Naaghai Lowlands [m] Bitis

She avoided him. It is as if she’d had a premonition he’d destroy her. She hadn’t accounted for her own capriciousness, the rising consternation of Pharaoh’s empty seat, the appetite that hungers for little else, and how it was for this: the one who would buy her with an imposter gemstone.

Her tread is leonine, she is not in the least bit dainty. She makes a pretense of nothing. By the time she passes beneath the arc of his chamber without invitation, the controlled efforts that see her through days obliterate.

It was only for this transparency: that everything he did was for him- and everything she did was for her.

“@Khusobek.”

good meat in his belly, the drink turning veins to fire. khusobek, who had left the next rotation outside the queen's chamber to another guard, now lay in spinning pleasantry upon a rough-hewn floor.

eset's voice reached for him, through the stupor, the flesh-buzzing, the tiny knifing to imagine inji and rashepses together: a gift and a pharaoh. had he ever wanted that?

his eyes were open now, blinking toward the servant's pointed face. there was no fatal urgency that might indicate the queen was in danger, though khusobek came to his feet all the same. 

was there a new shade to the gaze above the collarless throat? the crocodile was still, waiting for what he did not understand, for her voice in a way had been its own order.

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It wasn’t an order.

“Kiss me,” that was. Though no fellahin could make a command of a mazoi.

And she moves with something incorporeal towards him; looking.

His eyes are ice. His fur is red like blood. She is picturing him down on his knees.

Though no fellahin could make a command of a mazoi.

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no fellahin could seek to command a mazoi.

but eset's tone made her flicker pharaonic in his blood.

he imagined the press of paw to the heavy power of his throat,

and his eyes darkened into a moonless navy expansion of wanting pupil;

it was not her mouth for which khusobek meant now. it was the downcast head, mouth upon her instep, then ankle, then forearm; the rounded curve of her shoulder; throat, eartip;

her fire, spicewine upon a kiss that was finally at last for her own jawline, and khusobek felt now that eset felt the answering aching fibres of him; hers entire for however long she wished.

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Somewhere above the gods laugh.

They all watch the scintillating expression in Khusobek’s iris as it changes. His strange breath, the places it touches, coaxes urgency. The chain around her neck is gone- the impression still commands transformation.

She is restless. When he kneels she wants him standing; when he rises she wants him lying. Effusive eyes watch his caressing ascent up her body as her claws draw promises into the silk of his crown. His press into her is not faint; neither is the moan as it seethes from her jaw.

Her lips reach for the hard slot of his mouth, demanding to taste him thoroughly. A leg is over his broad hip, she turns to push him up against the marble to perform hieroglyphics with her teeth. She wants to have her mark appear on his body. Her mouth devours across his hide, reversing the path into the hollow of his throat; the vein of his wrist; fevering his rib; surging down a thigh into the muscle of his calf and the crest of her fang bearing over his flank.

From the floor she looks up at him. She whispers thickening rules: supine on the ground. She wants to see if he abides them.

Somewhere above the good gods are laughing. She will not appease them; she is not interested in their saving.

She pushes herself into the arms of Sobek.

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he was burning. eset was a brand of fire which breathed heat into him as if a bellows flared between their bodies. 

the sound in her throat was feral; it glistened in unseen patterns of want, singed to a body gone malleable in the strong, demanding circlet of her arms; his breath heated the wall of stone as he was put against it, marvelling at how hungry his flesh was for her order.

eset's voice was a jeweled whisper. khusobek eagerly descended, body bearing the points of her teeth in a proud arc of fanged stippling that would be visible from throat to flank — for a moment of pure conflagration, it was only the crocodile, the falcon, and the marble behind him.

melody had ordered. inji had been timid until the last. eset was neither; she came for him with the force of a lioness prowling through the shadows of a desert night, and he answered with the shuddering bleat of a gazelle caught in her teeth.

once more; a scintillating pause wherein they drank the glint of one another's gaze; khusobek's embrace was poised, his breath trembling against her dark fur, willing eset to command him for the finality, his ears begging to hear any demand in her smokewoven voice.

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He lies. She applies herself like a mantle, fusing them into curve.

A lucid deadlock is preserved for her in that pause.  Unmoving, she looks down and into his cool face. For the briefest moment concession defines time. In it is Khusobek, past and future; concurrently. 

She twists her arms beneath his neck, into the stole of red hackles and with a bearing intention swallows the flame down into a relentless, driving force. For herself; for him.

. . .

After, when her heartbeat strikes against his and she is burned extremely, she severs any line of thought that will take her away from the current that rides down the flesh of her back. She rolls, releasing her possession to gather breath in the room which is filled with it.

the need of his flesh was not his own pleasure, it was hers; it was to see the wildfire beating in pulsepoint and flank again and again, to be consumed entire as the land beneath inundation.

hers in completion, tireless, answering command spoke and not; a willing automaton, a fawning golem constructed solely for her devourment.

his breath was caught in stages; khusobek remained attuned to her. a snap of proverbial fingers would bring him alive once more.

It is to end the pining. Or maybe she had wanted for once to take a war without waiting for it to be brought to her. She felt so unlike herself, or like herself, and a moment is not given to figure out which. She rises to go with discretion to the river and rid her body of evidence not to be spoken of.