Do you write things about gods/prophets? And if you don’t, would you?
You might enjoy this and this
"You are my prophet," the god murmured. "You know my will. Speak it."
"I-" The prophet faltered. Their mouth felt very dry, though it was not their place to be silent when the divine demanded they speak, and nor was it their place to question. Still. They cleared their throat and said nothing, turning their gaze down towards the floor they knelt upon.
The god crossed the temple to them, stopping in front of them.
The prophet closed their eyes.
Gently, the god dragged a thumb down along the prophet's lower lip and the prophet gasped, shaky, breathing ragged.
"Speak," the god said. "What do I want?"
A simple, terrible, wonderful, dizzying sort of statement. It seemed impossible. Yet, the god's wishes courses through them, an undeniable bond. They couldn't fail to know, to see, even when it was overwhelming. Even when the realisation felt like being drunk.
The god's hand slipped down further, the ever-shifting form of their palm smoothing over the prophet's throat, their vocal cords. It tipped the prophet's head up.
"You can't," the prophetmanaged.
"I mean-" The prophet bit their lip, curling their fingers against the floor. It felt like sacrilege to touch. "Of course you can do anything. I couldn't stop you."
The prophet laughed, a little breathless, a little broken. They opened their eyes then, to look at their god. Helpless.
Of course they wanted. Their god knew that, as surely as the prophet knew the words to all of the prayers. How could they possibly not want? And how could they possibly ever be worthy?
"Do you want me?" the god asked, softly.
"I'm made to speak your will," the prophet said. "Not my own."
"Even if my will is that you tell me?"
The prophet swallowed. Their fingers twitched again.
"You can touch," the god said.
The prophet shook their head.
"It's heresy to listen to someone else's teachings instead of mine," the god said. It sounded like teasing, but it was also true, and so the prophet nearly whimpered.
The god sank down to their knees, as if that could render the two of them equal. They raised their other hand to cup the prophet's face as the prophet continued to stare at them, wide-eyed. They ached to lean in. Close the distance. Take something that was never supposed to be theirs, only to pass through them a while.
"Tell me more about what I want then," the god said, and the prophet couldn't decide if that was kind or cruel.
"You want me to touch," the prophet whispered. "You want..." Their gaze dipped, treacherous, to all the places that the god imagined their hands. Visions swam through their brain, perfect hell and sinful heaven. "Fuck."
"Not as eloquent as your usual sermons, but accurate enough, my prophet."
"We can't. It's - it's -"
"-You want to," the god said. "And I did not give you that shame, gorgeous thing. Tell me who did."
The prophet could see blood and fury. Forgiveness. A kailedescope of life ever-spinning, because to reduce a god to one mere thing was absurd. They were everything.
And they would take everything the prophet had, give them everything too. Anything. Their love was a leviathan thing.
The prophet bit down on their tongue, because to talk of a god worshipping a prophet was just madness. They tasted copper in their mouth and then the god was kissing them. Rightfully so, perhaps, with a blood offering. In an instant, foolishly, the prophet was clinging to them. Clutching at them like the world might fall away. Maybe it would. It felt like worlds should fall away when gods kissed prophets.
"If you tell me no," the god whispered, "I'll stop, I swear."
The prophet shuddered at the power of that; to stop a god, the audacity. "No," they said.
The god froze. They pulled back.
The prophet looked at them, with dark eyes, and fingers still twined into the material trappings of the form the god had chosen that day.
"No," the prophet said, rough, and wet their lips. "Don't stop."
The god stared at them. Their eyes narrowed.
Despite everything, the prophet grinned. Giddy. Teasing. What a thing.
Then the god was on them, and maybe it was all wrong, some kind of treason, but nothing had ever felt quite so right.
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