You Are His...

You Are His: Pomegranate

I am his pomegranate.

Juicy and supple.

Fruitful and blessed.

His deft fingers, way more agile than I thought Death's could be, have plucked the seeds from my soul for him to devour whole. Each delectable section of my fruit is for him to take as he sees fit. Splitting me open, no other person has seen me so exposed – so vulnerable.

And I suppose that's what a god of Death does, consumes a soul with only his eyes to where one feels their nerve endings becoming frayed and demanding. Who knew the tantalizing touch from Death could be so addictive?

Where most cower away, recoiling from something misunderstood, I welcome the embrace, knowing he would never hurt me.

Once Death is touched by my mortal hands rather than him caressing a gentle palm to drive out one's last breath, I am the one to bring him breathless.

I am his forbidden fruit.

So righteous and delectable.

Irresistible and provoking.

A vacant sanctuary hosts such two beings as us, the dim glow of candles casting shadows across our faces full of excitement mixed with a hunger only we can satisfy for one another.

Many think that his hands would be cold as they assimilate death with an empty, vast frigidness. A bitter, piercing nothingness. But they couldn't be any farther from the truth.

Just like life, he is warm and inviting. How Death should be, instead of a forbidding enigma humankind has drawn him out to be.

Life is death.

Death is life.

They are one in the same.

And he has offered me something that is in between both. Alive but never dying. Encased in mortal flesh but never wilting – an ever-blooming flower with indestructible roots.

I am a platter of vast emotions.

Lust, love, and limerence.

Eager and enamored.

Before us sits a chalice filled with pomegranate juice, honey wine, and rose water with a pinch of salt.

He only needs one more ingredient, and it calls to him in the creases of his palms. When the knife composed of the only thing that can puncture through his flesh, a sharpened god's bone, sprouts a bud of gold in his perfect palm, he squeezes a stream of his life essence into the dark brew.

Through the skull mask he's always worn in my presence, the irises the exact shade of copper soaking up sunlight, a look of palpable arousal meets mine.

The gold ichor smears against the goblet as he picks it up, holding it up for me to hold with him.

I am a pie filled with savory sensations.

One bite, and he craves me for the rest of his life.

One bite, and while he fills me, I fill him, too.

"Does it hurt?" I ask, our fingers intertwining as I grab hold of the chalice with him.

His chin raises, and a look of amusement lifts his brow when he peers down at me. "Does what hurt? Immortality?"

My gaze drops to watch the bead of gold trail past his wrist. The warm stream stemming from his palm spirals down his forearm, branching off in two different ravines only to meet again at his elbow.

"Yes," I breathe. "Does it hurt?"

"No, my little dove. A gift from the gods should never hurt."

"Even from Death?"

"Especially from Death." We lift the rim of the cup with contents that match his ichor to sit between my willing, plump lips, and the sweet scent of the concoction he's created invades my nose.

It lures me in, forcing my hands to tilt the base of our chalice up more until the liquid flirts with my mouth.

The taste is savory and sweet, just how I expected the offering of immortality to be, coating my tongue with pure promises of forever.

With Death, I am eternal.

With Death, I am just as worshipped as he is.

I am an orchard, abundantly full.

Pluck me of a fruit, and I will grow more.

Regenerating and evergreen.

The whites of our tunics seem to be willing to collect the dust beneath our knees more than we possess an eagerness to shed them, tiny drops of his aureate plasma staining the fabric as his palm continues to bleed for the sake of granting me the life of a god.

I drink every last drop as it is not only expected of me, but I don't want to waste a single sip. To not drain the cup of all of its contents would bring shame upon this private celebration.

Once drank dry, the backside of my hand becomes slick with his ichor as he takes my hand into his, and I have no time to react to the quick precision of the blade to the fleshy side of my hand.

Gold.

Just like his.

He presses his lips to the wound, and I give him a piece of what he has given me. Death has given me life, and I have given Death a life worth living.

I am his oasis.

His Eden. His paradise. His sanctuary.

An endless abundance of eternal devotion.

I am caught by surprise when he finally releases the secret behind his mask finally, showing the face that I have been so desperate to indulge in. Sculptured as if he were hand-crafted by Phidias himself, I can caress the skin that has been hidden from me. Soft and warm, gods, do I lose myself in such rapture that would bring the strongest mortals to croak.

Skin splashed in gold with mouths and teeth to match, our limbs intertwine in the dim light the candles provide, the flickering shadows being our audience for such a divine performance.

Breathless gasps fill the room as he takes me with his mouth, smearing the shimmering spillage from broken skin onto cloth and heated flesh, fingers then making me taste how both juices mix so well together.

Pleasure and praise.

Delectable devotion.

A sweet release.

For who am I to deny Death a life full of rapture?

Surely, oh surely, Death deserves paradise, too.

Even if it seems...

Forbidden.