[Progress she says, and it makes him dare to think that this time maybe (just this once) he hasn't done the wrong thing, that his decision not to turn and flee with his tail between his legs like some quivering puppy reduced to the parameters of his own fear might be the correct one. And yet this glimmer of possibility does nothing to still the frantic beating of his pulse as she rises with all the magnanimity of a goddess (the only one he'll ever need) her steps across the floor counted out in time with his anxious heartbeats.
Only when she's standing right in front of him does he dare to raise his eyes, careful to keep them from straying beyond the perfect symmetry of her face but even then his traitorous mind fills in the gaps, turns his throat sandpaper-raw as something sickly stirs in him, just as she knew it would. It's reminiscent of the thrill that comes from the crack of bones under his hands the scent of blood and gunsmoke thick and heavy in the air and yet somehow completely different, something bigger, darker, uglier than that could ever be.
His face is a blank mask with lips turned down despite the too-loud clamour of the thoughts scrabbling frantically inside his head like claws like teeth that rip and tear in an effort to get out. But then she's reaching for him, pulling him close, the soft swell of her ample breasts a crushing pressure that makes his rabbit heart sing. Her terrible proximity, it frightens him. It excites him.
He's still stiff and filled with tension in the pliancy of her arms, hands hanging limp and heavy at his sides and yet the soft exhalation of his breath speaks plainly of a desire fulfilled. There's only one word, thick and quietly muffled by the press of palewhite flesh against his lips]
no subject
[Progress she says, and it makes him dare to think that this time maybe (just this once) he hasn't done the wrong thing, that his decision not to turn and flee with his tail between his legs like some quivering puppy reduced to the parameters of his own fear might be the correct one. And yet this glimmer of possibility does nothing to still the frantic beating of his pulse as she rises with all the magnanimity of a goddess (the only one he'll ever need) her steps across the floor counted out in time with his anxious heartbeats.
Only when she's standing right in front of him does he dare to raise his eyes, careful to keep them from straying beyond the perfect symmetry of her face but even then his traitorous mind fills in the gaps, turns his throat sandpaper-raw as something sickly stirs in him, just as she knew it would. It's reminiscent of the thrill that comes from the crack of bones under his hands the scent of blood and gunsmoke thick and heavy in the air and yet somehow completely different, something bigger, darker, uglier than that could ever be.
His face is a blank mask with lips turned down despite the too-loud clamour of the thoughts scrabbling frantically inside his head like claws like teeth that rip and tear in an effort to get out. But then she's reaching for him, pulling him close, the soft swell of her ample breasts a crushing pressure that makes his rabbit heart sing. Her terrible proximity, it frightens him. It excites him.
He's still stiff and filled with tension in the pliancy of her arms, hands hanging limp and heavy at his sides and yet the soft exhalation of his breath speaks plainly of a desire fulfilled. There's only one word, thick and quietly muffled by the press of palewhite flesh against his lips]
Mother.