[private] luck pusher

[brunhilde]

i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly

Brunhilde’s eyes are greedy as they trace the black and red edges of her new companion. Her flames respond in kind, hissing as if to reach out and hold the colt’s skin to her own. His heat against hers is not kind; in fact, it sears her flesh in a way that would turn most away. She knows he must feel the same, can sense his lack of fear in the way he presses forward.

Cleave.

The name is church bells after a wedding, a clock striking midnight, the panic of a fire alarm: loud and never ending in her ears. The boy’s significance does not strike her just yet; perhaps in a few years she will still think of him, perhaps those thoughts will be full of regret . . . or full of the same furious fascination. In her child’s mind she thinks this is forever, this moment will never end. A future Brunhilde, an adult Brunhilde, knows she will never forget.

“Cleave,” she murmurs, twining the harsh noise of it tightly around her tongue. When he claims her, eyes too cold for a child, she does not rebuke him. While she accepts the statement, Brun does not fear him, instead meeting his gaze with similar ire.

“I am yours if you are mine,” is her purring response. She thinks it lucky they found each other today, lucky and strange that their furious energies found a way to collide. A single thought of Kensa crosses her mind, how furious her mother would be if she saw the way this boy pressed his teeth to her skin.

The little flame has never listened, though, and the very idea of her mother’s disdain makes the boy all the more enticing.

A thought passes behind her eyes, odd and bratty. “Can I burn you?” she snipes, taking a step back and extinguishing her flames. “You can burn me.” She has never felt fire before, and the need to know what her power feels like is overpowering.

and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough

Brunhilde

@[cleave]