like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
What should feel like recognition rises to the surface of her skin in wrath instead. It billows in her cheeks in a blush of dawn-light, a glimmer of the eye-sun shifting above their heads. The air thickens around her. And when her wings snap out a warning, brushing all those door-eyes closed with a touch of feathers, the quiet after the sound feels as weighted as the air before the lightning strike.
She smiles and there are too many teeth in the look to be anything but the look of a desert-eagle in the dead of winter. Her body does not move down the steps, or slide close enough that she might grab on to his collar and pull. The tilt of her head is a wolfish-thing when she laughs in a way that suggests a snarl more than it suggests amusement. “Love,” she scroffs, “have you any originality at all? Are you nothing more than another thing cut out of the desert in the exact shape of everything else?”
When she finally steps closer to him, her feathers stay flared out in a way that blots out the castle entrance from him. Like a sun shifting over the more she steps closer, and closer, until her shine is bright enough to blind. Magic leaks for her skin like smoke, and heat, and a hundred sins melded down into magma smooth enough to drink. And in turn it drinks, and drinks, from all the dead stars and new-born monsters hiding just below their feet.
Amaunet steps close enough that she might count the rings in his ears and the frail hairs rising around his muzzle ring. She counts each ounce of gold of him and each ounce of something missing from the stance of his body that smells of the desert but does not bellow of it or claim it. What she sees, what little she can see, makes her think of the gone-king and his smiles that were as shallow as a low-tide sea. Her teeth ache to tear the little from him.
“You would not have found sleep with me, stallion.” Her smile turns teasing as she presses her cheek close enough to his that she can feel the remnants of the desert heat rising from him. And when she pulls away, and snaps forward again quick as a snake to latch onto the bull-ring in his nose, the aching of her teeth turns to a stabbing, needy pain.
@Malik
She smiles and there are too many teeth in the look to be anything but the look of a desert-eagle in the dead of winter. Her body does not move down the steps, or slide close enough that she might grab on to his collar and pull. The tilt of her head is a wolfish-thing when she laughs in a way that suggests a snarl more than it suggests amusement. “Love,” she scroffs, “have you any originality at all? Are you nothing more than another thing cut out of the desert in the exact shape of everything else?”
When she finally steps closer to him, her feathers stay flared out in a way that blots out the castle entrance from him. Like a sun shifting over the more she steps closer, and closer, until her shine is bright enough to blind. Magic leaks for her skin like smoke, and heat, and a hundred sins melded down into magma smooth enough to drink. And in turn it drinks, and drinks, from all the dead stars and new-born monsters hiding just below their feet.
Amaunet steps close enough that she might count the rings in his ears and the frail hairs rising around his muzzle ring. She counts each ounce of gold of him and each ounce of something missing from the stance of his body that smells of the desert but does not bellow of it or claim it. What she sees, what little she can see, makes her think of the gone-king and his smiles that were as shallow as a low-tide sea. Her teeth ache to tear the little from him.
“You would not have found sleep with me, stallion.” Her smile turns teasing as she presses her cheek close enough to his that she can feel the remnants of the desert heat rising from him. And when she pulls away, and snaps forward again quick as a snake to latch onto the bull-ring in his nose, the aching of her teeth turns to a stabbing, needy pain.
@Malik
