like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
He reminds her of her trial, of the gypsy boy with teeth bright enough to be stars in his black mouth. There is that same look in his feral eyes, that same spoiled fatness that has the potential to turn to wine or to sludge. It's in the curl of his neck and in the poetry of his voice as he curls wildcat sleek beneath her wings (like a wolf beneath the holy, silvered moon).
Perhaps it is the curse of being male, to be full of stars in the place of teeth and to think that one must choose between things to conquer.
She does not smile against his skin as she drags her teeth along the fragile shell of his ear. “We do not have to choose.” No cursed thing is strong enough to carry the weight of her and so she corrects him with breath hot enough to be doused in flame. Amaunet pulls at his ear like the darkness pulls at the moon, soft enough that she might pull loose the light from the hard, dark ore.
“We can have it all, every inch, until there is nothing not gilded with the stain of us.” The promise of a young-god, a feral girl, a desert girl leafed in gore and gold, rings off her lips like the whisper of a sacrificial blade on skin. She wonders if he knows that she's marking him now, dragging touches and promises like daggers around his skin, each one deeper than the last.
And she will not stop until his soul and his dark, dark heart unfurls beneath her like a bruise.
Her wings settle at her sides, tracing their last lines across his flesh (for now). Space yawns between them like lions as she turns. Amaunet pauses, smiles over her shoulder in a look hot with molten gold, and she kicks out his forelegs. “Next time you should start on your knees.” Laughter blooms thick and fermented as wine on her tongue.
“Otherwise I will not grant your prayers.” She's still laughing when the crowd starts to fill up the gap-jawed space between them. And she does not stop until the desert stretches as long an low as a great sandwyrm beneath her.
@Corradh
Perhaps it is the curse of being male, to be full of stars in the place of teeth and to think that one must choose between things to conquer.
She does not smile against his skin as she drags her teeth along the fragile shell of his ear. “We do not have to choose.” No cursed thing is strong enough to carry the weight of her and so she corrects him with breath hot enough to be doused in flame. Amaunet pulls at his ear like the darkness pulls at the moon, soft enough that she might pull loose the light from the hard, dark ore.
“We can have it all, every inch, until there is nothing not gilded with the stain of us.” The promise of a young-god, a feral girl, a desert girl leafed in gore and gold, rings off her lips like the whisper of a sacrificial blade on skin. She wonders if he knows that she's marking him now, dragging touches and promises like daggers around his skin, each one deeper than the last.
And she will not stop until his soul and his dark, dark heart unfurls beneath her like a bruise.
Her wings settle at her sides, tracing their last lines across his flesh (for now). Space yawns between them like lions as she turns. Amaunet pauses, smiles over her shoulder in a look hot with molten gold, and she kicks out his forelegs. “Next time you should start on your knees.” Laughter blooms thick and fermented as wine on her tongue.
“Otherwise I will not grant your prayers.” She's still laughing when the crowd starts to fill up the gap-jawed space between them. And she does not stop until the desert stretches as long an low as a great sandwyrm beneath her.
@Corradh
