His quiet time is short-lived. The quiet man—Sabrael—has made his appearance, making small talk about the birds and the bees.
Okay, so not literal birds and bees, but he is talking about pests—the way the fleas itch and the way the ants bite. The ginger man fluffs his feathers, snapping his tail up to attack a fly like the warrior he was. Perhaps out of practice, but his reflexes—they were never more keen. “Good evening, Sabrael. As you can see, I have nothing to fear from the bugs. I cannot say the same about them from me.” He chuckles, moving his head to span his view across the peacefulness of the now-risen moon across the glassy water’s surface. For a time, they are silent, relaxed; content to watch the moon rise.
But when the ripples on the water start doing their dance, he knew instinctively that another whirlwind—another pest, if left up to Sab’s metaphors for life—was on her way. Beautiful, young, and nobody’s fool, Wallace saunters through the jungle, waving her hips in her wake. She approaches the men like she is inspecting meat at a farmer’s market, barely containing her tongue behind her perfectly formed mouth. It is no secret that she has designs on anyone who will have her—anyone with power, anyone with position. She is as perfect visually as she is dangerous, and she sidles up to Ashley as if it is the coldest of winters—and happens to be snowing outside. He watches with amusement as she flutters her lashes at him and then turns—innocently enough—to ask after their other company (Sabrael) and his welfare. Ashley has a hard time rolling his eyes. To his mind’s eye, she is but a child—but reality is, she is a woman, and she wants to be treated that way.
And so, Ashley pushes his warm, rippling muscles up against her, wrapping his tail around her back flank, dragging his tendrils down the cords of her tightly bound muscles. He smiles slyly. “Well Hello yourself Wallace,” he croons, his voice thick and throaty. She never once said hello. “Yes, it is much better. Much warmer.” His voice is like caramel; sticky sweet. And He’s going to lather her in it all over. His wings drape across her intimately and he slides himself as close to her as possible. “Are you aware that you’re sitting on me?” His voice, still warm, goes husky. He is fond of Wallace. In his younger days, he would say he lusted after her. Hell, he lusted after her now, wiggling her hips and pressing her buttocks against his…well, him.
But he is determined to press forward with his lesson anyway. If she wants to learn to be a woman—he can teach her how to wear her dignity like Chanel, rather than Juicy Couture. That perhaps, the beauty is in what you don’t say and do, rather than lathering it on too thickly. He only hoped that he could teach her something about this before she went and had her heart broken.
Okay, so not literal birds and bees, but he is talking about pests—the way the fleas itch and the way the ants bite. The ginger man fluffs his feathers, snapping his tail up to attack a fly like the warrior he was. Perhaps out of practice, but his reflexes—they were never more keen. “Good evening, Sabrael. As you can see, I have nothing to fear from the bugs. I cannot say the same about them from me.” He chuckles, moving his head to span his view across the peacefulness of the now-risen moon across the glassy water’s surface. For a time, they are silent, relaxed; content to watch the moon rise.
But when the ripples on the water start doing their dance, he knew instinctively that another whirlwind—another pest, if left up to Sab’s metaphors for life—was on her way. Beautiful, young, and nobody’s fool, Wallace saunters through the jungle, waving her hips in her wake. She approaches the men like she is inspecting meat at a farmer’s market, barely containing her tongue behind her perfectly formed mouth. It is no secret that she has designs on anyone who will have her—anyone with power, anyone with position. She is as perfect visually as she is dangerous, and she sidles up to Ashley as if it is the coldest of winters—and happens to be snowing outside. He watches with amusement as she flutters her lashes at him and then turns—innocently enough—to ask after their other company (Sabrael) and his welfare. Ashley has a hard time rolling his eyes. To his mind’s eye, she is but a child—but reality is, she is a woman, and she wants to be treated that way.
And so, Ashley pushes his warm, rippling muscles up against her, wrapping his tail around her back flank, dragging his tendrils down the cords of her tightly bound muscles. He smiles slyly. “Well Hello yourself Wallace,” he croons, his voice thick and throaty. She never once said hello. “Yes, it is much better. Much warmer.” His voice is like caramel; sticky sweet. And He’s going to lather her in it all over. His wings drape across her intimately and he slides himself as close to her as possible. “Are you aware that you’re sitting on me?” His voice, still warm, goes husky. He is fond of Wallace. In his younger days, he would say he lusted after her. Hell, he lusted after her now, wiggling her hips and pressing her buttocks against his…well, him.
But he is determined to press forward with his lesson anyway. If she wants to learn to be a woman—he can teach her how to wear her dignity like Chanel, rather than Juicy Couture. That perhaps, the beauty is in what you don’t say and do, rather than lathering it on too thickly. He only hoped that he could teach her something about this before she went and had her heart broken.
ashley
I walked the path, it led me to the end.