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

[sochi]

sochi

She heals, but she is exhausted. Each time that her skin knits itself together again, she feels the way that it costs her—the way that her energy drains slowly. Her body stings and aches with the brutality that it has experienced, her throat sore and bruised, her leg scarred. Still, her heart sings with the adrenaline of it, her entire body primed with the joy of throwing herself into senseless combat against an opponent.

An opponent who did not give.

An opponent who did not hesitate.

When his talon closes around her throat, she hisses in a breath, snarling at his command—his demand. She doesn’t say anything else though, just forces out a raspy laugh against her blood-soaked mouth, the sound broken and shattered but whole all the same. She does not fear whatever death he brings.

But his grip doesn’t last and she feels him falling away from her. With a grunt, she pushes away with her forelegs, rolling away to get to her feet. She wheezes for a moment, her throat raw and the air coming in short, shallow gasps. There is damage there, she knows, but it will heal—all of her eventually does.

Curious, and unable to simply walk away, she walks to the boy stretched on the ground. She shifts then, fluidly coming into her more equine body. She feels the burn and scorched hair across her back and the bruises around her throat all the same, even though they feel different in this form.

She leans down to drag the blood across his forehead beneath the monstrous horns. As she does, she feels his lips to her neck. This, too, makes her laugh. “I would be a poor meal for you,” she manages, her voice huskier than usual, raspy and hoarse from the damage, from the fatigue. “And a poor conquest.”

She snorts, blood splattering him slightly.

“Like I said, I do not bend.”

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