#greenwarden trace

[fat-rolls-frictions]

okay get this, remember that pic of trac- no wait- what if we make it even more fucked up and post it- HEAR ME OUT-

@greenwarden-cog​

[fat-rolls-frictions]

@greenwarden-cog | trace/mc. minor warnings for: mention of blood, gross semi-monster-snogging

~

The taste of iron is familiar. So is the burn, like dragging fire through your nostrils, and in place of smoke more blood oozes out, dripping down the bow of your lips to your mouth, your chin. You mutter a quiet curse, only to grimace as what little red gathering in the corners of your lips immediately finds their way inside, flooding your tongue with new salt.

So the meeting with the tree didn’t go quite as planned.

You go with what you know and tilt your head forward- exhaling gingerly for good measure- trying to empty the excess blood, then wipe away the rest on the back of your hand. Your less-than-medically-trained company is helpfully silent throughout the whole process; suspiciously so, in fact. 

You look up to see Trace watching you, absolutely captivated, and narrow your eyes in doubt. There is a show of teeth, an approximation of a smirk you don’t appreciate, and the corpse-pale glint in their gaze promises nothing but chaos. If they realize you noticed them at all, they make no show of it.

“What?” You finally snap, more embarrassed than furious, frustrated with the unnatural stillness of their posture and the way they seem to pin you in place. Their eyes flicker from- oh, from your nose- to you.

Their pupils expand. You know with absolute certainty what that look means.

They don’t give you any time to escape. In one long stride, they are right in front of you, so close they force you to stumble back against your woody assailant. The smirk is still there, inquisitive, and they fist their hand into the fabric at your waist, keeping you tethered. You think they are trying to make you squirm, or at least move you in a certain way.

Of course, you being you, simply refuse to budge an inch. A civ, even an inexperienced operative, might fold from fear. You don’t, even as Trace presses closer. Even as the disconcerting chill of their flesh raises goosebumps on your arms, your stomach, where their fist is near. Cool dread wars with anticipation in your sternum as their head dips, their mouth opens. They do it slowly, like how an animal is slow to tear into prey it knows for sure can’t flee, only-

Their tongue is cold. It is cold, and you face is throbbing, nosebleed not quite quelled, dripping bright red anew. They drag the flat of it across your chin, over the stubborn purse of your mouth, then your cheek. You shudder to think the absence of heat actually feels comforting over your burning flesh, and when you growl deep in your throat, disturbed, they lean back, laughing.

That doesn’t keep them for long; they rush in when you begin to curse at them, sandpaper tongue on the smears on your jaws, the stray drops down your neck. The vibrations of your expletives are swallowed up with relish. The hand not currently bunching up your shirt closes around your wrist, lifting it. You see little use in fighting, but you resist on principle, pulling shy of straining in their grasp. Trace just grins, worrying at your knuckles with their teeth, and when they lap at the blood there you aren’t even surprised.

Done, a strange mellowness suddenly takes over their expression. There is no other way to describe it- this close you can spot the nuances clear as day. It isn’t soft, not in any sense of the word. More like light bending once it hits the water; more fluid, more honest. Lowered eyelids, a relaxed mouth. You might even call the curve of it a smile, if you are generous.

Which changes nothing about the fact you still have slobber all over your face.

“You’re so gross!” You pull free of their grip and scrub at the slimy residue with vengeance. All you get for your trouble is another laugh. “You fucking asshole!”