amaroq
in his own country
even Death can be kind
even Death can be kind
O
h, his mouth does burn where it breathes cool upon her flushed and feverish skin - but it is the bite of frost and cold, a smile carved from the moon, a sliver of a glacier unthawed for millenniums. There, so close, is the leaping pulse of her throat, a brook that he might swim in, a river he might taste. It’s tempting, the thought of curling his lips back from his teeth, of pressing their points against that velvet-black, the question of how neatly she might fit between his jaws - Yet it is winter and it’s a different kind of hunger that has him. Not one for blood and meat but one that makes his body feel composed of harp-strings of sinew, trembling beneath the press of her shoulder, begging to be played. One that makes the loneliness in him feel like a well that he might yet freeze over and shatter to nothingness with the right companion - the right mate. He wants to swim beneath the breakers, to hunt the kelp forests ever-waving in the gloom, to flush prey of seals and sharks, but not alone. Each time she shivers back into him feels like a new kind of dare, like fingers plucking a song of him he’s forgotten how to play.
Amaroq wants to snarl when she pulls away at last; he wants to groan. Most of all he wants to knit up the distance between them again, to put his mouth back at the juncture of her jaw, to taste of the life leaping there and make it something greater yet. Would her bells cry out a warning, then, or a different kind of song?
But the ocean is far from here, and the only salt is on their skin, and the snow smells like nothing at all. He blows out a long breath of silver fog, turns his gaze on her cold enough to burn, smiles in a way that hints at as many promises as teeth. “If you really want to know, I’ll show you.” There are so many things I could show you.
How difficult it is to turn away - but is he a wolf turning away from a doe, or another of his kind? It doesn’t matter, not tonight; the kelpie doesn’t look back. And as he walks (back to the sea) the moon sheds its crimson robe and the night is still, remembering what it was like to be so briefly holy.
@Leto closer for you <3
