[the words come as honey, but nothing sweet is without its price. blythe entertains the thought for less than a fraction of a second before hissing and pulling away. something stabs inside her, under her ribcage; she bends forward and starts coughing again. the blood splatters on the ground between her feet, threatening to ruin the white she's wearing as the world's euthanasia.]
[there's a thin red line spilling down her chin when she raises her head. the pain begins to subside, and she takes a moment before speaking.]
I am not interested in abandoning my Lady. Respectfully. [she still aches, a stab into a throb. more, then.] The Plague is my shepherd; I do not want. She has given me everything I could ever ask before I knew to ask for it.
[the only pain that remains strong enough to notice is in her throat, and so she sits back upright. twin reservoirs of cortisol and adrenaline fill the emptiness behind her placid, golden eyes. words that should be angry come as a plea.]
[ they laugh again, reaching the hand at blythe's shoulder forward to drag their fingertips through the streak of blood left on her chin. ]
What a good pet you are for your master! So well-trained your body won't even let you consider the prospect of slipping your collar, and so obedient your mind thinks that's a good thing.
[ there's a measure of mixed condescension and pity in their voice, smoothly masking the disgust they're obligated to feel at devotion to this. ]
Well. If you insist on being prey, this beast won't stop you.
[there's no immediate outward reaction to being touched like this, spoken to like that. in these moments, she is nearly numb inside with the reminder that the woman she loves is still the one in control.]
[she takes the hunt's wrist in her hand and looks at the blood on their fingertips. her grip is light, her fingers bony. her voice barely raises above a steady, disaffected drone.]
When you have hunted the last mite feasting on the blood of the last rabbit, broken free from the chains of the last farmer, writhing to death in your mouth, I will remain.
[blythe remembers what certain things do to her. the touch of another is meant to tingle, to soothe, to bathe her in oxytocin after months deprived. that memory, that instant, that fraction between seconds is all she ever gets before her Lady overwrites what's being sent. tells her that this is anger, this is disgust, this is wretched when it is not with Her. her heartbeat spikes. it is not the first time that blythe has disagreed with the chemicals in her body.]
I am the endurance predator. And you will not ever know what is in my mind.
[ their wrist just hangs limply in blythe's hand. they don't move at all, staring right into her eyes with the same intensity their words carry. there's amusement in their gaze, mixed with recognition and - well - more than a little bit of pity. ]
Fine, fine. This beast will leave you to rot, then. But you still do owe me.
[basic facts perceived as threats is not anything new, nor is being mocked for stating them. she's come to expect this behavior from her dear Hunt. it's that damned stare she can never get used to, like they're boring holes directly through blythe's pupils like hollow-point bullets and taking the most precise, deliberate aim possible at Her—at She, who does not bother with the chemical flood at the thought. She, who allows her vessel to know that fear.]
Yes, very well. [she slowly releases her grip and glances away as though her movements are just as patient, as though she isn't a pretender to the throne that the Hunt looms atop.] Choose one of Ours, then. An eye for an eye. [she pauses, but finds it hard to meet their stare again. her fingers press against her leg to still its tiny bounces.] Unless you'd rather not deal with blind prey.
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no subject
[there's a thin red line spilling down her chin when she raises her head. the pain begins to subside, and she takes a moment before speaking.]
I am not interested in abandoning my Lady. Respectfully. [she still aches, a stab into a throb. more, then.] The Plague is my shepherd; I do not want. She has given me everything I could ever ask before I knew to ask for it.
[the only pain that remains strong enough to notice is in her throat, and so she sits back upright. twin reservoirs of cortisol and adrenaline fill the emptiness behind her placid, golden eyes. words that should be angry come as a plea.]
Do not ask me again, Hunt.
no subject
What a good pet you are for your master! So well-trained your body won't even let you consider the prospect of slipping your collar, and so obedient your mind thinks that's a good thing.
[ there's a measure of mixed condescension and pity in their voice, smoothly masking the disgust they're obligated to feel at devotion to this. ]
Well. If you insist on being prey, this beast won't stop you.
no subject
[she takes the hunt's wrist in her hand and looks at the blood on their fingertips. her grip is light, her fingers bony. her voice barely raises above a steady, disaffected drone.]
When you have hunted the last mite feasting on the blood of the last rabbit, broken free from the chains of the last farmer, writhing to death in your mouth, I will remain.
[blythe remembers what certain things do to her. the touch of another is meant to tingle, to soothe, to bathe her in oxytocin after months deprived. that memory, that instant, that fraction between seconds is all she ever gets before her Lady overwrites what's being sent. tells her that this is anger, this is disgust, this is wretched when it is not with Her. her heartbeat spikes. it is not the first time that blythe has disagreed with the chemicals in her body.]
I am the endurance predator. And you will not ever know what is in my mind.
no subject
[ their wrist just hangs limply in blythe's hand. they don't move at all, staring right into her eyes with the same intensity their words carry. there's amusement in their gaze, mixed with recognition and - well - more than a little bit of pity. ]
Fine, fine. This beast will leave you to rot, then. But you still do owe me.
no subject
Yes, very well. [she slowly releases her grip and glances away as though her movements are just as patient, as though she isn't a pretender to the throne that the Hunt looms atop.] Choose one of Ours, then. An eye for an eye. [she pauses, but finds it hard to meet their stare again. her fingers press against her leg to still its tiny bounces.] Unless you'd rather not deal with blind prey.