Some things had made an impression on Fidget. The first, and the most important, was that the strongest should be obeyed without question. The second was that fighting was to be avoided at all costs. The third was that 'no' was more useless than a breeze fluttering against glass. Didn't matter how much either side wanted to get at each other -- the glass was the barrier that could not so easily be trespassed. Breaking it was only punishment and revulsion by the red-eyed hungering throng. They always took pleasure from Fidget, and she had since learned to not present it unless she was ready for it to be gone. No, no, things should be hidden and treasured secretly.
He put his back to the wall, and for a moment her arm was trapped behind his shoulder, clutching at air where hair should be, thick black curving hanks of it slipping from her. For that moment, she could not remember the second impression that had been made on her, could not remember that she was in a fight at all, because all she could think about was that she was so close and that she could not linger forever, could not pretend that she was not Breaking Rules for so many more nights because such things were always discovered in time. Sneaky she could be, but she had been collared long ago and made to be kept by those who saw the threads of toxin leaking from her skin. They knew her. They knew where she bled, and for how long, and all the things she gave up to possess what she wanted to be kept secret. They'd plumbed her depths, and they wore her as the puppet they'd earned. She belonged to them.
Impact. Her arm scraped against the wall as she twisted it, catching part of a dreadlock by the tips of her fingers. Her other hand was clutched at, and the sensation of intended touch jolted her away from the hair. Serpentine. She was swimming in it without meaning to, her body twisting backwards even as she was lock-staring at his eyes, the eyes of the head that grew the dangling bundles of twisted ebon wires. He was prying at her dagger, and all she could do in return was pull that side of her body away even as she shoved the other forward. So close. She was so close to holding it in her fist. What was that called, when each side had something the other wanted?
Stalemate.
To Let Weeds Thrive
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Why was this happening to him? What forest god had he pissed off with his very existence today? This woman was hounding him worse than the worst hunting dog he had ever met. It was like she had his scent and wasn't going to let him go. Always going to track him down until she got what she wanted. But what did she want, and why did she want it from him?
Wulf tried to jerk away from her, but it wasn't working, her grip was strong. He needed space. He didn't fight at close ranges, he never had. He knew how to use a bow, he knew how to run and move away from big cats and bears and coyotes. Not humans or elves. Animals were just trying to eat him. If you hit them hard enough and they weren't hungry enough, they would leave. Humans and elves wouldn't. He lifted his foot and stuck it in her stomach, pushing off as hard as he could. He needed to get her away from him.
Wulf tried to jerk away from her, but it wasn't working, her grip was strong. He needed space. He didn't fight at close ranges, he never had. He knew how to use a bow, he knew how to run and move away from big cats and bears and coyotes. Not humans or elves. Animals were just trying to eat him. If you hit them hard enough and they weren't hungry enough, they would leave. Humans and elves wouldn't. He lifted his foot and stuck it in her stomach, pushing off as hard as he could. He needed to get her away from him.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Fidget's breath came out of her in a grunt of sound, unwanted sound, unwanted reaction. Her grasping right hand twisted, locked in place by his body and the wall, and took hold of his shoulder even as the force of him wheeled her about so she slapped into the wall back first like a ball caught at the end of the string that was her arm and her hand, tethered to the pole that was him. A flighty pole. One the sun and encroaching dusk lathered with their twilight approval. Serpentine was subtle, bright and fair, and it winked at her between shadows as she opened her own eyes up wide, wider to stare at him in surprise and frustration. She was being bad. This was something Ameus wouldn't like, and that followed and spread all through the ranks of those who tailed her and directed her and cooed words laced with poison at her. This was why he'd ground her into the dirt and her own vomit so many times. This was why she was useless for everything but her beloved poison and the pain, pain, pain.
Her grip strengthened on him, her need to take and go stymied by the persistence of his refusal to see the truth of the wind-smeared air. If this was the only way -- the only path left to her in ash and failure -- then she would follow it up to him, pulling at his shoulder, snapping them together in a single pivot and bound. She reversed her grip on her dagger so it pointed away from him as she bounced up from two feet on the ground to no feet on the ground. They had relocated, wrapped around him with the assurance of her legs, arms snaking back around his shoulders to take the prize, the only prize, the only reason to risk everything.
Serpentine eyes. Serpent hair. It touched her fingers, and her lips parted with the glory of it, the rightness.
Her grip strengthened on him, her need to take and go stymied by the persistence of his refusal to see the truth of the wind-smeared air. If this was the only way -- the only path left to her in ash and failure -- then she would follow it up to him, pulling at his shoulder, snapping them together in a single pivot and bound. She reversed her grip on her dagger so it pointed away from him as she bounced up from two feet on the ground to no feet on the ground. They had relocated, wrapped around him with the assurance of her legs, arms snaking back around his shoulders to take the prize, the only prize, the only reason to risk everything.
Serpentine eyes. Serpent hair. It touched her fingers, and her lips parted with the glory of it, the rightness.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf grunted in surprise and shock as she jumped on him. Not expecting it, not being prepared, his legs gave out under him and he fell straight back. His head bounced off the roof, and he felt some kind of crack or pop when it did. He lost thought for a moment, laying there with a now aching head and weight on his body. Why had she jumped on him? Generally, when you kicked someone away from you, they recognized it as a desire on the kickers part to get them away from them. She seemed to think that it meant get closer. Wrap your legs around him. Now that he fell, sit on him.
His eyes were a bit crossed from his smashing onto the floor, but he still managed to see where her hands where and grab them. His strength was flagging a bit, but he was not letting this demon woman take his hair. He growled at her again, shaking his head, the decorated locks of hair making noise and stirring up dust as he did.
His eyes were a bit crossed from his smashing onto the floor, but he still managed to see where her hands where and grab them. His strength was flagging a bit, but he was not letting this demon woman take his hair. He growled at her again, shaking his head, the decorated locks of hair making noise and stirring up dust as he did.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
A flare of impatience, all acrid stench tickling the roof of her mouth, pulling skin so her nose wrinkled. He had her hand. She had his hair. She drew up her left leg and stomped down on the crook of the elbow of his right arm, the one that held her left hand, the one with the blade. It was not that she minded the contact, but she needed that hand, that blade. Her need was greater than his; his did not even register. A puff of dust drifted away, and she rarely ever took more than a passing interest in such a thing.
With leg and arm strength both she pressed his arm down, looking to slam his knuckles against the hard stone until his hand lost its grip.
With leg and arm strength both she pressed his arm down, looking to slam his knuckles against the hard stone until his hand lost its grip.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf screamed when she stomped down, equal parts anger and pain. It hurt. He felt something in his elbow pop, and his brain went red. What gave her the right? What gave her the right to stalk him like this, to follow him, the scare him, to put her hands on him, to hold a knife and come for something that was his? One of the few things that wasn't a possession, but was a part of him. He started to thrash underneath her, pushing up with his hips. It made the pain in his elbow from her foot grow that much sharper, but he still pushed and twisted with his legs and hips. FInally he felt movement, felt the roll. He pushed harder, feeling a tearing and almost hearing the bones popping and joint tearing in his head.
But he used that as a point to roll. Her foot helped him in that way. His body weight pressed into her knee, folding it sideways until he had rolled them both and he was on top of her and she was the one on her back. He couldn't use his arm, the elbow feeling like it was destroyed. He was so angry, so full of rage and now the sharp pains that rolled through his arm like a heartbeat. He roared at her, needed to get the anger out in some way. He wanted to punch her, wanted to hit her, but it was everything he had to keep her hand with the blade away from him.
But he used that as a point to roll. Her foot helped him in that way. His body weight pressed into her knee, folding it sideways until he had rolled them both and he was on top of her and she was the one on her back. He couldn't use his arm, the elbow feeling like it was destroyed. He was so angry, so full of rage and now the sharp pains that rolled through his arm like a heartbeat. He roared at her, needed to get the anger out in some way. He wanted to punch her, wanted to hit her, but it was everything he had to keep her hand with the blade away from him.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He was so loud, so frothy in the way he bleated at her. It was spicy, hot and threaded with the steel of denial. Fidget stared up at him, eyes darting past to the hair in her grip, and then back. She did not contort her face to match his, did not feel what he felt. All she had was the pulsing crimson, the teasing wind, the knowledge that she needed what was hers and nothing else. She knew what they whispered about her when she couldn't hear. She didn't care, never cared, only needed the moment, the crushing and liberating seconds that tick tick ticked by while she held fast to what made the world bleed in such vibrant blessed colors.
Her body was subject to his, and in that spinning moment she felt the pull of the tide. It was not never the best thought to use her talents -- that which had been claimed by guild and Ameus -- on someone she wasn't supposed to, not while she was on a job, but she saw no other string to pull. Her hand bent, elbow crooked, and she pulled one of two needles tucked into discreet pouches on her shoulder, reversed and targeted his cephalic vein, though flesh would do. Slower, but it would do.
The needle was sharp, so precious, so beloved, and she savored the moment when it slid through his clothing and tasted skin beneath.
Her body was subject to his, and in that spinning moment she felt the pull of the tide. It was not never the best thought to use her talents -- that which had been claimed by guild and Ameus -- on someone she wasn't supposed to, not while she was on a job, but she saw no other string to pull. Her hand bent, elbow crooked, and she pulled one of two needles tucked into discreet pouches on her shoulder, reversed and targeted his cephalic vein, though flesh would do. Slower, but it would do.
The needle was sharp, so precious, so beloved, and she savored the moment when it slid through his clothing and tasted skin beneath.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf tried to move away, but not fast enough, and he felt whatever she held in her hand puncture his skin. What had she done to him? What was that? He worried, scared of poison or some strange thing that would make him lose his will or his life. He let go of her, scrambling back from her and staring as he clutched his elbow, moving the knife to his other hand. The arm was hurt, but if he could hold his elbow together, he could still make a stand.
After all, didn't she know that a wounded animal was the most dangerous kind? He felt his blood pumping through his veins, but it felt slower. The heartbeat he felt in his chest felt slower too. But that didn't matter. He wasn't going to let her take something from him. He was a wolf, in more than name. He bared his teeth, raising the knife and staring at her.
He still had at least one fang to fight with.
After all, didn't she know that a wounded animal was the most dangerous kind? He felt his blood pumping through his veins, but it felt slower. The heartbeat he felt in his chest felt slower too. But that didn't matter. He wasn't going to let her take something from him. He was a wolf, in more than name. He bared his teeth, raising the knife and staring at her.
He still had at least one fang to fight with.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Satisfaction curled through Fidget with the calmness of water; a gentle tide that brought with it the soothing effects of valerian. There was no fighting his escape from her, his reaction. He had scoffed at her initial attempts to be peaceable, had spurned her attempts to couple and blend intent with the spice that tainted the air. Now everything was silent, still, cleaving to her in anticipation of his eventual fall. He might not immediately capitulate to her needle and the substance it bore, but he would. All she had to do was stand and watch, and wait.
She backed off, light on her feet and pulsing with anticipation. Once his head started weaving, once he showed irregularity in breathing and eye movement, when his movements became jerky and sluggish: then she would know his blood had accepted her gift, and she would in turn take hers from him.
She backed off, light on her feet and pulsing with anticipation. Once his head started weaving, once he showed irregularity in breathing and eye movement, when his movements became jerky and sluggish: then she would know his blood had accepted her gift, and she would in turn take hers from him.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Something was coursing through his veins. Oh, Wulf didn't know for sure that she had stuck him with something. But his arms just felt so heavy. So did his head, and his legs. He fell to one knee, struggling weakly against whatever weakness was affecting him. Had she poisoned him? What did she want from him, truly? No one would go through this much trouble for just a lock of hair, would they? Surely not. His other knee cracked hard into the ground, his eyelids wavering dangerously. He struggled in vain to get back to his feet, or at least one, to no avail.
Finally, his numbing fingers dropped the knife, the bright metal skittering across the rooftop as his hand soon followed, smacking palm first into the rough materials. His head moved slowly, woozy, feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. He looked towards her now fuzzy shape, growling deep in his throat again, before his hand gave away. He smacked chin first into unforgiving floor, teeth clacking together as they bit a large chunk out of his lower lip. He made a whimpering noise in pain, but he didn't take his eyes off of her. Whatever came, he was facing it. Even if he couldn't fight back.
Finally, his numbing fingers dropped the knife, the bright metal skittering across the rooftop as his hand soon followed, smacking palm first into the rough materials. His head moved slowly, woozy, feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. He looked towards her now fuzzy shape, growling deep in his throat again, before his hand gave away. He smacked chin first into unforgiving floor, teeth clacking together as they bit a large chunk out of his lower lip. He made a whimpering noise in pain, but he didn't take his eyes off of her. Whatever came, he was facing it. Even if he couldn't fight back.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
At last the titan fell, surrendering the wires of his being to her cultivating fingerprints. Oh. She had dropped her blade unnoticed in the scuffle, when she'd gone for her needle. A thin trickle of disappointment swam up those eager fingers, even when she tucked the needle back where it belonged. Not long now. She brought her hands together, letting the prickling ribbon wind its way up her shoulder and into her core, where it spread out with a giddy rush of coolness. It tasted like clay, smooth and malleable. Yes. She picked up the blade, enamored by the serpentine flash in his eyes even as she approached to take the gift he offered her. Hers. It was hers. Why had time kept it from her in its linear fashion? Why, when she had already marked it, and knew it for a necessity rather than a possibility? Who knew, who knew besides the jackdaw tittering of the air around her, whispering and daring her to make her claim under the sun's open eye.
Simple, so simple to cut and hold, to bring the mass of wires up to her face. There, yes, she felt its pattern, imprinting it into the skin of cheeks, chin, forehead, eyelids. Marvelous, permeated through her pores until it ran throughout her blood, carrying with it the stink of smoke.
Fidget could have left, then. Her prize was tucked away, safe. The chase was over. The world had been made right.
The source of her affection lay before her, made uneven by her acquisition. She stared. Had she caused an unbalancing? Was there, even now, some great unraveling that was too small, too elusive to see? Would the whole of him separate out in microfine layers, soon to disappear because she had caused him to not be whole any longer? How interesting. How delightful. Fidget knelt, and traced the edge of his hairline with her right hand. The blade yet quivered in her left. It was always eager to be used. Metal was like that, cut and shaped for a purpose. But skin? His was warm, so warm. When had her fingers become so cold? She pressed them to his temple, liking the sensation. His skin was not smooth, but it was still soft. It lacked any special texture, but the warmth was a nice contrast. Especially, yes, especially if she stroked from his forehead to his hair.
Eyelids drooping, Fidget rested hand and blade in her lap as she pet the man she had pierced with toxin. Her fingers followed the heat of him, dancing from hair to skin, testing the bones of his face and drifting down to the pulse in his neck. His skin was textured, she found, as she moved to the other side of his face, her right, and followed the three scars. Fidget did not like blank canvases. They were boring, miming complicity without devoting any special sentiment. She did not like helping them to blossom, and did not see why men made such a big fuss of similar things. Virgins. What had virgins ever contributed to themselves? They were untried, and Fidget did not believe in touching the untried. Mostly. But this one? This one was special. She took one of the winding gnarls of hair and laid it across her lap, petting it as she leaned forward to trace the line of his scar with the tip of her dagger.
Patterns unwound like lightning as she looked at him, following the lines of his body and the gentle shadows that dappled his skin. She saw it there, waiting to be free.
She wondered if she should free them for him. She wasn't opposed to offering him another gift. Not when she might be inclined to take another cord of his hair.
Simple, so simple to cut and hold, to bring the mass of wires up to her face. There, yes, she felt its pattern, imprinting it into the skin of cheeks, chin, forehead, eyelids. Marvelous, permeated through her pores until it ran throughout her blood, carrying with it the stink of smoke.
Fidget could have left, then. Her prize was tucked away, safe. The chase was over. The world had been made right.
The source of her affection lay before her, made uneven by her acquisition. She stared. Had she caused an unbalancing? Was there, even now, some great unraveling that was too small, too elusive to see? Would the whole of him separate out in microfine layers, soon to disappear because she had caused him to not be whole any longer? How interesting. How delightful. Fidget knelt, and traced the edge of his hairline with her right hand. The blade yet quivered in her left. It was always eager to be used. Metal was like that, cut and shaped for a purpose. But skin? His was warm, so warm. When had her fingers become so cold? She pressed them to his temple, liking the sensation. His skin was not smooth, but it was still soft. It lacked any special texture, but the warmth was a nice contrast. Especially, yes, especially if she stroked from his forehead to his hair.
Eyelids drooping, Fidget rested hand and blade in her lap as she pet the man she had pierced with toxin. Her fingers followed the heat of him, dancing from hair to skin, testing the bones of his face and drifting down to the pulse in his neck. His skin was textured, she found, as she moved to the other side of his face, her right, and followed the three scars. Fidget did not like blank canvases. They were boring, miming complicity without devoting any special sentiment. She did not like helping them to blossom, and did not see why men made such a big fuss of similar things. Virgins. What had virgins ever contributed to themselves? They were untried, and Fidget did not believe in touching the untried. Mostly. But this one? This one was special. She took one of the winding gnarls of hair and laid it across her lap, petting it as she leaned forward to trace the line of his scar with the tip of her dagger.
Patterns unwound like lightning as she looked at him, following the lines of his body and the gentle shadows that dappled his skin. She saw it there, waiting to be free.
She wondered if she should free them for him. She wasn't opposed to offering him another gift. Not when she might be inclined to take another cord of his hair.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf tried to move away, but he was unable. Hands didn't respond, dropping his knife, flapping in the air. Nerveless arms dropped too his sides, his legs completely crumpling out from underneath him. Then she was on him. She was on top of him, metal edges flashing in the low torches, his back on the floor as he looked up into the dirty sky. Silver moonlight pushed through clouds as he saw her take away one lock of hair, and the confusion that set in just cemented itself. Why all of this for one little bit of hair? He tried to move away, tried to get it back from her, but his fingers wouldn't move, his arm wouldn't obey his mind.
His lips felt rough against teeth that felt dry, his tongue fuzzed in his mouth like he had woken from a night of hard drinking. He strained, trying to move his body in some way, tried to get away to fight as he watched her take his lock and run it over her face. What was she doing? She looked like a cat, rubbing it's face against the fur of another animal. That's what she was. Moonlight glittered off her razor, and in any other light she'd probably be beautiful. But over him, in the moonlight, she wasn't. He could see scars, tattoos, the strange way her eyes glittered, like madness and primal urge, and she wasn't... She wasn't beautiful. She was wild looking, something Wulf would have liked any other time, but not here. Not like this. Animal Woman was dangerous. She was a danger to him, and he was about to find out how badly. His skin shivered and goose pimples rose as he looked at her eyes.
Her fingers touched him, stroking him. It was strange, he didn't like it. He hadn't been held like that, his head in someones lap, fingers petting from his forehead to his hair, since he had been a young child, or was sick, and his mother was caring for him. Her fingers were cool, what his numbed skin could feel of them, and he had a sickening thought that Animal Woman was drawing the heat from his body. Her eyes were still glittering, like snakes or cats or something that prowled through the forests and killed without noise. That's why she was Animal Woman. He was usually so good at finding someones animal, the way they acted, the way he could relate and understand them in his mind. With her... she was too many, too fluid, too many predators, too many shapes and eyes and teeth.
She traced his scar with cold razors, and he didn't whimper to his credit. He wasn't afraid, surprisingly. Not anymore. If she was going to hurt him, she was going to hurt him. There was nothing he could do about that at this time. But he was a hunter. He would find her. And he would return the favor. Scar for scar, every drop of blood would be paid back in full. He looked into her eyes, wanting her to read them. Wanting her to read what his eyes told her eyes. That he was a predator, just like her. He might not be as fluid, might not be as easy to change his steps and skin as she looked to him, but he would hunt her if she touched him more.
And he would pay everything back, until every scar she left on him, either skin or mind, would be mirrored on her.
His lips felt rough against teeth that felt dry, his tongue fuzzed in his mouth like he had woken from a night of hard drinking. He strained, trying to move his body in some way, tried to get away to fight as he watched her take his lock and run it over her face. What was she doing? She looked like a cat, rubbing it's face against the fur of another animal. That's what she was. Moonlight glittered off her razor, and in any other light she'd probably be beautiful. But over him, in the moonlight, she wasn't. He could see scars, tattoos, the strange way her eyes glittered, like madness and primal urge, and she wasn't... She wasn't beautiful. She was wild looking, something Wulf would have liked any other time, but not here. Not like this. Animal Woman was dangerous. She was a danger to him, and he was about to find out how badly. His skin shivered and goose pimples rose as he looked at her eyes.
Her fingers touched him, stroking him. It was strange, he didn't like it. He hadn't been held like that, his head in someones lap, fingers petting from his forehead to his hair, since he had been a young child, or was sick, and his mother was caring for him. Her fingers were cool, what his numbed skin could feel of them, and he had a sickening thought that Animal Woman was drawing the heat from his body. Her eyes were still glittering, like snakes or cats or something that prowled through the forests and killed without noise. That's why she was Animal Woman. He was usually so good at finding someones animal, the way they acted, the way he could relate and understand them in his mind. With her... she was too many, too fluid, too many predators, too many shapes and eyes and teeth.
She traced his scar with cold razors, and he didn't whimper to his credit. He wasn't afraid, surprisingly. Not anymore. If she was going to hurt him, she was going to hurt him. There was nothing he could do about that at this time. But he was a hunter. He would find her. And he would return the favor. Scar for scar, every drop of blood would be paid back in full. He looked into her eyes, wanting her to read them. Wanting her to read what his eyes told her eyes. That he was a predator, just like her. He might not be as fluid, might not be as easy to change his steps and skin as she looked to him, but he would hunt her if she touched him more.
And he would pay everything back, until every scar she left on him, either skin or mind, would be mirrored on her.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
The serpentine was murmuring, and Fidget captured it for a moment before it dispersed. The air was cooling. She was one with it, drifting along with it. Expectations. They breathed for her, seeping in through the leather. They got in under her skin. She liked them there, especially when she was writing a script in skin. She liked to feel them writhing while she cut similar boundaries free from another. Yes. Free. The metal was lifted from his skin, up so that the point of it touched the buckle on her collar. Its kin would not belong around his throat, she decided. She much would prefer the long lines that burned themselves new to be unimpeded. They were so eager, fresh, cut meadow-grass and dew. She would be the first to taste them, the only one who could properly bring them into the world. Only her.
The fingers of her right hand fluttered, repeating patterns of perfection, rightness, now over and over to herself. The movements brushed against his shoulder, though he would not recognize their meaning. The dagger itself was shifted in her hand so she held it in an icepick grip as she bent low over him. Her lips touched his chin. They were dry, and warm. Supple, soft, marred by a small patch of dry skin along the lower lip, which caught against his skin. The sensation jarred her, an she likened it to pine needles as she lifted her head, turned it. For a moment, they were cheek to cheek. She nuzzled against him, then turned so her lips were against his ear.
Silver whispers brushed against his ear, small bursts of breath and warmth. Her lips ghosted against his cartilage, sometimes catching. She did not speak for long, though it was a private sentiment, a secret intimacy she would not repeat to him, nor anyone else. It was between them, and them only. It was not meant to soothe, or comfort. It settled into the present, into the tense, excited air, into the blood that pumped between them, the laxness of his muscles and the tenseness of hers.
Her tongue tasted his ear. Delicately, carefully, she explored; the knuckles of her left hand were pressed to the ground for stability, the blade flat against her forearm. Her right hand stroked down his cheek, his neck, until they found a dip in his skin, a puckered place that spoke of life and meaning. Her fingers rubbed there, absentmindedly, as if it was some special totem. Her focus was on his ear. Time was taken -- as if time could ever be taken. Things could be taken, but time was never one of them, not really, ever elusive and untouchable. It did the touching. It was the master, always, and one Fidget never chafed under, though there were some others who strove to show her differently, which was never right and always ended with regret flowing over her skin -- with the outer curve of his ear. But, inevitably, she moved inwards until she was tasting his depths. He took care of himself. She liked that, could feel approval like the perfume of sweetgrass, and she pulled away, momentarily, to savor it. Eyelids drifted half-shut, her tongue flickering in and out of her mouth like a snake's, she was poised perfectly on the edge of the experience. Plunge, or hold back. Give in, or keep out.
The edge might cling close to her, but she had never been one for halves. She looked down on him, the taste of him on her tongue, and considered his ear. Its design had not yet unfolded, buried down so deep she could hardly smell the pulse of it. That one was let go and she kissed his temple before she set the tip of her dagger to his chin.
Fidget was looking down at him, expressionless as she always was, as she made the first careful incision into his flesh.
The fingers of her right hand fluttered, repeating patterns of perfection, rightness, now over and over to herself. The movements brushed against his shoulder, though he would not recognize their meaning. The dagger itself was shifted in her hand so she held it in an icepick grip as she bent low over him. Her lips touched his chin. They were dry, and warm. Supple, soft, marred by a small patch of dry skin along the lower lip, which caught against his skin. The sensation jarred her, an she likened it to pine needles as she lifted her head, turned it. For a moment, they were cheek to cheek. She nuzzled against him, then turned so her lips were against his ear.
Silver whispers brushed against his ear, small bursts of breath and warmth. Her lips ghosted against his cartilage, sometimes catching. She did not speak for long, though it was a private sentiment, a secret intimacy she would not repeat to him, nor anyone else. It was between them, and them only. It was not meant to soothe, or comfort. It settled into the present, into the tense, excited air, into the blood that pumped between them, the laxness of his muscles and the tenseness of hers.
Her tongue tasted his ear. Delicately, carefully, she explored; the knuckles of her left hand were pressed to the ground for stability, the blade flat against her forearm. Her right hand stroked down his cheek, his neck, until they found a dip in his skin, a puckered place that spoke of life and meaning. Her fingers rubbed there, absentmindedly, as if it was some special totem. Her focus was on his ear. Time was taken -- as if time could ever be taken. Things could be taken, but time was never one of them, not really, ever elusive and untouchable. It did the touching. It was the master, always, and one Fidget never chafed under, though there were some others who strove to show her differently, which was never right and always ended with regret flowing over her skin -- with the outer curve of his ear. But, inevitably, she moved inwards until she was tasting his depths. He took care of himself. She liked that, could feel approval like the perfume of sweetgrass, and she pulled away, momentarily, to savor it. Eyelids drifted half-shut, her tongue flickering in and out of her mouth like a snake's, she was poised perfectly on the edge of the experience. Plunge, or hold back. Give in, or keep out.
The edge might cling close to her, but she had never been one for halves. She looked down on him, the taste of him on her tongue, and considered his ear. Its design had not yet unfolded, buried down so deep she could hardly smell the pulse of it. That one was let go and she kissed his temple before she set the tip of her dagger to his chin.
Fidget was looking down at him, expressionless as she always was, as she made the first careful incision into his flesh.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf would have ripped her away if he could, but all his body managed was a twitch. Whatever she had stabbed him with, the venom still had him enthralled. Animal woman was tricky, and she had been a snake to him. Biting him with venomed fangs and then leaving him at her mercy. Was that a snake, or was that a spider? A spider was better. She might have snakes fangs for her prey, but he was a fly trapped in a spiders web now. His heart would hammer in his chest at any other time, but everything was moving so slow. His blood, his heart, his breath. It wasn't that he was scared. Pain was a mark of being alive, death came for everyone. It was that he was angry. He was free, his father had told him that he was free from the moment he was born, from the first breath he had taken, and now he was trapped. Immobile. Stuck here. Like a wolf with it's leg in a steel trap, except Wulf didn't have the option to gnaw his paw off and escape. He was stuck here, waiting for his predator to turn him into prey.
He could feel her fingers run over his skin, lightly touching, nails scraping skin every once and a while with the patterns they traced. What did it all mean? He felt a laugh rip through his throat, dying on vocal chords that wouldn't respond. What did it matter what any of it meant? She wasn't going to tell him. Not that he would hear the words if she did. It would just be a haze of fluttering lips, and he wouldn't read them fast enough to know what she was saying. There weren't any words for this anyhow. She wouldn't understand him if he spoke of the anger of being caged, being trapped, and he was sure he wouldn't understand her animal talk of spiders webs and snakes poisons, of cats grace and otters fluid movements. They couldn't speak to each other, and even if his hearing had worked, they wouldn't be able to hear what each other was saying. He felt sure of that.
And then her lips touched him, and his eyes widened in shock. Her lips were soft against him, far warmer than her fingers had been. They touched his chin, and then she moved her head away. He didn't understand. Why trap if not to kill? Why poison if not to destroy? Why did her lips touch his skin, setting fine silver threads jangling in his body? He didn't like this. Her cheek touched his, and it was still a bit of a startle. How could someone with fingers so cold have such warm skin? She nuzzled him, and he choked on a combination of anger and something else. No matter what, Wulf was still a man. No matter how angry he was, his body reacted to stimulus. He hated her even more for making him react. No matter what she would have done to him, he wouldn't have screamed. No matter the pain. But this? This was insidious. It didn't hurt his body, but it was hurting his spirit, that he would react to her.
He felt breath, felt warmth, his sensitive ears stirring against it. Was she just breathing? Was she speaking? He couldn't hear the words. Was it a promise? Was it a threat? Who knew? Certainly not him. He felt that maybe even she didn't know. Whatever secret they now shared, it was only known to her. Maybe that was for the best. He didn't think he would want any of her secrets. They were probably as poisoned as her fangs.
Her tongue, her hands, the gentle puff of warm breath, all narrowed into his focus as she filled what ever desire she had with his body at that moment. He could feel her hand traveling over an old wound, the scar tissue puckered with age. He was very young when he had gotten that scar, and no animal had given it to him. He had fallen out of a tree, and a branch that had more luck than the young half elf had pierced him there, almost taking his life. Is that what drew her to it? Did she somehow know that the scar she was so enamored with had almost taken his life? There was no way she could know, but he felt it. There was so much he had been wrong about this day that it didn't matter if he was wrong this time. Her tongue ran over the outer edge of his ear, the area that made him weak kneed when others did it, and then it plunged in, taking a taste of his inner ear. He would have skittered away if he could have, his body trying to twitch from the ticklish feelings she was bringing up. And it did tickle, as much as he hated it. As much as he hated her, it still tickled and would have made him laugh if he could, as much as he hated her her hands tracing and playing with the scar still sent little threads of heat through his body. It only made him hate her and himself more. Finally, she moved away, snake-like tongue flickering in the corner of his vision. Warm lips touched his temple the same moment cold metal touched his flesh, the imprint of warmth from her lips long since faded on his chin.
Her eyes showed no emotion, her face as dead as any vipers. Her fang cut through skin easily, sharp as a razor as far as he felt. He could feel the pain from it, and it would have made him curl his back and push his hips up into her if he could have moved. But he couldn't. He could just feel the pain, feel the rage, and shake inside that he was impotent to do anything about it, to do anything to her, to stop his bodies reactions to what she was making him feel, both the warmth and the silver edged pain. So instead he stared at her, her dead expression matched by his slack face, his eyes the only alive part. His eyes flashed blue fire at her, wanting her to know that one day, he would mark her, like she was marking him. He would.
He could feel her fingers run over his skin, lightly touching, nails scraping skin every once and a while with the patterns they traced. What did it all mean? He felt a laugh rip through his throat, dying on vocal chords that wouldn't respond. What did it matter what any of it meant? She wasn't going to tell him. Not that he would hear the words if she did. It would just be a haze of fluttering lips, and he wouldn't read them fast enough to know what she was saying. There weren't any words for this anyhow. She wouldn't understand him if he spoke of the anger of being caged, being trapped, and he was sure he wouldn't understand her animal talk of spiders webs and snakes poisons, of cats grace and otters fluid movements. They couldn't speak to each other, and even if his hearing had worked, they wouldn't be able to hear what each other was saying. He felt sure of that.
And then her lips touched him, and his eyes widened in shock. Her lips were soft against him, far warmer than her fingers had been. They touched his chin, and then she moved her head away. He didn't understand. Why trap if not to kill? Why poison if not to destroy? Why did her lips touch his skin, setting fine silver threads jangling in his body? He didn't like this. Her cheek touched his, and it was still a bit of a startle. How could someone with fingers so cold have such warm skin? She nuzzled him, and he choked on a combination of anger and something else. No matter what, Wulf was still a man. No matter how angry he was, his body reacted to stimulus. He hated her even more for making him react. No matter what she would have done to him, he wouldn't have screamed. No matter the pain. But this? This was insidious. It didn't hurt his body, but it was hurting his spirit, that he would react to her.
He felt breath, felt warmth, his sensitive ears stirring against it. Was she just breathing? Was she speaking? He couldn't hear the words. Was it a promise? Was it a threat? Who knew? Certainly not him. He felt that maybe even she didn't know. Whatever secret they now shared, it was only known to her. Maybe that was for the best. He didn't think he would want any of her secrets. They were probably as poisoned as her fangs.
Her tongue, her hands, the gentle puff of warm breath, all narrowed into his focus as she filled what ever desire she had with his body at that moment. He could feel her hand traveling over an old wound, the scar tissue puckered with age. He was very young when he had gotten that scar, and no animal had given it to him. He had fallen out of a tree, and a branch that had more luck than the young half elf had pierced him there, almost taking his life. Is that what drew her to it? Did she somehow know that the scar she was so enamored with had almost taken his life? There was no way she could know, but he felt it. There was so much he had been wrong about this day that it didn't matter if he was wrong this time. Her tongue ran over the outer edge of his ear, the area that made him weak kneed when others did it, and then it plunged in, taking a taste of his inner ear. He would have skittered away if he could have, his body trying to twitch from the ticklish feelings she was bringing up. And it did tickle, as much as he hated it. As much as he hated her, it still tickled and would have made him laugh if he could, as much as he hated her her hands tracing and playing with the scar still sent little threads of heat through his body. It only made him hate her and himself more. Finally, she moved away, snake-like tongue flickering in the corner of his vision. Warm lips touched his temple the same moment cold metal touched his flesh, the imprint of warmth from her lips long since faded on his chin.
Her eyes showed no emotion, her face as dead as any vipers. Her fang cut through skin easily, sharp as a razor as far as he felt. He could feel the pain from it, and it would have made him curl his back and push his hips up into her if he could have moved. But he couldn't. He could just feel the pain, feel the rage, and shake inside that he was impotent to do anything about it, to do anything to her, to stop his bodies reactions to what she was making him feel, both the warmth and the silver edged pain. So instead he stared at her, her dead expression matched by his slack face, his eyes the only alive part. His eyes flashed blue fire at her, wanting her to know that one day, he would mark her, like she was marking him. He would.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Her fingertips followed the scent his unborn markings left behind, swallowed whole by the bright heat of his blood. Serpentine winked merry, dry and open, and she set her plow to gap the furrows that the seed might grow. Green. Green. It sang at her, crisp, curling back its edges so that she could feel it deep in her breast. There, she curled around him, gripping him as if he was her lifeblood, as if she and only she could prevent him from slipping away. The whole world, the whole universe, had focused down upon the path that unfurled between them. She, the navigator. He, the traveler. Together they forged this new life, together it was born. Fidget would not countenance any other such thing; she held the blade and she held the life. If there was a movement otherwise at that moment, she would have quashed it. Not for jealousy, not for pride; she was the strongest. The strongest had the choice.
Her upper body pressed close as she traced the delicate lines, stopping only to wipe at the swelling blood. She was careful as she cut the pattern into his flesh. Only in her hands could it be completed, only she had the sensitivity necessary to feel the way. She cut them so they would lay flat, forming only a slender bump once healed, properly healed. She had to be careful, for she did not have anything to rub into the wounds that would help ensure proper scarification. She was not typically so distracted when she was at her work, but she could not help the trembling thoughts that lay at the tip of her hindbrain, querulous and disturbing -- working without all the right tools arrayed in perfection and appropriate environment was not something with which she had become accustomed. Less still was she accustomed to being derelict, the very thought of which bloomed bitter before her eyes. She blinked them, rubbed at them with the back of her wrist, adjusted herself on him more comfortably, so that she could rest some of her weight on her own thigh rather than her free hand.
She breathed in his blood, exhaled out his skin. The lines became clearer, running from his chin down his neck. Between his collarbones she cut a small circle, each careful movement timed with her breaths so that it mirrored the perfection she sought to free. It tasted so nice; under her fingertips it looked better than she could have imagined. Even so she paused, drawing herself upright to shift the blade from one hand to the other. Her fingers had grown weary, spent incense that threatened to topple from the shape it'd previously held. This must be as she saw it. A single deviation would ruin all, and she could not imagine ruining the promise in the serpentine fire. This was necessary. It had to happen.
She leaned forward and stroked his face, traced his lips. His own blood smeared against his skin. She didn't like that. It would be messy, and so she licked her fingers, wiped them against her calves, and then licked them again to rub the blood from him. She pressed her forehead to his and then withdrew to set the blade to skin once more.
There was not much blood. Enough to occasionally get in the way of the design, but not much. She wondered if she should see him cleaned, to make sure his skin was properly set before she left, no matter that only a few trickles here and there had pooled enough to dribble into ribbons.
She started on the left portion of the design, spreading out from between his collarbones to writhe in geometric spirals out and over his pectoral muscles. The second third of his road, the path that had begged her to set free, the one that burned between them. He felt it, she could tell. His body knew what was happening. Perhaps he did, perhaps he did not; it made no difference to her. Just the cut, the line, and the ribbon that bound them so intimately together.
Her upper body pressed close as she traced the delicate lines, stopping only to wipe at the swelling blood. She was careful as she cut the pattern into his flesh. Only in her hands could it be completed, only she had the sensitivity necessary to feel the way. She cut them so they would lay flat, forming only a slender bump once healed, properly healed. She had to be careful, for she did not have anything to rub into the wounds that would help ensure proper scarification. She was not typically so distracted when she was at her work, but she could not help the trembling thoughts that lay at the tip of her hindbrain, querulous and disturbing -- working without all the right tools arrayed in perfection and appropriate environment was not something with which she had become accustomed. Less still was she accustomed to being derelict, the very thought of which bloomed bitter before her eyes. She blinked them, rubbed at them with the back of her wrist, adjusted herself on him more comfortably, so that she could rest some of her weight on her own thigh rather than her free hand.
She breathed in his blood, exhaled out his skin. The lines became clearer, running from his chin down his neck. Between his collarbones she cut a small circle, each careful movement timed with her breaths so that it mirrored the perfection she sought to free. It tasted so nice; under her fingertips it looked better than she could have imagined. Even so she paused, drawing herself upright to shift the blade from one hand to the other. Her fingers had grown weary, spent incense that threatened to topple from the shape it'd previously held. This must be as she saw it. A single deviation would ruin all, and she could not imagine ruining the promise in the serpentine fire. This was necessary. It had to happen.
She leaned forward and stroked his face, traced his lips. His own blood smeared against his skin. She didn't like that. It would be messy, and so she licked her fingers, wiped them against her calves, and then licked them again to rub the blood from him. She pressed her forehead to his and then withdrew to set the blade to skin once more.
There was not much blood. Enough to occasionally get in the way of the design, but not much. She wondered if she should see him cleaned, to make sure his skin was properly set before she left, no matter that only a few trickles here and there had pooled enough to dribble into ribbons.
She started on the left portion of the design, spreading out from between his collarbones to writhe in geometric spirals out and over his pectoral muscles. The second third of his road, the path that had begged her to set free, the one that burned between them. He felt it, she could tell. His body knew what was happening. Perhaps he did, perhaps he did not; it made no difference to her. Just the cut, the line, and the ribbon that bound them so intimately together.