burning my cathedrals
cause i dont pray anymore
Being a prickly-pear is hard; having walls erected around yourself in order to always protect your best interests is difficult to manage - and Fever is reminded this especially when in the presence of others whose company would try to coax her to relax and let loose. Liseli was nothing short of simple and easy company: the stud was intelligent enough to keep up with the chimera's banter - let alone charming enough to pull it off - and he effortlessly made Fever feel less like a viper, more of a whole person. He didn't seem to have any ill intent as he partook in their little game of prattle, yet she was not yet convinced that he was a simpleton.
So what was his aim? This red and oyster-sheen stallion was convivial, mature, and warm just simply because?
No one was ever nice just to be nice.
Yet, here she sat, pleasantly surprised by his warm and benevolent nature. This didn't exactly align with her reputation of choosing wicked company - he must be hiding something.
At the mention of the book, a giggling purr bubbles from her. "How I love good ol-fashion promiscuity."
She swirls the last bit of her drink in her cup, her eyes blink languidly as her invasion of his space was accepted. For a hermit, he seemed awfully inviting - the skin where his feathers brush against her quivers slightly, happy to experience a tickle of electricity between their very brief and light touch.
Both ears were cupped in his direction as she listens to him about hiding his scars. Fever holds her tongue, her eyes open and close in a subtle yet understanding manner. But her face ignites with light as Liseli bursts with a hearty laughter - for some reason, it reminds Fever of stew on a winter day - his laughter warms her, and she can't help but place a charming smile on her lips. And yet, this smile doesn't last long, as it falters underneath her mask, a gradual metamorphosis into a quiet façade of contemplation.
It wasn't often she was rendered a bit tongue-tied.
The silence stretches between them; soft murmuring of other patrons, the clinks of glasses being washed, the occasional whisper-pop and snap from the fire of the lamps.
Almost out of character - perhaps her drink is getting to her quicker than she originally accounted for - Fever leans in just a little closer, and she tilts her chin up to this man she'd barely known, her eyes doe-like, desperate like a damsel in distress, suddenly matching the solemnity of his statement. She speaks softly, as if she is sharing a secret, as if whatever was to spill from her lips would ruin her if the rest of the bar could hear.
"Perhaps we are both experienced in hiding our scars. Tell me, aren't you tired of it? Being alone?"
She could pretend for one night, like she always does, that she is lovable and capable of meaningful relationships. But she knows better. And despite an alien ache in her heart for friendship and romance, she was not an animal made for it. She would always crave company, she would never wish to be alone, yet found it the most comfortable option, the most suitable for a wretch like herself.
Fever lingers in typical femme fatale fashion, she studies the way the flames lick and chisel the contour of his face and jaw, the way the lights dance in strange shapes in the colors of his eyes. She allows the heat to build between proximity of their bodies. He could be art - she decided - just in this moment.
Alas, it is a fleeting moment, and she withdraws herself back to her corner of the couch where she originally sat when she had first invaded his solidarity. A sigh leaves her feminine frame, her shoulders relaxing as she returns to the coy and fickle creature she was always bound to be. She slightly lifts her glass towards him, a subtle cheer as she regains her composure. "To being alone."
The mare takes her last swallow, but is not eager to replace her empty cup as she places it at the table.
"So," she drawls, redirecting the conversation, "Where do you call home?"
@Liseli
So what was his aim? This red and oyster-sheen stallion was convivial, mature, and warm just simply because?
No one was ever nice just to be nice.
Yet, here she sat, pleasantly surprised by his warm and benevolent nature. This didn't exactly align with her reputation of choosing wicked company - he must be hiding something.
At the mention of the book, a giggling purr bubbles from her. "How I love good ol-fashion promiscuity."
She swirls the last bit of her drink in her cup, her eyes blink languidly as her invasion of his space was accepted. For a hermit, he seemed awfully inviting - the skin where his feathers brush against her quivers slightly, happy to experience a tickle of electricity between their very brief and light touch.
Both ears were cupped in his direction as she listens to him about hiding his scars. Fever holds her tongue, her eyes open and close in a subtle yet understanding manner. But her face ignites with light as Liseli bursts with a hearty laughter - for some reason, it reminds Fever of stew on a winter day - his laughter warms her, and she can't help but place a charming smile on her lips. And yet, this smile doesn't last long, as it falters underneath her mask, a gradual metamorphosis into a quiet façade of contemplation.
It wasn't often she was rendered a bit tongue-tied.
The silence stretches between them; soft murmuring of other patrons, the clinks of glasses being washed, the occasional whisper-pop and snap from the fire of the lamps.
Almost out of character - perhaps her drink is getting to her quicker than she originally accounted for - Fever leans in just a little closer, and she tilts her chin up to this man she'd barely known, her eyes doe-like, desperate like a damsel in distress, suddenly matching the solemnity of his statement. She speaks softly, as if she is sharing a secret, as if whatever was to spill from her lips would ruin her if the rest of the bar could hear.
"Perhaps we are both experienced in hiding our scars. Tell me, aren't you tired of it? Being alone?"
She could pretend for one night, like she always does, that she is lovable and capable of meaningful relationships. But she knows better. And despite an alien ache in her heart for friendship and romance, she was not an animal made for it. She would always crave company, she would never wish to be alone, yet found it the most comfortable option, the most suitable for a wretch like herself.
Fever lingers in typical femme fatale fashion, she studies the way the flames lick and chisel the contour of his face and jaw, the way the lights dance in strange shapes in the colors of his eyes. She allows the heat to build between proximity of their bodies. He could be art - she decided - just in this moment.
Alas, it is a fleeting moment, and she withdraws herself back to her corner of the couch where she originally sat when she had first invaded his solidarity. A sigh leaves her feminine frame, her shoulders relaxing as she returns to the coy and fickle creature she was always bound to be. She slightly lifts her glass towards him, a subtle cheer as she regains her composure. "To being alone."
The mare takes her last swallow, but is not eager to replace her empty cup as she places it at the table.
"So," she drawls, redirecting the conversation, "Where do you call home?"
@Liseli
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
