11-02-2017, 09:43 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
The fire is intoxicating – heavy plumes of smoke filter through the thicket, chasing away the low-lying fog that covered the dry soil. She can hardly breathe, and so she must move away from the darkness that she so deeply coveted. Her skin shines with a sheen of perspiration beading across the indigo surface, trickling down the length of her body where teeth and lips had brushed and caressed – fervency and desire forgotten for a moment, while all that she had come to know as her own began to burn.
The darkened abyss of one and the dreary gray of another eye search the smoldering fire, as the dried brush become little else but flickering embers before her – her mental willpower alone brushes dust across the inferno, squelching it, extinguishing it as hickory and pine both burn into a simmering glow. It does not take him long to find her. It is unspoken, the bond that has become to tether him to her and her to him, but she is reminded of the faintest glimmer of worry hidden within his crimson gaze after the fall of Taiga, of the way his teeth and mouth had lain claim to her when she arrived, injured but thriving.
She does not need for him to say that there is meaning in their connection – that the heat of his touch across her skin, or the intensity of her teeth claiming his own is more than what is shared with any other.
My Queen, he breathes across her skin, and she is at ease – it does not matter if any other should perish in the heat of the inferno; if any other should suffer and blister and burn. He is beside her, and that is enough to quiet her own tireless mind. When her gaze moves away from the blaze and to him, there is a flicker of amusement, of surprise – he is little more than a skeleton, with the same scarlet stare boring into her own, seeing beyond the darkness of her gaze.
”Your Queen, should you have me,” she croons to him, her dark lips brushing across the rigid, literal bone of his jaw. ”You are so wicked, and so full of surprises. Should I worry that you are lacking a bone where it counts?” Ah, and there is that impish smile, drawing up the corner of her lips. ”No. Let it burn – the wind is moving east, and there is little there to carry the flame.” She pauses then, casting a glance toward the brittle, burnt remains of the thicket –
”His fire cannot burn forever. Come, let us rest. It has been a .. most fruitful celebration.”
The darkened abyss of one and the dreary gray of another eye search the smoldering fire, as the dried brush become little else but flickering embers before her – her mental willpower alone brushes dust across the inferno, squelching it, extinguishing it as hickory and pine both burn into a simmering glow. It does not take him long to find her. It is unspoken, the bond that has become to tether him to her and her to him, but she is reminded of the faintest glimmer of worry hidden within his crimson gaze after the fall of Taiga, of the way his teeth and mouth had lain claim to her when she arrived, injured but thriving.
She does not need for him to say that there is meaning in their connection – that the heat of his touch across her skin, or the intensity of her teeth claiming his own is more than what is shared with any other.
My Queen, he breathes across her skin, and she is at ease – it does not matter if any other should perish in the heat of the inferno; if any other should suffer and blister and burn. He is beside her, and that is enough to quiet her own tireless mind. When her gaze moves away from the blaze and to him, there is a flicker of amusement, of surprise – he is little more than a skeleton, with the same scarlet stare boring into her own, seeing beyond the darkness of her gaze.
”Your Queen, should you have me,” she croons to him, her dark lips brushing across the rigid, literal bone of his jaw. ”You are so wicked, and so full of surprises. Should I worry that you are lacking a bone where it counts?” Ah, and there is that impish smile, drawing up the corner of her lips. ”No. Let it burn – the wind is moving east, and there is little there to carry the flame.” She pauses then, casting a glance toward the brittle, burnt remains of the thicket –
”His fire cannot burn forever. Come, let us rest. It has been a .. most fruitful celebration.”