Poet of the call-girl storm - Kingslay.

[Aurane]

Cold red.
Oxygenated.
Feeding the shivering panic of her muscles; fueling the working of synapses: ’Run!’ A familiar wild shriek from everywhere. From behind and below, but above all, from within. It fills her ears and crowds her. The red mare shakes her head, snorting heated breath across his chest, ’Run! But she cannot obey. She is stuck examining the fissures of fire splitting his skin, and the acrid smoke from the crest of his neck. She is still, staring at ruination; a violent wreckage — her own.

And blue.
Depleted.

She blinks, (and he stands over her cremains, the last vestiges of herself slavering from his mouth. Ashes fill the air like snow, blanketing the ground and his back. The burn-black forest is razed, and he stands in the center of it like a king, reigning over the splendor of his annihilation. The smoke-grey sky cracks with light, for fractions of a second the pure loneliness of it is bathed in bald light.) She blinks. The damp forest is limp and green but he is a god of conflagration still. She presses her fine head down low, to the height of his breastbone, nostrils flaring.
The subordination feels almost effortless; an outright surrender. But then he speaks, and in a blink it ruins her moment of sweet submission. She jerks her head up, her muzzle close to his own, side-by-side. The waft of air from his mouth is astonishingly hot. ’Yes.’ But she is angry that he has shattered her moment of thrilling gratification and does not think, only sends a gnash of teeth at his lips.

She stops before they make contact and squeeze, because she is young and naive, but not suicidal. She watches him with a wild black-brown and fire eye, her neck craning away from him. But the distance overall is not safe. Their shoulders are a breath apart, separated by a thin layer of wind and steam alone. “I could have found out on my own,” Her low whine is petulant, girlish if not for the hint of lust she wears like a familiar layer of grime.

(You have so much to learn. And learning is half the fun.)
Aurane loosens the flex in her neck a moment, allowing her muzzle to fish for that heat again. Testing the boundaries of his ill-will; his space and his patience. She riles them up because it is more fun that way — like Death and Dying's angry spittle and volatile predator's hunger, she drinks it deep, and it is an intoxicant. She operates dangerously on imagined infallibility and assumed restraint.

He wants to feed fire down her throat.
She wants to taste it, but only if the burn is mild.
“Your name?” She demands of a god.

Hey you, out there on your own
sitting naked by the phone, would you touch me?