06-19-2018, 03:19 PM
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There is something about him that she likes. She can’t identify it yet — it could be the sacrifice of the fawn, it could be the shadow of ill-will in his eyes, it could be the fact that she already ate before he approached her — but something has continually stopped her from pressing her teeth against his throat and ending the precious breaths he takes. Perhaps in time it will evolve into something she can name (something crafted among quiet embraces in the night, among the fresh meat he brings her on a watery platter, among the shadowy corners of their home where they finally manage a few words between each other in a significant yet unique language) but for now she chooses to ignore those musings.
He is nervous.
The thought arises again when he stills under her touch. Yet this time is different; she does not cling to the not-so-subtle reference to his Preyness, but rather envelops herself in the fact he has not run (whether from fear or because he truly doesn’t want to leave, she isn’t sure). And then — surprisingly — he is leaning into her touch, pressing himself closer to the death that lingers just inside her mouth.
Ahh, yes.
His nicker surprises her — this unspoken language is much easier to interpret from their slippery and dotted words — and she chirrups in response (it’s a flutey, light sound that nearly brightens the room with its contrast from shadow and smoke). The tension that surrounds them (or perhaps merely him) dissipates as she circles him and then his mouth (soft and supple compared to her armored, heavy mouths) is touching the ink of her neck and a deep purr slides from the back of her throat, entirely unintentional but entirely well-reciprocated.
Just as he had done before (she is attempting to learn him, after all, to understand his behaviors and how they might communicate), she is leaning into his touch. A soft exhale pulls from her lungs at the same time, sounding relieved and relaxed all at once. She is content for once, nestled among the shade of her home with the skeletons scattered in a corner and his soft mouth against her nape.
He is not nervous anymore.
He is not emerald-Prey anymore.
He is Partner.
Whether he knows it or not.
He is nervous.
The thought arises again when he stills under her touch. Yet this time is different; she does not cling to the not-so-subtle reference to his Preyness, but rather envelops herself in the fact he has not run (whether from fear or because he truly doesn’t want to leave, she isn’t sure). And then — surprisingly — he is leaning into her touch, pressing himself closer to the death that lingers just inside her mouth.
Ahh, yes.
His nicker surprises her — this unspoken language is much easier to interpret from their slippery and dotted words — and she chirrups in response (it’s a flutey, light sound that nearly brightens the room with its contrast from shadow and smoke). The tension that surrounds them (or perhaps merely him) dissipates as she circles him and then his mouth (soft and supple compared to her armored, heavy mouths) is touching the ink of her neck and a deep purr slides from the back of her throat, entirely unintentional but entirely well-reciprocated.
Just as he had done before (she is attempting to learn him, after all, to understand his behaviors and how they might communicate), she is leaning into his touch. A soft exhale pulls from her lungs at the same time, sounding relieved and relaxed all at once. She is content for once, nestled among the shade of her home with the skeletons scattered in a corner and his soft mouth against her nape.
He is not nervous anymore.
He is not emerald-Prey anymore.
He is Partner.
Whether he knows it or not.
@[Maugrim]