there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand; castile

[sochi]

there are wolves in my head and their howling
there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand

Her stomach twists with hunger.

She can feel it, the biting and gnawing sensation that doesn’t quiet, the roar that never dulls in her head. It brightens her silver eyes until they are sharp, until her teeth often escape and become wicked and curved, pressing the predatory edge to her equine lips. She thirsts for more than the grass that fills her stomach and yet never satisfies. She longs for the heat and the salt of life-force as it explodes into her mouth. She hungers for that feel of your meal writhing beneath your paws. The feel of power and force and life.

Still, she does not sate it—not yet. She bides her time, wrenching control from her instincts and forcing herself to bring her instincts to heel. She mothers her daughter, their daughter, teaching her the ways of the predator. She teaches her to never apologize. She teaches her to live her life with her chin raised high. She imbues her with confidence bordering on arrogance, the lesson that a predator never kneels. 

She never tells her to hide what she is or to question it. 

She teaches her to embrace it.

May she grow up strong and unapologetic and fearless.

Sochi also teaches her independence. She has no patience for a clinging daughter and while she doesn’t force her into the wild yet—keeping her tucked close at night—she gives her the free rein that she needs to adventure far and wild. If that means coming into contact with unsavory characters or if she brushes the edges of the plague then so be it. Sochi will not shield her from the underbelly of their world.

So, today, she is alone. 

She wanders until she reaches the island, her tiger’s coat thick and heavy, the weight of the ocean reminding her of that long swim to Pangea’s heart. Still, it doesn’t make her queasy, even when she is sure that she can feel that double heartbeat, and she doesn’t quiver. Instead, she shifts into her equine form and if the red of the scars or the luminescent blue of her face stand out all the brighter, then so be it.

now I'm broken and bleeding, I’ll never find my way

S

OCHI

stranger in this land

@[Castile]

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

There had been whispers regarding a congregation on the southern island that piqued Castile’s intrigue. He embraced the opportunity, despite the fatigue still poisoning his muscles and bones, and brought along Gilt. The boy was clutched gingerly in his claws throughout the trip, but since arriving, has been freed and let loose to roam. Much like Reia, Gilt is a predator as is being raised as such.

Embrace what you are.
You are a predator.
Don’t blend in when you can stand out.

Underneath the shade of a palm tree Castile reflects on watching Gilt consume the deer carcass with such vigor. It spurred a proud smile as the reptilian head dipped into the loins of the corpse only to retract stained with blood and a broad, toothy grin. The boy is another reason for Castile to live, to gather himself and grasp onto whatever life he needs to lead. He is a reminder that the nomadic lifestyle needs to end.

During the brief time here, Castile has been scrutinizing the island and taking a keen interest. It would have been obvious, his intentions, had he not stopped to idly stand in the forest of palms and watch the influx of arrivals. Sochi is one of them. She emerges from the tide as a feline and practices her natural grace as she stalks onto the dry sand. A mild fascination gleams in his mismatched eyes as he watches and waits until her body bends and contorts until she is once again a horse. A jagged smile peels back his lips as Castile looms toward her like a shadow, stopping only when his muzzle is just barely able to brush across her shoulder. ”Fancy seeing you here,” he doesn’t ask about Reia, about their daughter. He already knows that she is as fierce as her mother. ”Welcome,” a brow lifts as he masks how much he actually missed her and craved the curves of her body.

castile

[sochi]

Sochi

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

There is a heat that flares between them and it is dangerous, keen-edged. She is not naive enough to not feel the way it could so easily draw blood. Still, she has never been one to shy from such things and she does not shy now. Does not do anything but lift her bold, silver gaze to his, studying the harsh angles of his face, saying nothing but soaking in that feel of his breath rippling across the edges of her flesh.

“I could say the same,” she finally answers, her voice throaty and low, bordered by something that almost sounds like a laugh and almost a growl, falling into that dangerous space in between.

She is quiet again, always quiet, and thinks on how it is comfortable in his presence.

She doesn’t feel the need to explain herself or pretend or answer any pressing questions. He doesn’t push expectations on her and doesn’t ask her to be something she is not. She can just exist near him, can simply be who she is, who she is becoming. It’s a relief, a breath she doesn’t even realize she had been holding that she can loosen around him, inhaling deep and feeling the edges of his spice on her tongue. 

There is a moment where she is almost hesitant, almost second guesses herself, before she sheds such things completely. She reaches over to close the distance between them and her teeth graze over the strong arch of his jawline. They are blunt now, followed by the whisper of scarred, velvet lips and when she withdraws there is a spark in her silver eyes that doesn’t die completely.

“Is this your land to welcome me to?” she asks, husky voice lifting, the smoke of her laugh chasing the question as she glances back around them. She takes it in for the first time, appraising it with different eyes. When she is done, she just nods, approval in every line. “It could be worse.”

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

@[Castile]

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

There’s something exhilarating – intoxicating - in the way Sochi looks at him. Two hunters locking eyes; their senses tingle to life, electrifying them as they come together. Castile is invigorated by the thought – the knowledge – that if he ever harmed her that she would retaliate and attempt just as swiftly to open his throat. Sochi isn’t meek. Just like him, she is a fighter, a predator. They yearn for blood just the same, and he can detect that hunger gleaming in her eyes. He cannot help to wonder whether she has eaten since their last meeting.

Castile shrugs haphazardly. Without a secret to hide, he openly admits, ”I wanted my son to meet other kids his own age.” Reia would perhaps be a good playmate, but the girl has a similar wanderlust to him that has escaped underneath his radar. Much like Sochi, he is content letting his children roam and experience the world without hindrance. It’ll make them all stronger in the end. Inwardly, he knows their daughter is here on the island, but he bides his time finding her to enable Reia an opportunity to settle and occupy herself. He doesn’t shadow over her or watch her every step. Perhaps she will come across Gilt. If not, then maybe another time.

They’ve no concrete relationship – simply a mother and father – but there is a sense of possessiveness that trails across him when his gaze slowly traces her body, remembering the evening they had spent together. A low rumble reverberates throughout his chest, masculine and primal, as he, too, inches closer to meet her. It crosses his mind to reach for her, to breathe in the familiarity of her skin, but Sochi instead seizes the moment with a forwardness he respects. Black smoke coils from his nostrils as she grazes her teeth along the broad curve of his jaw, the sentiment tender enough to contrast the ferocity that survives within her. A smile peels back his lips, flickering as he contemplates her response. ”I want it to be,” he admits truthfully, no longer hiding his intentions while his eyes dance away from her and onto the beach and nearby palm trees. ”Warmer weather suits me better,” his gaze slyly returns to hers, ”suits us.”

In a mutual gesture, Castile nibbles along Sochi’s neck and glides down to her withers. He could just as easily mark her as his own, keep her to himself, but somehow what they have now – without the ball and chain – is so much better. With a confirming sigh of air, he trails his lips back along the crest of her neck before murmuring, ”I should take it.”

castile

[sochi]

Sochi

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

What lives between them is wild, primal. She is not a thing to be owned, and she has no desire to own. She has no interest in trying to tie Castile down—in trying to become his everything. She has enough on her mind, enough stirring in her heart; she cannot be bothered to hand it over, to monitor her behavior, to suddenly cut loose her independence and become anchored to him. It is a relief that he doesn’t ask that of her (such a request would end poorly should he try). It is a relief he doesn’t offer it.

Instead they come together in mutual respect.

Mutual understanding.

Mutual heat.

She doesn’t react to his admittance of a son wandering the island, just nods her head. It made sense that he would have other children and she feels no particular pain in her heart to hear of it. “I have seen several children roaming the island. I am sure that he will find some entertainment.” Her face takes a turn for the mischievous, silver eyes sparking as her gaze roams to the horizon. “Although he should have his guard up should Reia find him first.” She sneaks a glance back to him. “She is quite the huntress.”

Not that she doesn’t think any of Castile’s children would have trouble guarding themselves.

But she still felt particular pride at the ferocity Reia displayed from such a young age.

So much strength. So much independence.

But thoughts of children, of anything but this moment, evaporate as he helps close the distance. It is a primal hunger that stirs in her now as the smoke leaves him, as he accepts the touch of her teeth to his flesh. Something purrs in her chest as his admission and she presses into him, her scarred chest against his own, his teeth making their way down the curve of her neck. “You should take what is yours.” Her teeth become sharper, the edges grazing his flesh but not making a move to puncture. “Hunters do not ask.”

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

@[Castile]

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

Their dynamic simply works. Like the primal, wild animal they are, they refuse to be contained. They don’t snap the shackles on their wrists, chaining the other down. There is a sense of freedom existing between them that pulls a sigh relaxingly from Castile’s lungs as they come together. He blinks as she lacks a reaction to his confession of having a son. It doesn’t faze her, but he wasn’t entirely worried it would.

She’s different from the others.
And he is too reckless, too ruined, to easily lay himself down for love and ownership.

A lopsided grin softens the chiseled edges of his face when Sochi mentions Reia. A huntress, just like her parents. Easily enough, she is fitting into his small brood of draconic children. ”That doesn’t surprise me,” his baritone voice rumbles almost like a growl through his body, but it’s adoringly laced with a pride that he conveys only for his children. They are what keep him going. Slowly, Castile is forming his small family, but now he needs to provide them a home where they can rest their head until mature enough to move on and continue his lines like the beautiful legacies they are. A tremble of delight quivers across his muscles.

With a dreamy-like stare, Castile diverts his mismatched gaze from Sochi to observe the tropical beach. His mind reels thoughtfully, plotting something he never has before. ”You couldn’t be more right,” it doesn’t take more than a breath to convince him. Scales ripple along his body, fleetingly, in a silent preparation as his body casually stretches. With a concluding shake to scatter the sand from his coat, Castile reflects on Reia, ”Consider it done. Our daughter will have a home to be raised in.” In anticipation, his pulse quickens. He reaches forward and scrapes his blunt teeth against the flat plane of her neck, growling in predatory passion.

castile