[Gift] FoS '25 | Tough Love

Two dark dragons circled one another on the uneven ground of the Sparknest, neither willing to tear their eyes away. The smaller of the two practically danced on her hooves, iridescent scales shimmering with every movement, oil-slick rainbows remaining long after the fireworks overhead had begun to fade away.

Even with her smaller size, she was imposing: growths like bone jutted from her spine, her neck, and her chest. All across her body, red, gleaming eyes turned their slitted pupils to the other dragon, jerking in uneven movements, taking him in with a hungry look.

On her plated abdomen, a green tongue lolled from an open mouth, then ran over its pointed teeth.

Her tail reared up like a snake, splitting down the middle to open, an inky maw in dark, dissolving scales, as her wings flared to make herself look bigger. Behind her head swung a lantern whose flame burned bright, calling three butterflies to circle behind her, almost hypnotic.

Across from her was a seven-limbed creature, all green, black, yellow, and orange. He bulked, one head opening its obscenely large maw to display his own teeth while the other regarded her coolly with empty sockets in its skull. He tossed his heads, showing off his antlers, as his own wings widened.

He braced all seven feet on the ground, the velvet scales on his shoulders rippling. He laughed — a terrible, menacing sound.

Mischief didn’t wait.

She dashed across their small arena, beak clacking at him in an attempt at a bite as Hollow reared up on his hind legs, one fingered forefoot closing around her horn.

“You look good enough to eat,” she told him and threw her head back as she reared up on her own hind legs, boxing at him with her forehooves as the mouth on her belly stretched into a wide grin, tongue lashing towards him.

“So do you,” Hollow said, velvet-soft and full of malice. He stumbled a step away, wings spread to keep his balance. His middle-most foot swiped at her, claws glancing harmlessly off the scales of her face as the two of them backed away.

He grinned with both faces. “Point.”

And Mischief stomped a hoof in defiance; her tail whipped behind her, snapping at the air like a striking snake.

To be clear, this was not a game. Games had winners and losers, and while there may be points, neither Mischief nor Hollow cared much to keep count.

It was all about this: a move that, made in any other context, might lead to a tasty snack, turned into a parody of violence. Only with each other could they make a mockery of themselves, to turn instincts and survival into play.

Until Hollow had one of her ears in his mouth but didn’t bite down.

Until Mischief’s tail latched onto one of his hind feet, then didn’t let go, but neither let him fall.

Until the two had collapsed, half on top of the other, laughing and nipping and finally relaxing as they took in the explosions overhead.

Hollow rubbed his cheek against one of the spines on her back, pressing until the slightest give of his flesh painted the white bone red. The tongue on Mischief’s abdomen lapped at his fingers and nibbled when he presented them, baring the edge of her teeth but without the intent to harm.

This was the love of monsters, of things that go bump in the night. The hunger was a very real, very terrifying thing, but here, that terrible nature could be brought out and cherished by someone else who understood, by someone who was — said with all the affection in the world — as horrible as themselves.