A playful snippet of mockery suddenly pushed too far.
It takes so little, is the point. Hairpin triggers set up on eggshells over glass compared to their maker's inexhaustible control, and it never starts out as wanting violence (or the marrow-deep satisfying sound of whimperering cries)— they don't begin their nights by waking and rubbing sleep from crimson eyes only to crow about what sort of cruelty they'll force upon their mate— it just grows in after one of them laughs a little too loudly. Gets flattered with a different word. Drinks too much. Speaks too bluntly. Bites down too hard, too fast.
Now this.
Innocuous discussion won't stay that way if it's flanked by less-than-innocuous stares. Grins that don't quite meet their eyes, and touching that's tantamount to smoking tinder.
Maybe that's the point.
The leash is gone. The collar loose. Unhappiness hardly solidifies a truth that's lasted the better part of one hundred— two hundred years— promising that whenever they showed teeth, he'd be there. (And this room still smells like him, and it's his writing on that desk, and even if it's only the smallest fragment of their minds that hopes this might all just be a test while the rest of their thoughts prepare themselves for war— ) how could they not intrinsically tug just to see if it might give?
One way or another, something will make it real. Something else will grieve for them. Take the blame for them. Be angry or hurt or resentful for them.
(Or afraid for them. That, too.)]
Word to the wise, little one.
Unlike you: a rabid dog doesn't know to submit.
[His back still to Fenris. His arms still loosely at his hips. Little one, not little wolf, for he'd reduce the creature just behind him to a timeline of fresh-abandoned masters just to soothe his paper skin. An artful twist of his neck angled just around his shoulder punctuating one seemingly smug stare.]
But I can't say it's a surprise a formerly kenneled broodbitch still can't tell what acting is even when it's dangled right in front of his stunted little snout. [Half-turning on his heel in that next breath, it's his chin that leads the way. His reddened eyes narrowed into lightless slits. His lips twisted high around long teeth. Sharp teeth. Mean teeth.
Suffer for him, Fenris, and maybe he'll call it even.]
I don't have Vakares to hide behind anymore?
[Oh, catulus.]
I've been waiting centuries for this.
I'm glad he's gone.
[Throw the first stone. Twist the knife. Snap bone. Lap blood. Scrape salt— make it hurt. Make it hurt, even if you're the one bleeding from it, too.
His mouth to Fenris' ear after a handful of silent strides, voice a pitchbound hum.]
no subject
A scrape there.
A playful snippet of mockery suddenly pushed too far.
It takes so little, is the point. Hairpin triggers set up on eggshells over glass compared to their maker's inexhaustible control, and it never starts out as wanting violence (or the marrow-deep satisfying sound of whimperering cries)— they don't begin their nights by waking and rubbing sleep from crimson eyes only to crow about what sort of cruelty they'll force upon their mate— it just grows in after one of them laughs a little too loudly. Gets flattered with a different word. Drinks too much. Speaks too bluntly. Bites down too hard, too fast.
Now this.
Innocuous discussion won't stay that way if it's flanked by less-than-innocuous stares. Grins that don't quite meet their eyes, and touching that's tantamount to smoking tinder.
Maybe that's the point.
The leash is gone. The collar loose. Unhappiness hardly solidifies a truth that's lasted the better part of one hundred— two hundred years— promising that whenever they showed teeth, he'd be there. (And this room still smells like him, and it's his writing on that desk, and even if it's only the smallest fragment of their minds that hopes this might all just be a test while the rest of their thoughts prepare themselves for war— ) how could they not intrinsically tug just to see if it might give?
One way or another, something will make it real. Something else will grieve for them. Take the blame for them. Be angry or hurt or resentful for them.
(Or afraid for them. That, too.)]
Word to the wise, little one.
Unlike you: a rabid dog doesn't know to submit.
[His back still to Fenris. His arms still loosely at his hips. Little one, not little wolf, for he'd reduce the creature just behind him to a timeline of fresh-abandoned masters just to soothe his paper skin. An artful twist of his neck angled just around his shoulder punctuating one seemingly smug stare.]
But I can't say it's a surprise a formerly kenneled broodbitch still can't tell what acting is even when it's dangled right in front of his stunted little snout. [Half-turning on his heel in that next breath, it's his chin that leads the way. His reddened eyes narrowed into lightless slits. His lips twisted high around long teeth. Sharp teeth. Mean teeth.
Suffer for him, Fenris, and maybe he'll call it even.]
I don't have Vakares to hide behind anymore?
[Oh, catulus.]
I've been waiting centuries for this.
I'm glad he's gone.
[Throw the first stone. Twist the knife. Snap bone. Lap blood. Scrape salt— make it hurt. Make it hurt, even if you're the one bleeding from it, too.
His mouth to Fenris' ear after a handful of silent strides, voice a pitchbound hum.]
I'll be glad when you are, too.