like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
War he says. Her heart races at the sound of it and her feathers hum as if a quick storm wind has run though them. She tucks away the feel of it to savor later. For later will be when she unmakes his stoic gaze and his steady heart bit by bit until he is trembling and learning how to become the first unicorn who knows how to fly.
At his throat, through the vibration of her teeth, her laughter becomes a heartbeat of its own. It runs to an almost coquettish melody, like a rapier teasing at the fetching of an arrow. She lets it quicken and sing as his remains nothing more than the growth of an oak tree (slow, steady, and reaching for the sun that will never be close enough to taste).
Before he pulls away she runs her tongue along his pulse, painting his skin with the first attack in this game between them. “This is no more a blush than the sun is only the dawn. Someday I will show you the difference.” Amaunet does not ask, does not know how to do anything but trace the smooth of his horn like a blade she might purchase at the market.
She wonders how well she might learn to wield such a weapon as that.
Amaunet is not as disappointed as she imagined she might be when he denies her. There is no sorrow in her heart when he does nothing more than frost the gold at her neck with the heat of him. All she feels is the touch of a lash-tip, a fist wrapping around her heart, a breath upon her brow that has nothing at all to do with religion or want.
“Yes.” She agrees with a smile that is too gentle for the teeth held between it. “You are neither plaything or prey. But you are some thing. I just have not decided yet what I would like it to be.” Her feathers hum again as if she's flying far about this den of lambs and two beasts-of-war deciding who is lion and who is wolf.
This, him with his denials, makes her think of the pits.
He, a unicorn with his unmarred war-skin, reminds her of a challenger who bellows their victory before the fight has even begun. She knows them well, the cleverness of thinking that there is nothing in the world that might unmake them wound by wound and strike by strike. Only one of them carries scars on their skin not like a shield but like a clarion call to paint more lines in the map of them.
So she circles him as she would that same bellowing stallion. She turns from his frosting heat and his horn that makes her think of a thing to be bought.
Like he is nothing more than a rare rug in the market she peruses the lines of his spine, of his hip, the way he ripples with sinew even still in a crowd full of dancers. “You are either very bad at the game of war, unicorn...” She exhales against the point of his hip where it meets his loin. There is no touch, no caress, between her words. There is only air and the glow of her making the shadows of his rib cage stark where his flesh dimples around them. “Or you are very, very good at it.” Another only air exhale as she tilts her head to watch him as if that same rug has reveled a hidden magic.
Amaunet's smile turns dark.
Very good is still not good enough to best me. The lion says to the wolf as they watch each other across a river of lambs.
The second attack begins.
@Martell
At his throat, through the vibration of her teeth, her laughter becomes a heartbeat of its own. It runs to an almost coquettish melody, like a rapier teasing at the fetching of an arrow. She lets it quicken and sing as his remains nothing more than the growth of an oak tree (slow, steady, and reaching for the sun that will never be close enough to taste).
Before he pulls away she runs her tongue along his pulse, painting his skin with the first attack in this game between them. “This is no more a blush than the sun is only the dawn. Someday I will show you the difference.” Amaunet does not ask, does not know how to do anything but trace the smooth of his horn like a blade she might purchase at the market.
She wonders how well she might learn to wield such a weapon as that.
Amaunet is not as disappointed as she imagined she might be when he denies her. There is no sorrow in her heart when he does nothing more than frost the gold at her neck with the heat of him. All she feels is the touch of a lash-tip, a fist wrapping around her heart, a breath upon her brow that has nothing at all to do with religion or want.
“Yes.” She agrees with a smile that is too gentle for the teeth held between it. “You are neither plaything or prey. But you are some thing. I just have not decided yet what I would like it to be.” Her feathers hum again as if she's flying far about this den of lambs and two beasts-of-war deciding who is lion and who is wolf.
This, him with his denials, makes her think of the pits.
He, a unicorn with his unmarred war-skin, reminds her of a challenger who bellows their victory before the fight has even begun. She knows them well, the cleverness of thinking that there is nothing in the world that might unmake them wound by wound and strike by strike. Only one of them carries scars on their skin not like a shield but like a clarion call to paint more lines in the map of them.
So she circles him as she would that same bellowing stallion. She turns from his frosting heat and his horn that makes her think of a thing to be bought.
Like he is nothing more than a rare rug in the market she peruses the lines of his spine, of his hip, the way he ripples with sinew even still in a crowd full of dancers. “You are either very bad at the game of war, unicorn...” She exhales against the point of his hip where it meets his loin. There is no touch, no caress, between her words. There is only air and the glow of her making the shadows of his rib cage stark where his flesh dimples around them. “Or you are very, very good at it.” Another only air exhale as she tilts her head to watch him as if that same rug has reveled a hidden magic.
Amaunet's smile turns dark.
Very good is still not good enough to best me. The lion says to the wolf as they watch each other across a river of lambs.
The second attack begins.
@Martell
