like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Each cut beneath her silk and war-paint sets to humming an end o’ war knell. The melody echoes in her heart and her magic. It echoes until there is nothing but the hunger of a dying thing, the need of a famine, and the ferocious heat of an ember on a sea of coal. Already, in the eve of her battle, it has been too long since she’s felt the clarion call of wrath, and chaos, and lust.
He is a wolf, snarling in a thicket, with his pack too far away to give aid. She, Davke girl, is nothing more than an animal without a noose of civility or tameness about her throat.
And animals, both wild and tame, know nothing about sin.
“Then I will make you into something I do.” The curl of her wings dips and becomes a mockery of begging submission. Her pulse leaps like a livewire in her chest; her heart grows wings in a storm cloud. The air in her lungs stutters and thickens to oil. Golden blush turns to high noon. Amaunet looks at the curl of his lips, his horn, and his free-from-scar skin, like she’d like him to burn holes in her skin.
When she drags her feathers down the curl of his neck, the dip of his spine, the flare of his hip, it is done with a purr in her throat (a pale roar of the coming lion). She stops again, shoulder to shoulder with him so that the whites of their eyes might look at each other in the language of monsters. Her skin begs for a bruise, a claw, a cut of horn and a wound of teeth.
It begs.
Her heart stutters again until it’s as thready as a hurricane wind and just as fierce. It stutters like she’s flying and diving towards the belly of a dune. It stutters in notes of love but Amaunet does not want love.
She wants---
“Yes.”
War.
@Martell
He is a wolf, snarling in a thicket, with his pack too far away to give aid. She, Davke girl, is nothing more than an animal without a noose of civility or tameness about her throat.
And animals, both wild and tame, know nothing about sin.
“Then I will make you into something I do.” The curl of her wings dips and becomes a mockery of begging submission. Her pulse leaps like a livewire in her chest; her heart grows wings in a storm cloud. The air in her lungs stutters and thickens to oil. Golden blush turns to high noon. Amaunet looks at the curl of his lips, his horn, and his free-from-scar skin, like she’d like him to burn holes in her skin.
When she drags her feathers down the curl of his neck, the dip of his spine, the flare of his hip, it is done with a purr in her throat (a pale roar of the coming lion). She stops again, shoulder to shoulder with him so that the whites of their eyes might look at each other in the language of monsters. Her skin begs for a bruise, a claw, a cut of horn and a wound of teeth.
It begs.
Her heart stutters again until it’s as thready as a hurricane wind and just as fierce. It stutters like she’s flying and diving towards the belly of a dune. It stutters in notes of love but Amaunet does not want love.
She wants---
“Yes.”
War.
@Martell
