you touch the bump I punch your throat

Absinth's ears twitched at Aresenn’s retort, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Oh, I don’t give myself nearly enough credit,” She shot back, her voice carrying a sardonic edge as it mingled with the icy wind. She reveled in his playful nip, darting ahead with a flick of her tail. The thrill of their banter was a familiar comfort, a temporary distraction from the heavier thoughts weighing on her mind. This moment was theirs, until she had to shatter it soon enough.

As she moved through the snowy forest, she couldn't shake the feeling of impending change. Aresenn's muttered words about family lingered in her ears, stirring a cynical chuckle from deep within her chest. The very concept of family was a twisted joke to her, a cruel game played by fate. Yet here she was, about to bring new life into the world. Irony had never been lost on her, it wouldn’t be now.

The thrill of the hunt momentarily drowned out her internal conflict. Like a shock to her system, rebooting her nerves. The kill now dead at her feet, a satisfied purr pulling from her throat once she glanced over at Aresenn as he finished his own kill, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Not too shabby for a couple of misfits.” The monochromatic fae quipped, her voice a mix of mock arrogance and genuine content. She paused, catching her breath, and let the silence settle between them. Patience had never been a virtue of hers.

She needed to say it, to let it out into the frigid air and see how it landed. With a deep breath, she locked eyes with Aresenn, her usual bravado faltering. “Alright, you’ve earned it.” She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. She drew closer, stepping over her kill with a saunter. Her lips smeared with blood, chest splattered from the coyote’s struggle. A picture of beauty and brutality at once, as the words dripped from her tongue like blood. “I’m pregnant, Aresenn.” The words felt entirely foreign on her tongue. She watched his face carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, her heart pounding. The admission hung in the air like a cold, hard truth. But she was steadfast, bearing the silence with her usual confidence; head held high and eyes like verdant fire.


wormwood