want it?}”
They feel odd.
Their ribs itch.
“[I want-]” They stop unbidden. They open their mouth. They still lack the words for this.
“{Do you want this like I do?}”
They push out a yes from behind their gritted teeth.
Their - their - prophet presses a kiss to the top of the curls. For them. “{I want you. You. Okay, dearest?}”
“[You should ask the Heart. If- if you are planning on it. I-]” do not think I can- “[It is his body. And you would speak it far better.]”
“{Hmm,}” amused, “{do you like the way I speak, dearest?}”
“[Yes. You are very… skillful.]” What would they be if their prophet was not? Their prophet had taught Heart how to See using his words. [And his hands. Heart’s Eye did not like to linger.] His words tie them in knots. His words cut between their skin and their muscle. His words make anew.
“{Skillful.}” His voice goes as warm as his embrace. “{Dearest…}” He presses down on their- the ribs so hard he might be counting them. An ache deep in the ribs. It is a pretty ache. “{Do you-}” His voice catches. “{Do you like listening to me? Do you really think it’s - nice -}” He does not complete the thought. Heart’s Eye understands.
“[Of course I do.]”
“{Of course…}” His hands never leave [their, the] skin. “{I want to expose you.}” Expose their flesh, expose their organs, leave them little more than his beautiful touches. They like the idea. They like the idea very much. Their composure in the face of their prophet is important. Regardless, they want to come apart for him.
“[You should let me sleep.]” Heart’s Eye cannot handle this. “[Prophet.]”
“{I’ll ask Heart, okay? If I can do that to you.}”
“[Could you please just- stop- for now-]” There is something. Some desperation. They do not want Soul to continue. If he does, they might shatter- crack into horrible pieces-
[They would shatter, when their prophet cut them open.
They could not protest.
They want.]
Their prophet does not listen. Why would they have expected him to? He never listened to Heart when he pleaded for him to stop.
…They like this. They like their prophet.
Eventually their prophet tires, though, of feeling up their ribs, and they can finally fall asleep with him.
Tines of his trident, kissing against them. (No, stop, this can’t be happening again- I deserved it last time. Not this time. Please.) Their insides spark up again with (fear) want. They want their prophet. Their breath shakes. They need- something.
The trident teases, barely breaking skin, his Soul must be smiling, must be enjoying this- they attempt to put themselves in order. ‘[Are you alright?]’ They somehow ask their Heart. Their prophet overwhelms them like he does Heart. Even a little contact with his metal and they fail to grasp onto reason.
Their Heart does not want this.
They push him aside, reorder the pieces, so it does not have to be his, so he does not process. Their Heart thanks them before they do it.
“[S- Prophet?]” They try. “[What-]”
“{Not yet. I’m just - taking you in. Your skin under my trident.}”
“[Taking me in…]” They inhale, attempting to relax. Their prophet has this way of confusing any orderly lines of thoughts into twisted, unrecognizable things. It is a nice kiss. Perhaps nicer than lips in the tines’ place. Perhaps too nice for them.
“{Do you like this?}” He shifts the tines in the slightest amount more.
They do like it. It stabs into them and they do like it.
They do.
“[Kiss me.]”
They did not think those words through.
Their prophet does so, as forceful as the trident, which he drives deeper into them. They do not know if it is intentional, but it hurts, it hurts like nothing quite has before, it is something. It is electricity, surging into them and fueling whatever they make of their prophet kissing them. They attempt to fall into him, smothering the quietest pained, pathetic noise against his lips, one that their throat strings out uselessly.
He leans away, dragging his trident out slowly, oh-so-slowly, and they whimper. Their hands reach out, not far enough, grasping for something they cannot place. Their prophet presses a hand down on the wounds he made, hard. They about-whine this time. It burns.
“{Oh, you’re broken, aren’t you.}”
They process it, barely. They cannot refute it. Their throat works against them.
He smears blood over their skin. His hands, the blood, warm, warm, warm- soft. Contact.
“{So broken.}”
Some sort of cursory not-thought.
“[Thank you.]” They are not as void of inflection as they should be.
Their prophet laughs, genuinely, and pulls them close so their blood seeps into his chest. “{You’re welcome.}”