like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Tonight, in the sickle moonlight, Amaunet is not riding the wake of war. Her hunger is not for blood, or violence, or the dull many-lion roar of a wanting crowd. Tonight her need is deeper, slower, thick blood instead of thin and racing. Tonight she is oil instead of gasoline, moonlight instead of fire, mortal skin instead of molten gold.
She is wanting, that never changes, but she is need too tonight.
It gathers beneath her skin like a thundercloud in the places where the desert meets the tide and the belly of a dune the sun-warm peak of it. Blushes of dawn-gold gather between the dark creases of her ribs and her feathers. But her own glow, her own shining hunger that is too great to hold just in the cage of her body, is nothing more than another spot of wealth moving through the crowd and the oasis ferns rising up to tease the edges of her hips. She does not mind, not terribly, that she is almost softer, almost gentle in the chaos around her.
Amaunet imagines it makes her like a wolf in the snake den, or a lion slumbering in that ever present herd of sheep. Someone laughs and it is too loud for the oil-slow purr in her blood and the muted whisper of her feathers against the night-flowers in the garden. She turns away. It is not what she has come looking for.
She does not want brazen boldness or a body bloated and slow with liquor. Amaunet wants---
Oh, she wants the hunt and the feel of teeth at her throat begging her for the one thing she will never give willingly. Her eyes land on the almost-hunter, the man who has already promised that his knees will bleed and her skin will hum. Jasmine clings to her braids and her tail as she unfolds herself from the garden as she moves towards Corradh and his table of paints.
Amaunet moves towards the hunt, the kill, the promise of teeth and gold and prayer.
And maybe, oh maybe--
She wants learn what it is to be conquered.
Her wings unfurl and her teeth flash in a smile that is both hunger, and need, and full of as many promises as it is teeth. “If I let you touch me,” there is more purr than language in her voice, more want than air, “what would you make my body into with your paints?” And when she touches him it is with lips free of paint, and blood, and cruelty.
@Corradh
She is wanting, that never changes, but she is need too tonight.
It gathers beneath her skin like a thundercloud in the places where the desert meets the tide and the belly of a dune the sun-warm peak of it. Blushes of dawn-gold gather between the dark creases of her ribs and her feathers. But her own glow, her own shining hunger that is too great to hold just in the cage of her body, is nothing more than another spot of wealth moving through the crowd and the oasis ferns rising up to tease the edges of her hips. She does not mind, not terribly, that she is almost softer, almost gentle in the chaos around her.
Amaunet imagines it makes her like a wolf in the snake den, or a lion slumbering in that ever present herd of sheep. Someone laughs and it is too loud for the oil-slow purr in her blood and the muted whisper of her feathers against the night-flowers in the garden. She turns away. It is not what she has come looking for.
She does not want brazen boldness or a body bloated and slow with liquor. Amaunet wants---
Oh, she wants the hunt and the feel of teeth at her throat begging her for the one thing she will never give willingly. Her eyes land on the almost-hunter, the man who has already promised that his knees will bleed and her skin will hum. Jasmine clings to her braids and her tail as she unfolds herself from the garden as she moves towards Corradh and his table of paints.
Amaunet moves towards the hunt, the kill, the promise of teeth and gold and prayer.
And maybe, oh maybe--
She wants learn what it is to be conquered.
Her wings unfurl and her teeth flash in a smile that is both hunger, and need, and full of as many promises as it is teeth. “If I let you touch me,” there is more purr than language in her voice, more want than air, “what would you make my body into with your paints?” And when she touches him it is with lips free of paint, and blood, and cruelty.
@Corradh
