08-18-2017, 02:02 PM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
She has never been able to hide her anger.
It is too evident in the darkness of her heavy gaze – an endless plethora of festering rage, rising to the surface from the thundering of her rapidly beating heart and the stirring frustration roiling beneath. Withholding her resentment, her bitterness, her ire had never come easy to her. It is her own flaw, much as the pettiness is of the other, and in the dense, darkness of a dimly lit woodland, eye to eye, the imperfection of their personalities is raw and present, threatening to boil over with each moment.
The sheer arrogance bubbling up with such self-satisfied mirth is nearly enough to cause her to snap, to lash out with clenched teeth, to tear at the too-perfect, untouched flesh across her tender throat. With each spoken word, she yearns more and more for a set of sharp, salivating teeth, to tear out the grating vocal cords hidden under thick muscle and tissue – she would give anything, in that moment, to see her gasping for air, speechless – sputtering under her.
Instead, a growl she had not thought herself capable of making emerges (a grumble, really, but so taut within the tightness of her throat that it may as well be a snarl), as the warmth of her skin is so near to her she can almost feel her pressed against her – a figment of her imagination, and then she is gone, putting distance between them. Her gaze drifts, tracing the slender line of her spine, the curve of her hip, and still the rage simmers.
She is seemingly distracted, but Ellyse is no fool. She is feigning indifference – a game of cat and mouse, but she is certain that beneath her coy exterior is a frothing, rabid rat, longing to draw out the fierce feline within her for a fight that had been building since the suppleness of their youth.
And then, there is a change – a subtle shift in her tone, and the hefty realization of her purpose in taunting her, in finding her nearly steals away the breath within her lungs, and the rage is red, hot, and blinding. Especially if you care for your children as much as you claim.
The small space left in between them is closed, and she is launching herself toward her, as the once minuscule bone protruding from her skin elongates, curving toward her and pinning her between the hot warmth of her own body and the frigid, brittle bark of an oak that lay behind her. The temptation to pin her to the old and winding trunk, to press a sharp and long spike of bone through her pounding, bleeding heart and end her is overwhelming, and the resistance is almost torture, but she cannot do anything she will regret – not yet (oh, Heartfire knows that she cannot, that she must rein in her anger, for the question of her son and his safety is still a heavier burden on her mind!)
”Where is he?” she growls, the intensity of her hazel gaze settled upon the icy blue of her own, a fire sparked – becoming a blistering inferno. ”Where is my son? What have you done?”
It is too evident in the darkness of her heavy gaze – an endless plethora of festering rage, rising to the surface from the thundering of her rapidly beating heart and the stirring frustration roiling beneath. Withholding her resentment, her bitterness, her ire had never come easy to her. It is her own flaw, much as the pettiness is of the other, and in the dense, darkness of a dimly lit woodland, eye to eye, the imperfection of their personalities is raw and present, threatening to boil over with each moment.
The sheer arrogance bubbling up with such self-satisfied mirth is nearly enough to cause her to snap, to lash out with clenched teeth, to tear at the too-perfect, untouched flesh across her tender throat. With each spoken word, she yearns more and more for a set of sharp, salivating teeth, to tear out the grating vocal cords hidden under thick muscle and tissue – she would give anything, in that moment, to see her gasping for air, speechless – sputtering under her.
Instead, a growl she had not thought herself capable of making emerges (a grumble, really, but so taut within the tightness of her throat that it may as well be a snarl), as the warmth of her skin is so near to her she can almost feel her pressed against her – a figment of her imagination, and then she is gone, putting distance between them. Her gaze drifts, tracing the slender line of her spine, the curve of her hip, and still the rage simmers.
She is seemingly distracted, but Ellyse is no fool. She is feigning indifference – a game of cat and mouse, but she is certain that beneath her coy exterior is a frothing, rabid rat, longing to draw out the fierce feline within her for a fight that had been building since the suppleness of their youth.
And then, there is a change – a subtle shift in her tone, and the hefty realization of her purpose in taunting her, in finding her nearly steals away the breath within her lungs, and the rage is red, hot, and blinding. Especially if you care for your children as much as you claim.
The small space left in between them is closed, and she is launching herself toward her, as the once minuscule bone protruding from her skin elongates, curving toward her and pinning her between the hot warmth of her own body and the frigid, brittle bark of an oak that lay behind her. The temptation to pin her to the old and winding trunk, to press a sharp and long spike of bone through her pounding, bleeding heart and end her is overwhelming, and the resistance is almost torture, but she cannot do anything she will regret – not yet (oh, Heartfire knows that she cannot, that she must rein in her anger, for the question of her son and his safety is still a heavier burden on her mind!)
”Where is he?” she growls, the intensity of her hazel gaze settled upon the icy blue of her own, a fire sparked – becoming a blistering inferno. ”Where is my son? What have you done?”
Ellyse