Nymeria

- the raven casts the longest shadow -

What is wrong with him? The Volterra she knew wasn’t like this. He was courageous, heartfelt, pig-headed—argumentative and bullish overall, but not cruel like she was. Looking at him, both concerned for him and loathing him at the same time, she was forced to acknowledge once again that she just didn’t know him anymore.

And there was the truth: the foals were only a catalyst for the insults that jostled for place at her tongue. They’d been there all along, biding their time, waiting for the right moment. (Maybe this was natural; everyone had arguments from time to time, didn’t they?)

They always made up after arguing.

Now she didn’t know if the bridge between them had broken or if it was still hanging on—no, she’d didn’t know about the bridge period. She might be standing in the middle of the bridge or on his side of the island or what the fuck was this metaphor anyways? Complete bullshit, that’s what.

The ground around him shudders and roils in reflection of his rage. Would he attack her? It was hard to tell—he didn’t look like her Volterra anymore, with his eyes smouldering and his jaw so tight. (If he did, would she win? Could she?) Again unpleasant plans seek out her attention. Again she puts on a face for him, but nothing on the outside could accurately portray the problems on the inside.

Nobody would have to know.

It was the victors who wrote the history books, not the losers (is that how she’d come to think of this? Her versus him?) If she played this card—the card she’d engraved with a V for Volterra, a V that also meant something else—then that would be a choice that didn’t have to be widely known, or known at all. Only she would know; only he would know. And who would he tell?

It is then she realizes with a touch of sadness that all her anger at him was misplaced, and that it was only ever truly directed at herself. Her time with Kid, her time with her own individuality and perspective, had created a certain (although perhaps deluded) indifference to the reality of him and her. Why should she care for the nuances of their relationship? (She cared anyways.) If this would give her what she sought—then who was she to complain about the means, so long as the ends were achieved?

(Even if nobody else knew she would know, and she’d remember, and that twists her gut with revulsion.)

Why is this wrong anyways? Nobody ever said it had to be wrong except for him and I. Except that this was horribly, undeniably abhorrent—what she was doing, what he was doing, and the hardness no doubt forming between his legs. She was tempting him (and she fucking knew it)—but he should have had the strength to resist anyways. He was weak. Not her. Him.

But those rationalizations don’t seem to mean much now that her teeth are pressed against his haunches and her mouth tastes like him and her heart is thundering. Beneath her ministrations he growls (like a rabid wolf) and she shivers—it’s disgust, but perhaps it would come off sensuous.

“Just shut up,” she snaps, unable to keep her emotion under wraps—her voice cracks and splinters on notes of anxiety and frustration. (Maybe she should have done this with Abraham on the beach in her first heat. Maybe she wouldn’t feel quite so fucking awkward if it wasn’t her first fucking time.) She could still pull away, be a tease, but instead she swung her forequarters away from Volterra, tail flicking up at his face, an open invitation.

(What could possibly be go wrong?)


(Everything.)