10-11-2017, 03:04 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
She had never yearned for another.
Not as she yearned for him.
She had become too preoccupied with her own prowess – the sharpness of her fangs, and how easily her incisors punctured delicate, plump fowl against the surface of her tongue – or the ease in which she could manipulate organic matter, to reshape the darkness her shadow is so often swallowed by. She longed to be a part of something more that what had been given to her – the stillness of the woodland had not been enough to quell her wild and ravenous soul; not as it had been for her sister and her father. She craved destruction, chaos – she craved him; she longed to absorb his energy and to harness the sheer power that hung just beneath his sinewy tendons and the tender marrow of his bones.
He is like her – untamed, voracious in appetite and hungry for devastation and obliteration.
It lingered within her sordid blood, like a heavy sediment filling her wildly pounding, adrenaline-laced heart – dark, shriveled and callous, she would find her fill, by whatever means necessary.
He understood her – she understood him, and with it came a deep, unshakable desire to nestle herself deep within the sharp crevices of his body – her hip aligning with his, as the swell tucks against the jagged bone of his own, and her shoulder firmly settled against his own. His teeth brush across her jawline, and a shiver traverses along the slope of her spine. She was a sinful thing, but she had never partaken in the sin of skin – only in bloodshed, in slaughter and in sheer, unadulterated violence.
But he - he made her flesh quiver in a way that carnage could not, and as his teeth tug a tangled tress of her dark mane, sending a jolt of pleasure across the surface of her indigo flesh. There is a soft, but guttural murmur – an appraisal of her efforts; an appreciation for her devotion, with a promise entangled with his husky, carefully uttered words. Her body instinctively writhes beneath his mouth as it navigates the lithe and shapely form of her feminine physique, and she can feel the darkness of his gaze boring into her, tracing the rounded curve of her shoulder – the base of spine, where his teeth might grip and pull, and the roundness of her hips, where he might grip her to draw her closer to him.
When the pitchless black and dreary gray of her gaze settles into his own, it is not shy, nor meek – she had never been either – her words are laced with arousal and need, and rife with assertion.
”Fuck me,” she croons to him, through her two-toned forelock – a stark ivory lain across the blackness of her cheek. ”what are you waiting for?”
Not as she yearned for him.
She had become too preoccupied with her own prowess – the sharpness of her fangs, and how easily her incisors punctured delicate, plump fowl against the surface of her tongue – or the ease in which she could manipulate organic matter, to reshape the darkness her shadow is so often swallowed by. She longed to be a part of something more that what had been given to her – the stillness of the woodland had not been enough to quell her wild and ravenous soul; not as it had been for her sister and her father. She craved destruction, chaos – she craved him; she longed to absorb his energy and to harness the sheer power that hung just beneath his sinewy tendons and the tender marrow of his bones.
He is like her – untamed, voracious in appetite and hungry for devastation and obliteration.
It lingered within her sordid blood, like a heavy sediment filling her wildly pounding, adrenaline-laced heart – dark, shriveled and callous, she would find her fill, by whatever means necessary.
He understood her – she understood him, and with it came a deep, unshakable desire to nestle herself deep within the sharp crevices of his body – her hip aligning with his, as the swell tucks against the jagged bone of his own, and her shoulder firmly settled against his own. His teeth brush across her jawline, and a shiver traverses along the slope of her spine. She was a sinful thing, but she had never partaken in the sin of skin – only in bloodshed, in slaughter and in sheer, unadulterated violence.
But he - he made her flesh quiver in a way that carnage could not, and as his teeth tug a tangled tress of her dark mane, sending a jolt of pleasure across the surface of her indigo flesh. There is a soft, but guttural murmur – an appraisal of her efforts; an appreciation for her devotion, with a promise entangled with his husky, carefully uttered words. Her body instinctively writhes beneath his mouth as it navigates the lithe and shapely form of her feminine physique, and she can feel the darkness of his gaze boring into her, tracing the rounded curve of her shoulder – the base of spine, where his teeth might grip and pull, and the roundness of her hips, where he might grip her to draw her closer to him.
When the pitchless black and dreary gray of her gaze settles into his own, it is not shy, nor meek – she had never been either – her words are laced with arousal and need, and rife with assertion.
”Fuck me,” she croons to him, through her two-toned forelock – a stark ivory lain across the blackness of her cheek. ”what are you waiting for?”
@[Gryffen]