with our backs to the wall | carnage
Nov 4, 2014 15:51:24 GMT -6
Post by KUNA ✌ on Nov 4, 2014 15:51:24 GMT -6
phoenix
(“Good, Nixxy. You’re getting the hang of it!” His lips tip up into a small, something she’s rarely seen. Her own mouth finds itself moving upward too and the roar of the ocean beside them dwindles down to nothing, just his voice. “You should try that move more often,” he admits, those dull gold eyes holding a smug expression as she realizes their positioning. He is in the sand, on his side, and her forelegs are planted on either side of him. She’s looming over him, but their heads are precariously put close together.
A nervous laugh chuckles out of her lips as she moves off of him and lets him stand, although his smirking expression doesn’t leave. She can feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment – her childish behaviors when it comes down to men and their, ahem, tools have still refused to fade away. When he stands, shaking the sand out of his dark mane, she watches him, observing every move he makes in preparation for his next random attack. Their training as been going well and her explosive desire to kill has become heightened with each training session.
While she observes him, he suddenly moves closer, but the look in his eyes suggests this session will be anything but fighting training. And she falls into him, because she doesn’t know what else to do.)
A gasp runs out of Phoenix’s throat, racing away and mixing with the wind that buffets her. When she’d approached this shoreline, the flashbacks had been unrelenting. Memories she had forced away (because the sight of his face stained with blood from her had killed her, despite how much she needed to do it) were threatening to come back and torture her. Perhaps it was, on a beach similar to this, that she had found the first flickers of something that wasn’t bloodthirsty or uncaring. Perhaps it was, on a beach similar to this, that she had truly discovered something she could have been without the name ‘murderer’ written along the vertebrae of her spine.
But she had killed him before things could get any worse than they already were. She had killed him before those whispered words and hot breaths and passionate touches had made their way into her mind and eventually wormed their way to her heart. She had killed him before the word ‘love’ had fallen from his lips. And maybe he would have, if she had given him another night. But she hadn’t. And now she is here, gazing out across a restless sea with a summer wind tugging at her dark brown mane and a now-pulpy (pulpy with blood and mangled pieces of body and organs and skin) starfish at her feet.
A nervous laugh chuckles out of her lips as she moves off of him and lets him stand, although his smirking expression doesn’t leave. She can feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment – her childish behaviors when it comes down to men and their, ahem, tools have still refused to fade away. When he stands, shaking the sand out of his dark mane, she watches him, observing every move he makes in preparation for his next random attack. Their training as been going well and her explosive desire to kill has become heightened with each training session.
While she observes him, he suddenly moves closer, but the look in his eyes suggests this session will be anything but fighting training. And she falls into him, because she doesn’t know what else to do.)
A gasp runs out of Phoenix’s throat, racing away and mixing with the wind that buffets her. When she’d approached this shoreline, the flashbacks had been unrelenting. Memories she had forced away (because the sight of his face stained with blood from her had killed her, despite how much she needed to do it) were threatening to come back and torture her. Perhaps it was, on a beach similar to this, that she had found the first flickers of something that wasn’t bloodthirsty or uncaring. Perhaps it was, on a beach similar to this, that she had truly discovered something she could have been without the name ‘murderer’ written along the vertebrae of her spine.
But she had killed him before things could get any worse than they already were. She had killed him before those whispered words and hot breaths and passionate touches had made their way into her mind and eventually wormed their way to her heart. She had killed him before the word ‘love’ had fallen from his lips. And maybe he would have, if she had given him another night. But she hadn’t. And now she is here, gazing out across a restless sea with a summer wind tugging at her dark brown mane and a now-pulpy (pulpy with blood and mangled pieces of body and organs and skin) starfish at her feet.
word count: 453 | tags: twiztid | notes: yooooo.