[P] the violence in the pouring rain

[Marisol]

YOUR SOB HAS A NAME

Every muscle in Marisol’s body coils like a spring, fires like a rifle—even standing still she trembles with the force of it, how deep and bright the fire in her chest burn and how much it makes her drool like a dog. I am not a martyr, she thinks, and does not mind it. The smile on her face is a drawling, unchaste thing, and her eyes burn sweet with saltwater and want. To anyone else she would look like a predator.

To anyone else she would be.

There is salt and iron in the air. Novus has always been a savage place, no matter how much its inhabitants fight to prove otherwise; Marisol has spent far too long being civilized, and the centuries of her home’s repression are growing to be too much. Finally she is an animal again, Finally duty does not have her in a chokehold She could be an Ilati, with their animal sacrifices, or a shed-star pouring blood like water. Or she could simply be what she is—bloodthirsty, sharptoothed, too full of love to sit still.

Theodosia speaks, and she laughs again. A real thing. She has laughed more recently than in a long, long time. Slowly it is becoming more and more natural. The brief suggestion of teeth on her neck makes her shoulders flex and her tail snap, and she lowers her head like a snake as the cadet takes off, watching half-wild and half-pretty.

“I promise I will,” Marisol shouts, and races after her.

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@Theodosia <3

aimless | kokovi