11-29-2015, 02:16 AM
The cold grips her body, and it is a vice. A squeeze, pushing air from her lungs like a constrictor. Tighter and tighter as she draws the bitter air deep. The world had been left shackled and heaving with spent sweat and seed, withering — naked and shameful. Then came the reaper. Autumnal and leaden, it oversaw all the pleasures that they took liberally, and in it's own dying days lashed from their flesh their sins.
Bloody, but atoned.
And then it cracked the sky open with its great sickle. Tearing a hole in the pregnant, expectant cycle. Winter. (Blink. For a moment the snow is no longer virgin. It is stained with viscera, everywhere. She smells only ice and cold, though. Odd.) She curses them their heady rampage (Ironic.) Their collective thrusts tempting something cyclical and savagely productive. The great equilibrate.
Fall is nature's reaper. Rewarding their work with a quickening, sure. But Winter is what He leaves behind to do his work.
She slides her tongue across her soft lips in a thirsty motion. Aurane's black-brown eyes are tracking him like a bird, unblinking and bewildered. Her brow is knitted together, furrowed with a strong mixture of disgust and reverence. Chilled flesh tingles, red and black fur standing erect down the curve and knots of her spine. She blinks, finally. (His morsel fidgets and splits open with a tumult of insect larvae. He continues his feast.) She flinches away — somewhat uncharacteristic — and turns her head to abate the churning in her gut. When she cannot bear to look away any longer she uncoils her slim neck, his morsel is only a paltry and whole nibble again.
She moves to him — an odd moth to an odd flame, her carnal grace tempered by a disruptive and powerful dread. A gathering, erotic fear. “So this is what death and dying looks like?” There is contempt in her smooth voice (always), but it wavers and belies a greater curiosity beneath.
She does not mean his mouthful of meat.
Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
Bloody, but atoned.And then it cracked the sky open with its great sickle. Tearing a hole in the pregnant, expectant cycle. Winter. (Blink. For a moment the snow is no longer virgin. It is stained with viscera, everywhere. She smells only ice and cold, though. Odd.) She curses them their heady rampage (Ironic.) Their collective thrusts tempting something cyclical and savagely productive. The great equilibrate.
Fall is nature's reaper. Rewarding their work with a quickening, sure. But Winter is what He leaves behind to do his work.She slides her tongue across her soft lips in a thirsty motion. Aurane's black-brown eyes are tracking him like a bird, unblinking and bewildered. Her brow is knitted together, furrowed with a strong mixture of disgust and reverence. Chilled flesh tingles, red and black fur standing erect down the curve and knots of her spine. She blinks, finally. (His morsel fidgets and splits open with a tumult of insect larvae. He continues his feast.) She flinches away — somewhat uncharacteristic — and turns her head to abate the churning in her gut. When she cannot bear to look away any longer she uncoils her slim neck, his morsel is only a paltry and whole nibble again.
She moves to him — an odd moth to an odd flame, her carnal grace tempered by a disruptive and powerful dread. A gathering, erotic fear. “So this is what death and dying looks like?” There is contempt in her smooth voice (always), but it wavers and belies a greater curiosity beneath.
She does not mean his mouthful of meat.where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.
lines and shading
by bronzehalo
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