a thousand teeth and yours among them; straia

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

Weed had not come back for some undying love he held for the Chamber. They both knew that in the same way that they knew he did not come back because of some undying love that he had for her. The word love was too weak—too simplistic, too overused. What Weed felt for Straia had more teeth than that. It was a feral emotion that gnawed at the back of his mind while he was away. It was a vicious emotion that coupled more with violence than it did with sweet nothings. It was emotion that found truth in bloodshed and revealed itself in the pitch darkness of night. It was not a summer love.

So when she comes, a growl rises in his throat, annoyance at missing her coupled with the blackness of his mood. He steps toward her side, teeth on her neck, raking down at. The skin on his back flinches with the closeness, with the enjoyment of the heat from her. “Straia,” her name feels good in his mouth, and he closes his inky eyes, feeling the blood in his veins swell, everything coming into clear focus. It was annoying to find that he actually missed her. Not enough to send him running back to her, but enough to bite at him throughout the day. Enough that he found he enjoyed the bird for the reminder of her.

“The bird was,” he pauses, thoughtfully, voice tight in his throat, “useful.” His teeth nip at her again, and the vines around him dig into his flesh, snaking off of him to reach out to her subconsciously. “I liked it,” he admits finally, the truth burning his mouth just a little. “But I think I like the original better.” His breath is hot on her neck, the vines snaking up her legs to hold onto her—not a little possessively.

“Did you like the tree?”

WEED

© oscar keys