like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Somewhere there is poetry in song performed by the same stallion who had sung when she lured the king into the desert. It echoes faintly in her ears beyond the feral crush of the drunken, and the lustful, and the lost. Whatever it sounds like, whatever the words are, it is not her poetry the stallion is singing of.
And somewhere there are drinks, and curses, and magic made out of plants to weaken the heart. She can taste it in the air, the stench of sweat made ripe with it and the iron of blood when the liquor turns mortals into monsters full of violence. But that too, is not her violence turning the air into something that is bitter, sweet, and intoxicating.
Then there is this, the look in his eyes as her turns to her and the way the world stutters and echoes the beat of his wild heart that she can almost see in the pulse just below his cheek. Amaunet smiles as she presses closer (and her smile is more a purr than a look). This, this weight and promise between them, is hers in a way that nothing else in the party is.
“Perhaps there is only tonight and no others.” She says and the way she lays her gaze to his is more than a perhaps. It is a claiming, a consuming, a golden echo of the way her heart is racing like a war in her chest. The scratch of bristle, naked and free of paint, makes her shiver and her glow flicker like a star.
Tonight she does not try to hide the waiting or sketch ownership by way of tooth and lip across his neck. She does nothing more than look at him as a girl might look at a boy, or a monster at a wolf, or a leopardess at her leopard. Her jugular arches into the touch of brush. She wonders if he feels a stutter in her pulse or if he can only her the purr of her want and nothing else.
At her side her wings do not settle as they should. Rather they flutter in and out in a mimicry of both flight and of fight. Beneath her skin magic starts to purr as she does, hunger for the promise in his touch and the challenge in his eyes. “Paint me then, Corradh, I want to know what it feels like to be a predator.” She whispers the words against his cheek as she trails her feathers across his rib-cage.
And the glimmer in her eyes, molten and golden as the desert, says I know as she looks at each of his spots like there are stars instead of markings.
@Corradh
And somewhere there are drinks, and curses, and magic made out of plants to weaken the heart. She can taste it in the air, the stench of sweat made ripe with it and the iron of blood when the liquor turns mortals into monsters full of violence. But that too, is not her violence turning the air into something that is bitter, sweet, and intoxicating.
Then there is this, the look in his eyes as her turns to her and the way the world stutters and echoes the beat of his wild heart that she can almost see in the pulse just below his cheek. Amaunet smiles as she presses closer (and her smile is more a purr than a look). This, this weight and promise between them, is hers in a way that nothing else in the party is.
“Perhaps there is only tonight and no others.” She says and the way she lays her gaze to his is more than a perhaps. It is a claiming, a consuming, a golden echo of the way her heart is racing like a war in her chest. The scratch of bristle, naked and free of paint, makes her shiver and her glow flicker like a star.
Tonight she does not try to hide the waiting or sketch ownership by way of tooth and lip across his neck. She does nothing more than look at him as a girl might look at a boy, or a monster at a wolf, or a leopardess at her leopard. Her jugular arches into the touch of brush. She wonders if he feels a stutter in her pulse or if he can only her the purr of her want and nothing else.
At her side her wings do not settle as they should. Rather they flutter in and out in a mimicry of both flight and of fight. Beneath her skin magic starts to purr as she does, hunger for the promise in his touch and the challenge in his eyes. “Paint me then, Corradh, I want to know what it feels like to be a predator.” She whispers the words against his cheek as she trails her feathers across his rib-cage.
And the glimmer in her eyes, molten and golden as the desert, says I know as she looks at each of his spots like there are stars instead of markings.
@Corradh
