throw a dog a bone; gryffen

[Femur]

I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.

Beasts and shadows are the least of her worries in these woods; she’s never had an encounter that set her teeth on edge and made her think never to come back here again. Besides, her best encounter happened here with a beautifully lethal stallion whose skin was a combination of an abalone shell’s insides and the blue hour of dusk. Nevermind his teeth on the skin of her neck and how her pulse leapt against his tongue or that he took from her a few precious drops of her own sweet ruby-red blood. Oh how she remembers it! Strange but passionate, and she had aligned her fate next to his whether the stars desired it or not.

Now it brings her another encounter that has begun strangely enough - -

Her eyes become overly familiar with his scars and she imagines all sorts of ways that he came by them. She’d ask how he got that one and this one if she could but something makes her bid her tongue and keep the quiet just that much longer. It is a sort of eerie suspension of thought and precarious quiet, strung tight as a wire that binds her to the spot before him in the fullest extent of her existence - meaning, that Femur is for once entirely visible and not winking in and out for the hell of it like she so often does. He has fresher furrows in his flesh that speak of some kind of tussle, nevermind that it has been one of a sexual nature and she does not recognize it as such.

He needs neither to bark nor bite for her to know that he is not one to be easily trifled with. The scars attest to that much as her black gaze roves back to his face. He is looking her a little more keenly than Femur thinks she likes, it has a different appeal to it then the way Longclaw looked at her but there are similarities. His slow smile might not be meant to frighten but it has that kind of effect. Not so much so that she is scared and shivering from ear-tips to hoof-tips, just that it is kind of chilling how their gazes lock and she sees the hunger come into his eyes. It is a familiar hunger but she’s not sure which kind, as that has yet to be determined.

He teases back and calls her ghoul, this puts her a little more at ease with him. If only because Longclaw called her his ghost-girl. Ghoul or ghost, Femur knew she was an odd little haunt and her answering grin showed that she knew it. “I hardly think anyone who is here at this hour is nice.” What she doesn’t know is that he finds her worthy or useful, she’s never been either of things in her life thus far except to Longclaw but that is a different kind of worth that she holds like a secret close to her dark little heart. “Besides,” she adds. “I like the woods at this time of night, don’t you?” It is meant to be a little challenging, just to see how he responds.

Femur

@[Gryffen]