"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
And now? Fear is a long-lost emotion to the lioness. Even as his vicious teeth tear into her in the exact same moment she bites the junction of his neck and shoulder with all her might, she is not afraid. Because he screams, releasing his grip, and it is a sweet song for her. There is no joy in fighting someone weaker than you, but tearing pain out of a creature such as this magnificent beast with her own teeth and claws?
An afternoon well spent.
Vastra is lost to all else - she forgets that she was here killing time until Chel was ready to be picked up at the playground. Forgets that she has a life she cherishes. Forgets she’s been enjoying flying in her horse-form more than she has ever enjoyed anything.
Can the feel of wind and sunlight on her feathers compete with the battle frenzy? With the lust coursing through her with such a heady intensity she doesn’t know whether she wants to kill Svedka or take back her refusal and mate with him right here in the open meadow.
She'll settle for him submitting to her.
This is all there is and she is enjoying it far too much. The spray of his blood across her body, the thunder of her heartbeat as she bleeds as well. When he tosses her away, the lioness thuds inelegantly on the grass but is quick to twist and land on her feet. Even these bruises and the pain from the gauges created by his claws are enjoyed. They mean there’s no holding back now. Her storm eyes are dancing with delight and she can’t even snarl as her blood-stained face whips to face him again. No hesitation, no posturing, not even a sound is whispered as the lioness lunges at him again. She has no need for growls or screams - there is no anger in her.
Savage and ravenous, she moves to tear flesh from bone.
The mountain lion is lost to his rage and brute strength. Svedka had told her it would happen; warned her of the fury that his other skin possessed and even so, she willingly danced with the beast. Delightedly so, it seems, and it enrages him all the more.
In the end, the rage will be the lion’s undoing - both in his fight with her and when the dark god calls to it.
She is much more agile than him - her smaller form makes it easy for her to dodge the heavy lunging of his body. If he could just keep her in one spot, he could tear into her with such ease he wonders if it would even be a challenge. He throws her away with the powerful strength in his forepaws, tossing her aside as if she hadn’t just been his choice for a perfect mate. He could care less about that now - she had refused him and the denial only ripens his anger. Not only did Svedka deny him, but his own kind? He leaps up at the same time she does, another spitting hiss from his bloody mouth. Red stains his neck and shoulder where her fangs pricked perfect, deep holes in his skin and muscle, pulsing with his heartbeat that now ravages inside his chest.
Vastra lunges at him silently and he braces for her lithe body to meet his. Keeping his weight on his muscular back legs, he lifts himself to meet her head on, claws unsheathed. As her forepaws dig into his chest and shoulders when they meet, he uses his weight to push her enough to where she is unable to use her forward motion to be on top of him again. He swats brutally at her shoulders and face moments after, another screaming yowl accompanying his efforts to slice her skin.
Perhaps she would see it, but those lifeless black eyes begin to flicker in and out with a bright shade of blue.
This is a dance Vastra has missed. The air is thick with the scent of their blood but she hungers for more, hungers for the feeling that satisfies her like nothing else - her claws, her teeth, tearing through the flesh of someone who thought him her better.
A very brief thought is spared for Chel, and the worry that her daughter might emerge from the playground at this moment. She shoves this contemplation aside to avoid the distraction - knowing her butterfly-adorned daughter would know to run, to hide, to wait. Or… more accurately, knowing Chel she would instead decide to watch, entranced by what is happening.
His claws tear into her shoulder and she hisses though the pain is still mixed with delight. She ducks in time to miss the swat at her face and brings her own large paws up towards his in return - a pretty snarl curling her lip back slightly just as she sees his black eyes flicker with the blue of the stallion now trapped inside the lion.
Will he remember this shift, unlike all the others? Her snarl recedes just in case. They hadn’t even shared names yet but if he is flickering into consciousness, she won’t have his memories of this fight be of her angry face. Won’t let him think he was monstrous enough to pull such a reaction from her.
It’s a kindness, one Vastra doesn’t think about long enough to understand, but she smiles all the same as she moves her paw down to tear at the wounds her teeths had made and attempts to drag her claws through them - her gaze burning on his, watching for any more flickers.
Okay, so perhaps not completely kind but this is her way.
Perhaps this can still turn into a lesson, turn into a chance for him to find some control. Even if the price is pain. She strikes again, and again, with her claws and pushes down her own burning pain to do so. One thing at a time.
Blood sprays across the bright shoots of the green meadow grasses, staining the boulder they had once lounged with ruby drops. The sound of the male lion’s roars and yowls are shattering across the landscape, vibrating against trees and rock on an otherwise peaceful day. The world will know his rage, his anger. It’s not so much now the way the other tears into his flesh or seems to smile beneath his power and strength, but the threat of losing conciousness as his dark eyes flash from black to blue.
The familiar feeling of Svedka’s consciousness rattles through him desperately; it is something that is just as physical as it is emotional. It’s enough for the male lion to pause in his frenzy, finding his eyesight going blind as he falters in between two minds. The snarl on the black-lined lips, covered in fresh blood, is not for her. No, it is for the man that is stuck beneath, that so desperately attempts to break into the surface.
It’s in this moment that she slices into him more than he would have allowed; he screams in pain as she goes for him again and again, bringing more bright red blood spilling onto the tawny gold of his shoulders and neck. Black eyes flash to face her once again, not a shred of blue in their irises as he attempts to defend himself from her attack, using his brute strength to weaken the blows.
Then, when the lion’s eyes flash blue one more time, the lion suddenly changes his mind.
With a resounding and unfulfilled roar, he turns on his haunches to dash away from her completely - he would rather lose this battle than give up his control over his body.
So he leaves her there, the smell of blood tinging the meadow.
