there's a wildfire with your name on it, sochi

[sochi]

sochi

The funny thing about being a predator is that you always know when you are considered prey.

It is a faint tickling at the back of the mind, an itching in the throat. It is enough that she lifts her head from her recent kill and narrows her yellow eyes, staring into the distance and wondering at what lies in the darkness. Her vision is better when like this, but it is not true night vision. She is able to just make out more than she could as a horse, enough that she feels a shiver and knows her instincts aren’t wrong.

She drops to her belly and begins to creep forward, padding lightly over the grass and feeling the brush of it against her sides. Her lips pull back to reveal her incisors and she feels the twitch of it as she studies the shadows, looking for anything that appears out of place—anything that strikes that familiar hunger in her.

And then, suddenly, it’s there.

She hears the croon and it sounds so much like prey that she nearly believes it, but she catches herself. She holds herself in the shadows and creeps closer still until she make out the shape of him. He is young but not so young that she feels anything maternal. He is looking for her, she realizes, and it makes something in her snap with both anger and a competitive drive and she creeps closer still.

When she is close enough that she can smell him, she crouches and then leaps, her powerful back legs throwing her forward into him. She reached forward with her front legs, swiping and snaps her jaws.

Maybe it will be a lesson.

Maybe it will be more.

In this moment, she doesn’t care.

well, I can try to get you closer but I know you’d break your neck just to see the stars
and if we don’t dare to hold it then this reckless wandering love was never ours