holiday party; sabra

[sochi]

Sochi

darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied
maybe you need me or maybe you don't

She doesn’t expect anyone to approach her.

Sochi has never been to draw crowds, has never been one to seek them out either. There has always been something about her that’s a little too rough around the edges, a little too blunt—something about her that smells of predators and tastes of otherness. Such things have never bothered her. She has known that all too often, horses can smell the tiger on her. She knows she makes them nervous.

If only they knew just how nervous they should really be.

Still, the last one she expects to break through the crowd to find her is the one painted in rainbows and the sheer beauty of an oil spill. There’s something delicate about her beauty—a softness that Sochi has never obtained and never vied for—but it is directly contradicted by the grit in the other mare's voice, the strength in her gaze. The steel and velvet of her is intriguing, confusing, and Sochi finds herself looking closer.

“Sochi,” she answers the mare, her voice throaty and deep, feminine despite the husky smoke of it. Her silver eyes are intense, smoldering beneath the swath of ink of her forelock. She mulls over the other mare’s name, her face unreadable as her thoughts move like undercurrents across her dark features.

“Sabra,” she repeats the name slowly, letting it linger on her tongue. “I like it.”

There is another moment of silence, Sochi comfortable with the long stretches of quiet, her gaze not wavering and unapologetic. She doesn’t apologize anymore. Doesn’t pretend to be something that she is not. Doesn’t hide her face or wash the blood from her hands. Instead, she just holds onto the connection with the other mare, testing it for the moment before her lips quirk into a secret smile.

playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons
if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf

@[Sabra]