like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Amaunet is the queen of war. She is the desert given shape, and form, and passion enough to turn the world to embers. She does not see a cool forest in his gaze-- only one begging for summer and flame. And she can see an echo of every terrible, vicious thing living in her own soul in the flash of his when it shines bright and fast like a dying star.
She wants to catch it between her teeth until she has not a single wish but a lifetime of them.
Her own lust, her own need, knows no restraint or tameness and she does not try to swallow it down with a moan, snarl, or mouth full of teeth. She basks in the fire of it and begs more, and more, and more, of the world to burn with her. And like smoke, just like smoke, she whispers her feathers across his spine as he pulls away.
The arc of her gaze as it follows him is more profane than fire. Perhaps it is a gift that he does not turn to see the spark of destruction that spiders through her smile. Perhaps it is better that the look in her eyes finds only the lambs in the crowd to fall on.
And perhaps it’s better, for more than him, when she lays her teeth at the throat of the first lamb she finds and demands he bow, and bow, and bow, until his skin is bloody with the worship of her. Even then, when all his words are dry and dusty as a tumbleweed, she does not relent.
@Martell
She wants to catch it between her teeth until she has not a single wish but a lifetime of them.
Her own lust, her own need, knows no restraint or tameness and she does not try to swallow it down with a moan, snarl, or mouth full of teeth. She basks in the fire of it and begs more, and more, and more, of the world to burn with her. And like smoke, just like smoke, she whispers her feathers across his spine as he pulls away.
The arc of her gaze as it follows him is more profane than fire. Perhaps it is a gift that he does not turn to see the spark of destruction that spiders through her smile. Perhaps it is better that the look in her eyes finds only the lambs in the crowd to fall on.
And perhaps it’s better, for more than him, when she lays her teeth at the throat of the first lamb she finds and demands he bow, and bow, and bow, until his skin is bloody with the worship of her. Even then, when all his words are dry and dusty as a tumbleweed, she does not relent.
@Martell
