when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
His name sounds wrong on her lips. Especially when she croons at him like that.
With his back turned broadside to her, Wyrm is struggling to piece together the confusing disarray that simmers in his breast. He knows the separate entities: Lust, Longing, Hate, Uncertainty; knows all too well that they are new to him. What he seems to find impossible to explain is why Epithet, of all creatures, brings them to the surface. He remembers feeling this way once before, when the leaves had begun to newly crisp in preparation for a winter past and Heartfire had found him waking from an immortal slumber. The shifter had lashed out at her too, then.
But this was different, was it not? This was not his spotted lover, not the mother of his children nor the creature that he’d watched blossom into a powerful, desirable mare. This was Epithet - the woman who’d met his challenge tooth for claw, the one who’d exposed a side he’d nearly forgotten about - his equal in prowess and abilities. “Can it be possible,” Wyrm ponders as he finally glances over his shoulder at her, “to want them both?”
“Likewise.” He mumbles in short reply. The inky male rises, stately and silhouetted against the gleam of the great silver moon. Also awash in the glow of ivory light, Epithet’s hesitance and disconcerting red glare are simply too grating for Wyrm to ignore. He sighs, the sound rattling through his chest while he slips forward to meet her on silent paws. In the first stretches of the night he slides against her, black on black skin mingling as he reshapes himself to match her form. “Let me try again.” He purrs, rounded tail gliding softly underneath her chin as he molds himself against the red-striped tigress.
“I lack the finesse for mingling,” He admits, though by now Epithet should be fully aware. With one rounded cheek pressed to the curve of her hip Wyrm’s allows for his tongue to glide roughly over the other shifter’s pelt - a silent apology. “so you’ll have to guide me.”
Faintly, the makings of a smile begin to ghost his lips. “Epithet,” Wyrm murmurs, matching the tone of her voice, “will you please cure my insatiable boredom?”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
