holiday party; sabra

[sochi]

Sochi

darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied
maybe you need me or maybe you don't

They meld and clash, and Sochi feels a mild irritation at it. One moment, they are liquid silver, coming together in an understanding, and the next they are oil and water, unable to truly see eye to eye. Sochi’s reaction is instinctual, never truly adept at the finer points of interactions, and she growls low in her throat, feels a familiar anger and the need to just react, to lash out and not think about it so much.

The moment has become sticky, and she wants to either push through it or extract it.

Anything but hang in the middle, the tension thick and confusing.

Sabra takes the invitation, but not in the way that Sochi expects and confusion flits across her predator’s face for a moment, her body pausing, muscles locking beneath her winter coat. Sabra doesn’t meet her in the middle—doesn’t engage in the fight, doesn’t defend, doesn’t do anything. She simply lifts her head and exposes her throat, laying it out like a banquet and expecting Sochi to jump in and feast.

Something twists in Sochi’s gut and her lips peel back from her teeth, silver eyes hardening. “Are you so far gone that you would simply have me rip out your throat while you stand there?” Her voice is harsher now, the ash in it clear. She doesn’t make another move, her head hung low. “I have no interest in tearing you apart.” Sochi wasn’t some weak predator who needed to wait for the lame deer at the end of the pack. She wasn’t a scavenger. She didn’t feed on the sick and feeble. The very thought makes her feel ill.

Frustrating and confusion cloud her features, lip still pulled back in a snarl. “Wake up, Sabra,” the name still twists in her mouth into something strangely gentle. “Meet me halfway or walk away.”

Then, she exhales, agitation clear, suppressed need, a dark and simmering desire beneath the surface.

Without knowing, she closes her eyes and drops the match in spilled gasoline.

“Or, if nothing else, tell me if you’ve seen Castile so I can be on my way.”

playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons
if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf

@[Sabra]