She should be afraid of the way her want turns to possession, and greed, and a need greater than the cosmos.
She should be afraid of the way her skin feels like ivory instead of rot in the places where her wounds meet his.
And she should be afraid of the way the blood on her teeth, with echoes of his blended in, tastes not like blood but like magic, and dirt, and seed.
There are a million things she should be afraid of here in the river, with the pink-hued water washing away the echoes of violence. Each drop of water leaves a stain on them, on their souls, on the jagged edges of her wounds pretending to be lines of art carved into ivory. But she cannot feel anything but the lingering echo of mine, mine, mine rolling between her bones like thunder (and the need twisting between like roots of lightning).
Thana is a storm now, a hurricane of need that started in a sea of fury, trapped in the form of a unicorn. And she is unhinged across a flat prairie when he turns his gaze to her and speaks. It breaks against the cliff-side of her teeth when he closes his eyes. She steps closer to breathe against his eyelashes, and to trace her lips down to the blood humming below his jaw. He smells like blood, but oh, oh, oh--
Ipomoea tastes like spring.
She closes her eyes as she rests her cheek against his. The storm rolls in her sinew, the river roars around their ankles, blood blooms in flower patterns below the surface of her skin, and she slips down into that darkness of all the things she should be afraid of.
And like a corpse she devours them.
“When I first saw you I wanted to make art of your form, of the way white is splashed across your skin like bones. I wanted to devour you and drain you of every drop of magic and every seed of spring.” Lightning flashes behind her eyes and thunder rolls sweet as wine across the surface of her tongue. “I wanted to kill you as much as I wanted to kill anything that dared to touch you.” Thana swallows down a storm-cloud and fills up her insides with the rain.
Language slips way from her as she lets her blood stumble in her veins and her heart stutters like a leaf in autumn. There is only their forms talking to each other like wolves, or lions, or roots tangled together by the river-shore. Her forms whispers of all the fears dissolving at the bank of her throat and of the thunder roaring in her veins like the apocalypse. She wonders if he'll understand this language of monsters, of predators, of things made instead of born.
Thana's teeth tangle in his mane when she pulls her cheek from him, and her tail drapes itself around his hocks like a chain. “I want to crawl inside you, Ipomoea.” She buries her teeth into his withers like kisses. “I do not know where else to go.” The storm breaks against his skin.
She has never known where to go.
Not until now.
@Ipomoea
