holiday party; sabra

[sochi]

Sochi

darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied
maybe you need me or maybe you don't

She is not someone who is usually enamored with the bright lights and festivities such as those that now adorn the island. Her heart does not stammer in her chest at the view, and her eyes do not grow wide with wonder. That is not to say she does not appreciate it or even see how others may have similar reactions; she herself is simply not the kind to go weak in the knees at a gesture, and she walks through it, barely registering the others who gather around, her shoulder brushing against them but eyes never seeing.

She wears her equine form, hair nearly pitch black in the dead of winter, the iridescent blue of her face shimmering in the low light, and the crimson scars bright as they run jagged across her chest. There is no small part of her that desperately hungers for the tigress body. She can feel it like a pinched nerve as she continues to walk through the throngs of horses, small muscle spasms on her back and a mild headache beginning to brew behind her eyes. All she wanted was the feel of heavy paw and silence.

If she was being honest, she wanted more than that—

the salty rush of blood in her mouth, the thrill of the hunt, the crunch of bones between teeth

—but that is a hunger that she can temper, that she can bring to heel.

But that vicious, biting desire to be predator and not prey is not a feeling so easily blunted.

It brings an irritation simmering beneath the surface that sharpens her silver eyes, her mouth pulled taut and her back stiff as she finally breaks through the thickest part of the crowd to find a rush of silence on the other side. It is not so bright here, the tiny, flickering orbs of light not as populated, and she imagines that the snow is even thinner beneath her hooves, but such things pale in comparison to the pure joy that she feels when she is able to close her eyes, tip her head back, and breathe the cold air deep in her lungs.

playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons
if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf

@[Sabra]