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kinkfestTitle: Too Close Enough To Touch
Fandom: The Bible
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dr_zook
Rating: PG (probably)
Characters: Lilith, Michael
Prompt: Lilith/Michael: Forever free - And Lilith walks in the wilderness.
Notes: No Beta. Title borrowed from lovely KHANATE's awesome track. Written for Anon (thank you for your thrilling prompt), yet humbly dedicated to marvellousliriaen: ♥
Too Close Enough To Touch
Consoler of Adam's wives: what would you know about the High Priestess of the Desert?
Her bosom isn't your pillow, her lap isn't your cistern. The embedding mountain ranges and plains are sultry wilderness at fierce midnight. Holy scents emanate from the clefts between her breasts and thighs and fingers, adorned with skin, oh so burnished and supple.
Her gaze is of a fluttering moth, her voice of a rose-cheeked virgin.
And she's done with your kind.
"What is it, standard bearer: are you bored again?" There is no use for standards here, in her tent, in the folds of her gowns. The woman is clad in dusk, breathing clove and shreds of butterfly wings.
Michael is lurid and his eyes are flickering. "Where is he?" His voice isn't as resounding as one would expect it. With an aura too bright and too cold. He is made of silver and ice.
And a foreigner in her realm.
"Last time I saw him, he was asleep and I made him defile his pallet." Her smile is sudden and obscenely wide, the gesture of a fractious and amused hyaena. With teeth aglisten and wet.
Michael coughs. "Not Adam," he drawls. "Where is the worm, the slant serpent?"
"I am not his keeper, am I," the woman says, stars trickling down the corners of her mouth.
"You're his mate," the angel spits. Like their mating isn't as pillar-quakingly glorious as anybody else's. Like it's worth less, for her womb stays barren.
"Jealousy misbecomes you as his brother, I daresay." A few of her plaits fan out on her shoulder like some great owl's pinions.
Michael's aura pulsates. "He's not of my kind. Anymore." Waves of broken air surround him like a mirage. He's hurt and angry. So is she, but the messenger is no match. Like their adoration is worth less, for they both have fallen.
Her toes grind deeper into the warm and coarse sand below. "See, that's why I think you should leave now. For I don't belong to your play anymore as well." Eyes harden. "Go, look for him yourself."
Her voice is clear and striking, like winds falling down from great heights, pressing you down and if you weren't the one you are, you would pray for leaving you unscathed, please, oh God, please. And afterwards you'd dig yourself through that stifling dune towering over you, and you'd look at your surroundings like reborn. Like having escaped from the barren womb.
Your breathing would be laboured and shaky, and then you would laugh deliriously relieved.
Fandom: The Bible
Author:
dr_zook Rating: PG (probably)
Characters: Lilith, Michael
Prompt: Lilith/Michael: Forever free - And Lilith walks in the wilderness.
Notes: No Beta. Title borrowed from lovely KHANATE's awesome track. Written for Anon (thank you for your thrilling prompt), yet humbly dedicated to marvellous
liriaen: ♥Too Close Enough To Touch
Consoler of Adam's wives: what would you know about the High Priestess of the Desert?
Her bosom isn't your pillow, her lap isn't your cistern. The embedding mountain ranges and plains are sultry wilderness at fierce midnight. Holy scents emanate from the clefts between her breasts and thighs and fingers, adorned with skin, oh so burnished and supple.
Her gaze is of a fluttering moth, her voice of a rose-cheeked virgin.
And she's done with your kind.
"What is it, standard bearer: are you bored again?" There is no use for standards here, in her tent, in the folds of her gowns. The woman is clad in dusk, breathing clove and shreds of butterfly wings.
Michael is lurid and his eyes are flickering. "Where is he?" His voice isn't as resounding as one would expect it. With an aura too bright and too cold. He is made of silver and ice.
And a foreigner in her realm.
"Last time I saw him, he was asleep and I made him defile his pallet." Her smile is sudden and obscenely wide, the gesture of a fractious and amused hyaena. With teeth aglisten and wet.
Michael coughs. "Not Adam," he drawls. "Where is the worm, the slant serpent?"
"I am not his keeper, am I," the woman says, stars trickling down the corners of her mouth.
"You're his mate," the angel spits. Like their mating isn't as pillar-quakingly glorious as anybody else's. Like it's worth less, for her womb stays barren.
"Jealousy misbecomes you as his brother, I daresay." A few of her plaits fan out on her shoulder like some great owl's pinions.
Michael's aura pulsates. "He's not of my kind. Anymore." Waves of broken air surround him like a mirage. He's hurt and angry. So is she, but the messenger is no match. Like their adoration is worth less, for they both have fallen.
Her toes grind deeper into the warm and coarse sand below. "See, that's why I think you should leave now. For I don't belong to your play anymore as well." Eyes harden. "Go, look for him yourself."
Her voice is clear and striking, like winds falling down from great heights, pressing you down and if you weren't the one you are, you would pray for leaving you unscathed, please, oh God, please. And afterwards you'd dig yourself through that stifling dune towering over you, and you'd look at your surroundings like reborn. Like having escaped from the barren womb.
Your breathing would be laboured and shaky, and then you would laugh deliriously relieved.
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