Conditions Of My Parole.

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

With her comely rump still turned to his face, eyes glistening with wicked derision as they peered back for any sign of reaction, she noticed the smoky black ears between those ridiculous horns slant backwards. A soft chuckle rocked the tonsils in the back of her throat, but only the subtlest of snorts betrayed the pinch of satisfaction she felt inside; and then he spoke. The tone was growling, low and ominous, and she almost turned to receive his sloppy scolding, with ears pricked attentively. 

Temper, temper!

His startlingly long legs were already in motion, swinging that enormous, fur-laden, hulk of masculinity towards her, and Zahra (with a brazen smile daring the pursuit forward), scooted lithely in an effort to evade him. Though she held her tongue - clamped, in fact, firm between her teeth - the foolish girl agreed that he indeed resembled a monster. Dappled feathers flare, rift-kissed primaries glinting in the fluorescent light with all of the vivid hues of the fallen gods, and she beat them down hurriedly for an injection of speed. 

”Oh, you Nought-y boy,“ she teased, goaded, swerving by the thick circumference of a dingy old tree and nearly slipping completely as traction was lost atop its soggy, surface roots. For a second her face flushed with hot crimson fear - the game, nearly was up - but with scrabbling strides, Zahra was able to recover and blew a sharp snort of relief into the sickly sweet air.  

image credits
@Dreadnought