It is just a shiver, just a little twinge rolling across her tawny skin, but his overcast-grey eyes flick across her curves with a swiftness that is at odds with his behemoth stillness. She is at the same time inspecting the darkness that bleeds across his skin like ink into dark water. Perhaps she misses the way he takes her in anew, beginning to forget about the flowers and the sweetness. Now seeing instead the skin fit snugly over muscle and bone, the geography of veins in her neck, the tiresome sunlight reflecting on her dark hair.
“The forest is dark, in some places it may be very like your jungle.” Tunnel does not waste time imagining jungles, what is there to prefer over the rich earthy darkness of the maligned woods? Nothing. Does she say it knowing this, looking to be coaxed into the dark? His nostrils flare but still there’s nothing for him but flowers.
Her smoky spiral horn carves a furrow in his pelt, grazing his throat latch and his lip twitches against a barely withheld snarl, resisting bearing his teeth at her impertinence. The creature shifts his weight, pressing his throat to the tip of her horn, neck arched and eyes darkening.
“What sort am I?” There is irritation in his low tones, anger and something else too. He is not a plaything easily wound and left to totter off just for her amusement. Tunnel does not perform or engage in traditional flirtations, and Bardot has gone too far or just far enough to draw him out. He does not wonder if she will quail before his wicked reply, he does not care. “What do you imagine, Bardot? You strike me as a dreamer. Have you seen the shape of me when those dreams turn to baser things? When you’re just an animal asleep and not a silly little unicorn playing games, do you conjure up the weight of darkness climbing onto your back? Does your half-waking self not crave teeth, bruising your muscles and cutting your skin?” The blue monster pulls away from the pressure of her horn but moves closer, growling as the tip of that spire drags against his flesh. Tunnel needs no answer, if she pretends her mind has not created such things in the twilight he will know it for a lie. “I am that kind of thing.”
The stallion’s dark muzzle is turned to graze roughly beneath her sable-tipped ear and when he breathes her in this time he finds her scent beneath the flowers, rich and warm. “Bardot.” This is the first time he’s said her name without an edge of mockery, this time it is a savory, whiskey rumble. “You are not what you seem.”
@Bardot
