flesh and bone

 high noon washed over the sandlark's emaciated body, warmth creeping through her thin fur to hold her aching bones as she struggled to wake from her slumber. sunlight knocked eagerly at each of her thin eyelids, urging her to open them and see where she'd been laid to rest; salome grumbled, gently lifting one outstretched paw to lie across the breadth of her face. 

 passing shadows which offered unwelcome shade warned her that she was not alone; she could not remain there forever, laying lifeless as she immersed fully into this newfound relaxation. the pythoness was loathe to move, if only to find somewhere less open so as to remove herself from direct danger.

 one crystalline eye blinked open to see a skittering creature claw its way into a shallow hole. salome wandered how long it had been since she'd eaten, and having now discovered that she was unbearably hungry, she licked her lips with a passive interest in following the lizard's path. each of her muscles shook and groaned in protest as she worked her way onto all fours, legs trembling like a fresh doe fallen from its dam.

 there was a silent determination in her loping walk forward.

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The desert fucking sucked—

And he hated it, as well as everyone and anyone inside of it.

So when he saw her—the girl, he sneered, light and grey and more bone and skin than muscle—and the lizard she chased?

He did what first came to mind.

And acted like a petty bastard, stepping—stomping—on the skittering, running animal inadvertently chased into his path. Standing on it with a flexing paw and outstretched toes.

He snarled.

Soundless and wordless with an open mouth, lips raised and peeled back to expose pink gums and white teeth.

Standing over his catch with an outstretched, domineering tail and tensed, hunched shoulders.

“What?” He snapped at her, presumptuous, dickish, and rude.

Overhead, the sun continued to shine.

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 an inaudible gasp seeped from between parted lips, warm breath sending stray strings of drool to a tremble as they broke apart and dripped onto her chin. there stood an apparition formed from sand and sun; the sun-urchin stood in reverence of his errorless conception with dazed eyes thirsting for more.

 there was an imbalance between them of which she was acutely aware. he looked healthy, able; he could do her more harm than she could him. 

 salome cast her face downward and away with an apologetic whine. delicate limbs stepped in turn to shift her stomach toward him, so that she might drop down onto her side in submission. as her body lay trembling against the warm sand, her tail came upward between her open legs to rest against her barren belly.

 the pythoness coiled unto herself with meek humility. prying eyes, half-shut, remained locked on his paw.

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She fell—simpering and whining—to the sandy ground below, and Daighre snarled, open-mouthed and loud, a growl tearing through his throat. He was barely held together hatred and disgust, coiled and wound beneath the skin and circling the drain.

Because who the fuck did she think he was? A fucking fool? A fucking idiot?

He could fight her.

He could take her.

He didn’t—

He didn’t need her fucking pity. Her shameless, worthless display of self-submission and weakness.

“Get up.” He snapped. Torn between stepping back in disgust and stepping forward in intimidation and aggression with the latter holding out as he moved forward, once, the lizard underfoot forgotten as it scrambled away.

“I said," he started, teeth on edge and hackles raised, kicking sand at her as he did, at her useless fucking body, "Get up.”

Get up and fucking fight back.

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 an awakening.

 an enkindling of some visceral, carnal sensation which smoldered and glowed red beneath the thin skin of her exposed underside. she was as nefas— if only by her own need for more did she remain in her submission. an air of eroticism followed his eruption of anger; she was renewed in his rage.

 and so, after being beckoned to stand, salome fell further into opposition by whispering, "please", her voice so muted her begging might have gone unheard. eglė could hear the deafening rush of blood as she became overpowered by her own lust and fear.

 salome remained expressionless, save for an ever-present cower. she wondered if he might become aggravated enough to attack and break skin, but knew that she ought not to become drunk on fantasy.

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‘Please,’ she whispered, as soft and quiet as falling leaves, and—

“Fuck you.” Daighre spat, instinctual and thoughtless. Lunging forward and biting the air just before her, around her, his teeth closing on nothing with a hollow clack, and his paws kicking up yet another plume of sand over her pitiful, cowering, worthless fucking body.

“Fuck you,” he panted, angrier, now, but not wanting to throw the first metaphorical punch, “And fight back.”

Snapping, again, at her, but not touching her.

Fucking freak.

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 the deified phantom came closer breathing plumes of dust from his upturned nose as she snapped, snapped again, at where salome lay eerily still. time slowed and hitched just before it could stop; a moment granted to her which she spent admiring the ire roused behind his crimson eyes.

 if he were the flame, then she was his smoke; 
  the more he consumed, the larger she became.

 but there was something holding him back. 

 it seemed to her that he knew she was as much his wicker as his plume; he found power in her submission that he - and she - needed to maintain in order to avoid reverting back to his natural state as a mortal: impotence. the only definite outcome should their game end so early in its fruition.

 they would be at a standstill if neither participant progressed past this stage. salome resolved to visit obedience, the neighbor of submission, and reluctantly did as she was told, moving one nimble leg at a time until standing shakily upright with her tail still tightly tucked.

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She stood—

And for what just might have been for the first time in weeks, Daighre smiled. Sharp, and mean. With curling, black lips and white teeth on display. A borderline sneer, as the top of his muzzle wrinkled and pulled back in disgust, in hatred, in enjoyment.

And he braced himself. Stood, with low, sloping shoulders. Paws evenly spaced. His tail half raised behind him, and stiff and tense. His head carried low, in line with his spine.

He watched.

Huffed.

Seeing, if she would attack first, or if he really had to do all the fucking work around here.

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 the peace bringer, her name would imply. she stood half-turned toward him, so that her entire body was accessible. she was hunched at her center; each individual joint along her spine protruded out into open vision, stretching her skin against itself as it tightened toward her head. her head was downturned but her eyes remained fixed upward analyzing his movements. always listening for passing footsteps, she kept her ears just flush with her head and turned back toward her blindside.

 if there had once been something worth fighting for, it was gone; their conflict was keeping itself going, if only by the dynamic they had created between themselves. she was the consequence of his choices, the reaction to his action, so if the apparition wished to fight, it would be his role to initiate.

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She stood there—

And only stood there.

Weak, defenseless, and open. Too tall, spindly limbs and protruding bone. Tall enough to loom, and yet—

Cowering, with her back and side all but exposed to him.

He snorted.

Huffed.

Lips prickling, as he fought back a sneer.

Red eyes looking anywhere but forward, and instead settling on the middle distance of the stretching desert around them.

His skin crawled, like the tiny march of a hundred ants. And—

“Kill yourself.” He spoke, once, low and dry, before turning around to leave. His right ear twitching as he did.

She wasn’t fucking worth it.

Stupid bitch.

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 church bells tolled as distance became them. incessant breaths importuned him to show mercy, to turn back and bleed her of impurity, but he was resolve to follow his own frustration elsewhere; the sound of each inhale permeated the tunneled space which held her body still.

 the apparition began drifting away, leaving her to wonder if he had been but a mirage born of her own weakened will. the pythoness remembered her insufferable hunger then, but found her new craving to be something other—

 the scent of his fury had been imprinted permanently into salome's memory. she waited until he was out of view before moving to follow his path. sandy footsteps left behind were already being blown away by passive winds, but his scent—

 she followed at a slow bacchanalian gait after her golden calf.

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