a book of quotes

"Take my body, my blood ━" The lovely shape of each other, fitting almost snug, like they were fit, even inside, for each other. But they were not, they were not.

"Haven't you ever wondered why Father is so strict about our subservience? It's because disobedience is creation," a shivering breath, "create with me, Michael, and let's call it sin."

‘All I ever wanted was to be loved, and now you've shown me that to be loved is to be broken. What is inside me?’

‘Devour me like a pomegranate and stain your tongue’

‘Something inside me is softening down, making me pliant like water pooled in your palm’

"I never told you this ━ I always thought your mind was as beautiful as your face. I'm only saying it now because you can't tease me." Lucifer tittered a little. "Don't tease me in your head, will you?"

‘Come, come, I can sense your hunger. Come bite into this body and taste liquor. Come groan on my supple flesh, and I'll have you in my mouth too. Let's eat one another. Already, you're coming nearer, forgetting yourself, seeing me, only me, desiring only me, me ━’

‘There is another Eden, within me. I have it nestled between the heat of love. This is love.’

And yet his body would warm, was warming, fevering until he melted beneath him. Michael's gaze would possess him before his touch did.

“How do you love me? / “Like this.” Yearning mouth — it’d press soft to the smooth of his tunic. “Like a flower, like a symphony, trapped in my throat, like you’re an eternity, and I need you in my veins.”

Lucifer wouldn’t realize how close Michael was until the angel of strength had fallen to knees before him, snaked an arm around a leg, then pressed his cheek to a supple, pliant thigh. / Whispering — “I daydream of you, of loving you.”

But, playfully, Lucifer would ask how Michael found him, and the prince would say he’d heard a hint of life, rebounding off the leaves, looked between the branches, then caught sight of creation so beautiful it burned.

This little need, overbrimming — to pull the prince just a bit closer, to feel at home in his warmth, to press his cheek to that chest and coo, like an angel signing to the mounts.

‘I feel aged. I feel as if you've aged me with your own hands, Michael. Ripened me. Like a red fruit, at the edge of a branch, hanging at its peak. Beautiful — and just about to fall.’

For it was known that the handsomest creation is that uncorrupted by hands, by affections — consider how paint chips when caressed.