i'd break the back of love for you.
@[Wane]
Khuma never learned how to give her heart away and she never felt the need to start. Why bother when she could keep it close and keep it safe within her own breast? What could anyone offer her that she doesn’t already have on her own? The girl is convinced that no one can show her a life any better than the one she has now and so it isn’t worth the risks to change things up. Being delicate and kind is a sort of weakness that she despises and so she remains content with her solitary predator life.
But she likes to pretend.
She turns her head when he speaks and she blinks slow like a housecat signaling its affection to its owner. Other may sidestep from such an invasion of personal space but she does the opposite. Khuma bridges the gap and presses her side to his when he gestures at the scales marking the perfect slope of her spine. At the meeting of their bodies, a shiver runs down her spine and it is marked by a ripple of scales across her skin that quickly give way to her splashed coat again. Her chin tucks low in feigned meekness. She watches him through long eyelashes when he speaks again. A half-hearted laugh escapes her like she’s somehow embarrassed by the markings.
(They are a warning, a caution sign of what she is within.)
“How silly of me,” she says with a smile like summer nights. Her voice is hushed as though she dare not disturb the rhythm of the rain on their skin. Still, hearing her speak is like trying not to drown in a river too swift to swim in. It seemed fine at first but now the current has a hold and it’s too late to hope for the shore. May god be merciful enough to allow at least a few more seconds above the surface.
“I’m Khuma. Who are you?”
Her voice is so sweet you could almost lick the honey of it from her lips. Briefly, she thinks of tearing out his throat because his voice is too much like home, like Father. But she reminds herself she needs practice before she tries to worm her way back into society and so she keeps her fangs hidden away for now. Kerrigan would roll her eyes to see her sister up to her old ways despite the times.
But she likes to pretend.
She turns her head when he speaks and she blinks slow like a housecat signaling its affection to its owner. Other may sidestep from such an invasion of personal space but she does the opposite. Khuma bridges the gap and presses her side to his when he gestures at the scales marking the perfect slope of her spine. At the meeting of their bodies, a shiver runs down her spine and it is marked by a ripple of scales across her skin that quickly give way to her splashed coat again. Her chin tucks low in feigned meekness. She watches him through long eyelashes when he speaks again. A half-hearted laugh escapes her like she’s somehow embarrassed by the markings.
(They are a warning, a caution sign of what she is within.)
“How silly of me,” she says with a smile like summer nights. Her voice is hushed as though she dare not disturb the rhythm of the rain on their skin. Still, hearing her speak is like trying not to drown in a river too swift to swim in. It seemed fine at first but now the current has a hold and it’s too late to hope for the shore. May god be merciful enough to allow at least a few more seconds above the surface.
“I’m Khuma. Who are you?”
Her voice is so sweet you could almost lick the honey of it from her lips. Briefly, she thinks of tearing out his throat because his voice is too much like home, like Father. But she reminds herself she needs practice before she tries to worm her way back into society and so she keeps her fangs hidden away for now. Kerrigan would roll her eyes to see her sister up to her old ways despite the times.
khuma.