(this pony moment is brought to you by my damn head and was requested to be let out ENJOY

- tl;dr backstory: In exchange for her traits back, Cordis has disguised Alight as Spark, Alight is using her disguise to seduce Giver in hopes that when he sees their children, he'll finally return her love)

“Giver.”

Stars flicker overhead and in the glow that shawls his body. She takes a moment to admire the cords of muscle that move under his skin when he turns to look at her—down his neck, over his shoulders and across his haunches—her tongue feels thick and clumsy; she had decided, long ago, to keep her words short. It’s safe that way. The voice that comes from her lips provokes that illicit, other-woman sensation, a startling and unsettling one the causes her heart to thump wildly in her breast.

“Spark.”

The way he forms the word in his mouth stuns her. For a moment she wants to kick him, bite him, punish him for having never said her name that way! For a moment she feels the phantom lick of her wings crackle and whip and she knows she could make him regret it. But that is what she has come for, after all. To guide him back onto the path—it’s the least she can do, it had always been him that kept them from straying. It had always been Giver, when she was too silly to do it herself.

In the darkness he misses the shadow that falls across her face—she smiles, sweetly, and he smiles back. 

“Why are you awake?”

She rushes to him. She cannot help it. She is drawn, enduringly and powerfully, to him; they are woven together by indelible bindings, blood-made and womb-forged. She presses her nose against his cheeks, breathing a warm moan into his skin; relishing the soft, stinging burn of those stars before he can yank them away to make room for their touch. ”Whoa,” he mutters, chuckling, low in his throat, “careful.” He leans into it, moves his head to allow her further exploration of his face. She circles the flat, square plain of his cheek, pressing onward down the length of his jaw, pushing away stars’ mimics like a hand rushing through seafoam; she touches his lips, only enough to entice him to reach for her—and he does. His lip flexes and seeks out her own. That is enough, that will sustain her for a lifetime if he does not concede to this unrelenting force in the months to come. (She trusts—believes, with all her heart—that he will.) She pulls away and moves back up the velvet of his muzzle, finally stalling at the whorl on his forehead.

“What’s gotten into you tonight,” she can feel his brow wrinkle together under her mouth; she can see, without having to look, the puckish glint in his eyes.

She knows him. She knows him better than anyone. “I love you,” she whispers, because she knows those are the honeyed things he likes to hear and say—and, because it’s true. She knows, too, that he wants, because he is young and the chill that comes in small exhales off the water from distant shores—clashing stormily with the volcano’s heat—is bestial. Carnal. Commanding.

She can feel him respire on her throat, “I love you, too.” It seems, to her, that the words come like a storm breaking—she imagines all the things he has been denied.

She intends to give freely. She intends to use this purloined body fully.