He takes pride in his control over her. He watches the way she reacts (how her skin begins to sweat, how her eyebrows pull together in confusion, how her breathing increases, how her muscles twitch) and a deep sort of pleasure brims to the surface of his mind. It had been too long since he had last exercised his tricks, yet they seem to be just as powerful.
She moans as the world falls into darkness like the beginning of an apocalypse (his apocalypse) and a warmth brews in his lower gut. It isn’t the heat of arousal (though he certainly wouldn’t be opposed) but it is the flame of desire for chaos. That impulse (the inclination for groans of pain both physical and emotional, for the sob of a broken-hearted lover, for the stubbornness to push harder and harder, for seeing homes burn, for the sight of maroon blood pouring onto delicate ivory snow) drove nearly every move the trickster made. It was an addiction, a lifestyle, a purpose.
Through that one sound, he craves more. His nostrils quiver and his lungs heave (yet his tricks still twist against the ridges of her mind). She speaks a word, then. “Stop.” The noise moves perfectly in tune with the end of his little show (the closing scene did not fall short due to her language) and he gives a haughty chuckle to himself.
His shoulders roll in a casual movement at her following words. He’d been playing tricks before his first birthday, though it had been on smaller creatures. The pink queen had been his first equine victim (and she had been impressed, he remembers well) and from there his talents had only improved. “I’ve had practice, babe.”
She moans as the world falls into darkness like the beginning of an apocalypse (his apocalypse) and a warmth brews in his lower gut. It isn’t the heat of arousal (though he certainly wouldn’t be opposed) but it is the flame of desire for chaos. That impulse (the inclination for groans of pain both physical and emotional, for the sob of a broken-hearted lover, for the stubbornness to push harder and harder, for seeing homes burn, for the sight of maroon blood pouring onto delicate ivory snow) drove nearly every move the trickster made. It was an addiction, a lifestyle, a purpose.
Through that one sound, he craves more. His nostrils quiver and his lungs heave (yet his tricks still twist against the ridges of her mind). She speaks a word, then. “Stop.” The noise moves perfectly in tune with the end of his little show (the closing scene did not fall short due to her language) and he gives a haughty chuckle to himself.
His shoulders roll in a casual movement at her following words. He’d been playing tricks before his first birthday, though it had been on smaller creatures. The pink queen had been his first equine victim (and she had been impressed, he remembers well) and from there his talents had only improved. “I’ve had practice, babe.”
LOKII
@[Krone]
