rip and smash through the hornet's nest
do you understand I deserve the best?
but you'll do what I want, do what i please
and do it again til I get what I Need
do you understand I deserve the best?
but you'll do what I want, do what i please
and do it again til I get what I Need
Soft, quiet chiming of small bells would play along Fever's thigh, happy to mirror her movements with a promise of eternal back-ground music. Thus, Fever could usually not hear if someone approaches her, but she was very aware of how the air smelled, and the sudden perfume of unknown lady would wet her tongue, her muzzle tilted back to the night sky to savor the way it bloomed around her. The mare would halt her forward progression, a glance thrown over her shoulder to confirm that was was being followed.
Fever would welcome the detour from her drink.
"Hello, patron -" she purrs, amusement playing on her face as she pivots to face the seraph. It was not unusual for her to entertain her watchers after a dance, yet usually she only offered them idle prattle; if they were fortunate (or particularly wealthy), she'd indulge them with her banter. Yes, Fever was equipped with an arsenal of charms and stories, midnight-giggles and sticky-sweet flattery that would crawl under your skin and make its bed in your bones.
What did come as a surprise was the stranger herself; Fever made her company with the likes of slippery and dastardly creatures, characters who she could relate to with their pains and her horrors, battle-scarred and bitter - and while her body was a home for the wicked, this peculiar dove looked anything but forsaken.
Fever would entertain the distance between them, allowing the silence to saturate the air, hoping that her hungry eyes were enough to change the woman's mind. The winter air was thin, hollow, all the noises of the small crowd had vanished and nothing seemed to disturb them. The streets were dark, the windows in the buildings sleeping like their masters in their beds, and a sliver of moonlight would cut through the clouds and spot-light the two mares - as if the world was only theirs for the moment, and everyone else was merely a spectator.
"I misspoke - not a patron - I would have remembered someone like you tossing me coins." Bemused that she had chosen to linger, Fever would greedily eat the distance between them with long, powerful strides. The girl was blood in the water, and now a shark had started to circle her.
In her element, Fever would take her time - a sultry, dragging sashay around the pegasus; her eyes were embers in the dark, her gaze a wayward flame that would lick and ebb the flow of the angel's petite body. Though their bodies were at a chivalrous measure apart from one another, there was little respect in the viper's leer. Fever allowed herself to admire the stranger, assumed permission given from her prideful stance. She ate up her long, sinewy legs and the pallid glow she seemed to emanate - like white lightening - she would continue on to curves that were similar to her own in that they were dangerously inviting. It was not the only trait they had in common, for both of the mares tails spilled behind them, long and wild. If ever they were to get too close, the hairs could tangle, and they might forever be ensnared by each other.
Fever would round her backside, a "mmm" humming from her lips, a dark spell of praise as her gaze continued to tip-toe down her spine, over the rise of her flanks, and trace the pink flesh of her delicate underside.
She was pristine, so clean. What was her game? Did she really seek Fever's attention, or was there something sinister hiding underneath this sheep's skin?
"Did my performance not satisfy you?" she asks in feigned melancholy, her question a calculated bear-trap as she finishes her circle of scrutiny. She stands now in front of the dove, much closer than before, yet her body language did not scream violence - it was a answer to spring eyes that drew her in. A touch of envy could be detected in those hot yellow eyes, following the cascading hair that spilled over the other's neck, lush and divine, her face a flower amidst the sea of unbridled hair. Fever once had long hair, but the abrupt sound of ghost scissors kept Fever's attention on the delicate woman.
She was an angel.
Fever was once an angel too.
So was the Devil.
She takes a half-step closer, not close enough to touch her, but close enough so that she could get a better read of her intentions. And certainly close enough so that the angel could feel the heat radiate off her tri-colored skin - close enough so that the static of their bodies could mingle, close enough to where Fever had to look down at her - this gilded angel of storm and heavens. Her voice would be a whisper, an offer of water to parched lips.
"Or perhaps you've come to me in search of something else to satisfy you?"
@Juniper
Fever would welcome the detour from her drink.
"Hello, patron -" she purrs, amusement playing on her face as she pivots to face the seraph. It was not unusual for her to entertain her watchers after a dance, yet usually she only offered them idle prattle; if they were fortunate (or particularly wealthy), she'd indulge them with her banter. Yes, Fever was equipped with an arsenal of charms and stories, midnight-giggles and sticky-sweet flattery that would crawl under your skin and make its bed in your bones.
What did come as a surprise was the stranger herself; Fever made her company with the likes of slippery and dastardly creatures, characters who she could relate to with their pains and her horrors, battle-scarred and bitter - and while her body was a home for the wicked, this peculiar dove looked anything but forsaken.
Fever would entertain the distance between them, allowing the silence to saturate the air, hoping that her hungry eyes were enough to change the woman's mind. The winter air was thin, hollow, all the noises of the small crowd had vanished and nothing seemed to disturb them. The streets were dark, the windows in the buildings sleeping like their masters in their beds, and a sliver of moonlight would cut through the clouds and spot-light the two mares - as if the world was only theirs for the moment, and everyone else was merely a spectator.
"I misspoke - not a patron - I would have remembered someone like you tossing me coins." Bemused that she had chosen to linger, Fever would greedily eat the distance between them with long, powerful strides. The girl was blood in the water, and now a shark had started to circle her.
In her element, Fever would take her time - a sultry, dragging sashay around the pegasus; her eyes were embers in the dark, her gaze a wayward flame that would lick and ebb the flow of the angel's petite body. Though their bodies were at a chivalrous measure apart from one another, there was little respect in the viper's leer. Fever allowed herself to admire the stranger, assumed permission given from her prideful stance. She ate up her long, sinewy legs and the pallid glow she seemed to emanate - like white lightening - she would continue on to curves that were similar to her own in that they were dangerously inviting. It was not the only trait they had in common, for both of the mares tails spilled behind them, long and wild. If ever they were to get too close, the hairs could tangle, and they might forever be ensnared by each other.
Fever would round her backside, a "mmm" humming from her lips, a dark spell of praise as her gaze continued to tip-toe down her spine, over the rise of her flanks, and trace the pink flesh of her delicate underside.
She was pristine, so clean. What was her game? Did she really seek Fever's attention, or was there something sinister hiding underneath this sheep's skin?
"Did my performance not satisfy you?" she asks in feigned melancholy, her question a calculated bear-trap as she finishes her circle of scrutiny. She stands now in front of the dove, much closer than before, yet her body language did not scream violence - it was a answer to spring eyes that drew her in. A touch of envy could be detected in those hot yellow eyes, following the cascading hair that spilled over the other's neck, lush and divine, her face a flower amidst the sea of unbridled hair. Fever once had long hair, but the abrupt sound of ghost scissors kept Fever's attention on the delicate woman.
She was an angel.
Fever was once an angel too.
So was the Devil.
She takes a half-step closer, not close enough to touch her, but close enough so that she could get a better read of her intentions. And certainly close enough so that the angel could feel the heat radiate off her tri-colored skin - close enough so that the static of their bodies could mingle, close enough to where Fever had to look down at her - this gilded angel of storm and heavens. Her voice would be a whisper, an offer of water to parched lips.
"Or perhaps you've come to me in search of something else to satisfy you?"
@
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
