like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Secrets wait to be discovered, like small sins, in the smoothness of his skin and in the things between his words that he says but does not say. Each flashes to her, bright and begging, like fireflies ripe for a paper-thin and made-of-iron net. Like a hunter, like any good tracker, she smiles and pretends her form is not tight and ready to lay her teeth against the shield of flesh protecting his heart.
She blinks, slow as a lioness in a dream, and brushes her lips against his horn quick and gentle as a hummingbird to a flower. A flash of color. A shift of wings. A memory of a thing gone as quick as it came. When something dark rises in his smile and his eyes like blood to a bruise, she answers it with her own. Her skin glows, and brightens, until she is not the wolf in the room but the young-god to lead her fat herd of sheep to slaughter.
Magic reaches out from her skin, tendrils of nothing more than the desert sweetness of her breath tainted with wine. It taints the air between them, incense and cedar and sand, begging to be inhaled just as the gold dust on her skin begs for lips, and fire, and blade. “And where have you been, Unicorn, that you have seen such a thing?” Chaos hangs in her smiling mouth full of teeth, and she grabs on to the hint of his secret like a rabid hound at a fresh bone.
Amaunet bites down. Hard.
“Glowing compliments. Shall I blush for you?” Her laugh is another eagle cry in the music, bright and wild enough that eyes turn towards them (and some know nothing good comes from this laugh). “I am not fat, but I am greedy for the gazes of sheep and the bodies of others.” The golden hues in her eyes turn to ember, and flame, and desert dunes beneath which monsters awaken for the hunt. She leans into the touch his horn, hard enough that he might feel all the weigh to of her that is hollow and wanting for sheep, and touch, and everything between.
There is not returning judgment in her eyes when she follow the lift of his horn and the darkness puddling like rain in his smile. There is only blade and flesh, wanting and waiting, and she wonders if he will be as quick as she to realize it.
The game has already begun and Amaunet is not accustomed to losing.
And like the tigress and the wolf he names her after (like a sinner naming the altar upon which they lay sacrifice after sacrifice) she does not snarl at her kill before she lays her teeth at its throat. She smells the blood, and the wildebeest lack of fear, and the way his head is still at the watering hole in the full-moon thinking himself safe when a cloud shifts across the light.
Behind that cloud she purrs soft enough that it might be nothing more than an exhale.
“I'm disappointed that you must ask me why. I had thought it obvious” She lays her cheek against his own, exhales once, just that one single time. Then she lays her teeth gentle as a kiss against the place where his cheek turns to pulse.
And she waits for another secret of him to be revealed. Will his pulse race or slow like a drum-beat on the eve of the apocalypse?
@Martell
She blinks, slow as a lioness in a dream, and brushes her lips against his horn quick and gentle as a hummingbird to a flower. A flash of color. A shift of wings. A memory of a thing gone as quick as it came. When something dark rises in his smile and his eyes like blood to a bruise, she answers it with her own. Her skin glows, and brightens, until she is not the wolf in the room but the young-god to lead her fat herd of sheep to slaughter.
Magic reaches out from her skin, tendrils of nothing more than the desert sweetness of her breath tainted with wine. It taints the air between them, incense and cedar and sand, begging to be inhaled just as the gold dust on her skin begs for lips, and fire, and blade. “And where have you been, Unicorn, that you have seen such a thing?” Chaos hangs in her smiling mouth full of teeth, and she grabs on to the hint of his secret like a rabid hound at a fresh bone.
Amaunet bites down. Hard.
“Glowing compliments. Shall I blush for you?” Her laugh is another eagle cry in the music, bright and wild enough that eyes turn towards them (and some know nothing good comes from this laugh). “I am not fat, but I am greedy for the gazes of sheep and the bodies of others.” The golden hues in her eyes turn to ember, and flame, and desert dunes beneath which monsters awaken for the hunt. She leans into the touch his horn, hard enough that he might feel all the weigh to of her that is hollow and wanting for sheep, and touch, and everything between.
There is not returning judgment in her eyes when she follow the lift of his horn and the darkness puddling like rain in his smile. There is only blade and flesh, wanting and waiting, and she wonders if he will be as quick as she to realize it.
The game has already begun and Amaunet is not accustomed to losing.
And like the tigress and the wolf he names her after (like a sinner naming the altar upon which they lay sacrifice after sacrifice) she does not snarl at her kill before she lays her teeth at its throat. She smells the blood, and the wildebeest lack of fear, and the way his head is still at the watering hole in the full-moon thinking himself safe when a cloud shifts across the light.
Behind that cloud she purrs soft enough that it might be nothing more than an exhale.
“I'm disappointed that you must ask me why. I had thought it obvious” She lays her cheek against his own, exhales once, just that one single time. Then she lays her teeth gentle as a kiss against the place where his cheek turns to pulse.
And she waits for another secret of him to be revealed. Will his pulse race or slow like a drum-beat on the eve of the apocalypse?
@Martell
