—
For a moment he forgets what she sees when her dragon’s eyes rake over him like they are counting coins and jewels. That his golden skin bares no scars like warnings, a dozen silver markings that proclaim him a victor. He might be as red as a warning now, red as blood to water the roots of a tree, but his skin is as smooth as an untried boy’s.
It gnaws at him like a coyote cracking bones to get to marrow to think anyone might look at him and think him weak.
But this was not home (home was ashes and bloated bodies, the bloody leftover of revolution) and he had needed a disguise. Oh, but if it had been, she would be addressing him with a mouthful of pretty words all meaning respect, even if they were hollow as empty pitchers. If it were home, she wouldn’t dare lay a touch to his skin. This is what that faint scent of cedar and incense and hot desert sand makes him think of, and the glow from her skin turns the red of his to crimson.
He meets her eyes but does not match her smile. In his words is the ring of weapons on armor, and the thud of bodies meeting dirt. “I have been at war.”
She laughs like a wild thing does, and he thinks of a panther prowling the dunes, the way they could shriek like a woman being slaughtered. At her question he raises a brow, nods infinitesimally at the new gleam of her. “Aren’t you already?” He can almost feel her skin beneath the final inch of his horn; he can see it dimple. He wonders what he might feel if it slid in - could he sense it, the warmth of blood, or would he feel no more than he ever had with his sword?
When they separate, he does not look to see if her flesh beads with scarlet. The space lasts for only a moment, only enough for his green eyes to harden to dark emeralds before she lays her cheek against him. Her skin is hot, and he can almost hear the blood humming beneath. He wonders if the red painted across her brow will now mark him, too, and when she puts her teeth to his throat his lips settle into a line grim as a drawn bow.
His pulse does not race. He is good at hiding his wants.
“I did not come here to be somebody’s game.” The unicorn’s voice is low, and rough as a lover’s. Perhaps that is what they look like, at the corner of the room, with the music serpentine around them. But if his tone is a caress, it’s the brush of knuckles that hold a whip. “I am not your plaything, and not your prey. You should look elsewhere if you seek such things.” His breath is warm on her neck; he watches it fog one of the thin gold bands that encircle her throat.
@Amaunet
It gnaws at him like a coyote cracking bones to get to marrow to think anyone might look at him and think him weak.
But this was not home (home was ashes and bloated bodies, the bloody leftover of revolution) and he had needed a disguise. Oh, but if it had been, she would be addressing him with a mouthful of pretty words all meaning respect, even if they were hollow as empty pitchers. If it were home, she wouldn’t dare lay a touch to his skin. This is what that faint scent of cedar and incense and hot desert sand makes him think of, and the glow from her skin turns the red of his to crimson.
He meets her eyes but does not match her smile. In his words is the ring of weapons on armor, and the thud of bodies meeting dirt. “I have been at war.”
She laughs like a wild thing does, and he thinks of a panther prowling the dunes, the way they could shriek like a woman being slaughtered. At her question he raises a brow, nods infinitesimally at the new gleam of her. “Aren’t you already?” He can almost feel her skin beneath the final inch of his horn; he can see it dimple. He wonders what he might feel if it slid in - could he sense it, the warmth of blood, or would he feel no more than he ever had with his sword?
When they separate, he does not look to see if her flesh beads with scarlet. The space lasts for only a moment, only enough for his green eyes to harden to dark emeralds before she lays her cheek against him. Her skin is hot, and he can almost hear the blood humming beneath. He wonders if the red painted across her brow will now mark him, too, and when she puts her teeth to his throat his lips settle into a line grim as a drawn bow.
His pulse does not race. He is good at hiding his wants.
“I did not come here to be somebody’s game.” The unicorn’s voice is low, and rough as a lover’s. Perhaps that is what they look like, at the corner of the room, with the music serpentine around them. But if his tone is a caress, it’s the brush of knuckles that hold a whip. “I am not your plaything, and not your prey. You should look elsewhere if you seek such things.” His breath is warm on her neck; he watches it fog one of the thin gold bands that encircle her throat.
@Amaunet
