Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Ah, there it is.
Rage.
It's sparking in lightning bolts behind her closed eyes. There are lashes of it, like studded whips, tracing all the concave curls of her insides. There are breaths in its lungs, shallow inhales and hollow exhales. If there are any moths here, floating in her stomach, the wrath is turning to nails pinning each wing to her bones like she's made of rotten, fading wood.
Thana knows it's there because the words only and tonight are hanging in the small spaces between them like acid seeking entrance. She wants to pull them out of the air, out of his skin, out of the rotten rivers of his death magic.
She wants to devour them.
And maybe that's why she says nothing, only lets her lungs stutter themselves down to the shallow and hollow echoes of her breathing, living rage. Thana sags against him so that her muscles might not reshape themselves into the beast of her, the wrath, the conqueror. This time when she shivers it has nothing to do with the coldness of him against the creation-heat of her. This time is has to do with fire, and want, and a hundred sins that are moving through her like snakes. A part of the Thana that belongs to him recedes like a tide pulled back into the darkness and the sharks.
She lets herself be drawn away from the rotten flower and its black raining decay. Their shadows tangle together. One is full of flowers (violets, ivy and snowdrops), the other is full of rot (bones, mud and moss). Between where two meet is a swamp, murky water and whippoorwills. It's the between that fill their hoof-prints. It's in the between that Thana makes long tracks with the tip of her blade.
Yet there are still those words, and her rage, and the way she follows him with her teeth pressed hard into the curl of Ipomoea's hip.
Only for tonight. Her teeth scrape against his skin. Only for tonight.
@Ipomoea
"Speaking."
Rage.
It's sparking in lightning bolts behind her closed eyes. There are lashes of it, like studded whips, tracing all the concave curls of her insides. There are breaths in its lungs, shallow inhales and hollow exhales. If there are any moths here, floating in her stomach, the wrath is turning to nails pinning each wing to her bones like she's made of rotten, fading wood.
Thana knows it's there because the words only and tonight are hanging in the small spaces between them like acid seeking entrance. She wants to pull them out of the air, out of his skin, out of the rotten rivers of his death magic.
She wants to devour them.
And maybe that's why she says nothing, only lets her lungs stutter themselves down to the shallow and hollow echoes of her breathing, living rage. Thana sags against him so that her muscles might not reshape themselves into the beast of her, the wrath, the conqueror. This time when she shivers it has nothing to do with the coldness of him against the creation-heat of her. This time is has to do with fire, and want, and a hundred sins that are moving through her like snakes. A part of the Thana that belongs to him recedes like a tide pulled back into the darkness and the sharks.
She lets herself be drawn away from the rotten flower and its black raining decay. Their shadows tangle together. One is full of flowers (violets, ivy and snowdrops), the other is full of rot (bones, mud and moss). Between where two meet is a swamp, murky water and whippoorwills. It's the between that fill their hoof-prints. It's in the between that Thana makes long tracks with the tip of her blade.
Yet there are still those words, and her rage, and the way she follows him with her teeth pressed hard into the curl of Ipomoea's hip.
Only for tonight. Her teeth scrape against his skin. Only for tonight.
@Ipomoea
