12-22-2017, 01:46 AM
It has been years since he’s last seen the busy face of civilization.
He might’ve been destined to the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna’s attic-space were it not for her. And he’s enjoyed his silence — the peace of the feral wilderness, the absence of anything but his own thoughts — but the scent of her draws him from his hiding places. Although she smells different from him, there is no denying the familiarity that weaves through her aroma.
Family. Sibling. Sister.
Only halfway, born from the same dark loins. But they are both of the shadows, spending their days in the darkness. He weaves between their cool, intermittent embraces as the scent of her wafts between the thickness of the trees. He is a wild thing — standing tall with a deep chest and sinewy muscle roped along the frame of his body. Scars are flecked across his inky black body, trophies of battles fought in the war of life and death. Long, tangled locks drape across the brown of his eyes and the slope of his withers.
He is just as untameable as she.
Her trail leads him to a thicket smelling of sinfulness and a wicked smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. It stretches the thin scar found there, subtle and yet entirely too appealing. He pauses for a moment, hearing the husk of her voice — he is pleased to know that she is just as aware of their similarity as he is — before pushing his way into the privacy of the undergrowth.
She stands before him as a petite doll, just as wild and just as dark as he. His size makes the space smaller than it might have seemed before, forcing his firm muscle against her sleek curves. A rumble of a greeting rolls from his throat though there are no words. Already, the tension is mounted between them, as his dark eyes take in the landscape of her body with calculation and brazen amusement. Although they have only just met, he can see the way they fit perfectly (his wild muscle to her wild curvature).
He doesn’t feel the need to defend himself from her stab. Instead, he makes a move to change his position from alongside her length. The action is erotic — one side of him pressing against the unyielding fibers of the thicket they are surrounded by, the other side skimming along the soft femininity of her side.
As he moves, his mouth trails along the edges of her frame. She tastes like rocky mountains and crisp ponds. He reaches to lightly nip at the thicker pieces of her body, the plane of her thigh and the swell of her breast. As he comes around to where he initially started, low and smoky words blow from his mouth. “Mother did well on you.”
@[Trissy]
He might’ve been destined to the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna’s attic-space were it not for her. And he’s enjoyed his silence — the peace of the feral wilderness, the absence of anything but his own thoughts — but the scent of her draws him from his hiding places. Although she smells different from him, there is no denying the familiarity that weaves through her aroma.
Family. Sibling. Sister.
Only halfway, born from the same dark loins. But they are both of the shadows, spending their days in the darkness. He weaves between their cool, intermittent embraces as the scent of her wafts between the thickness of the trees. He is a wild thing — standing tall with a deep chest and sinewy muscle roped along the frame of his body. Scars are flecked across his inky black body, trophies of battles fought in the war of life and death. Long, tangled locks drape across the brown of his eyes and the slope of his withers.
He is just as untameable as she.
Her trail leads him to a thicket smelling of sinfulness and a wicked smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. It stretches the thin scar found there, subtle and yet entirely too appealing. He pauses for a moment, hearing the husk of her voice — he is pleased to know that she is just as aware of their similarity as he is — before pushing his way into the privacy of the undergrowth.
She stands before him as a petite doll, just as wild and just as dark as he. His size makes the space smaller than it might have seemed before, forcing his firm muscle against her sleek curves. A rumble of a greeting rolls from his throat though there are no words. Already, the tension is mounted between them, as his dark eyes take in the landscape of her body with calculation and brazen amusement. Although they have only just met, he can see the way they fit perfectly (his wild muscle to her wild curvature).
He doesn’t feel the need to defend himself from her stab. Instead, he makes a move to change his position from alongside her length. The action is erotic — one side of him pressing against the unyielding fibers of the thicket they are surrounded by, the other side skimming along the soft femininity of her side.
As he moves, his mouth trails along the edges of her frame. She tastes like rocky mountains and crisp ponds. He reaches to lightly nip at the thicker pieces of her body, the plane of her thigh and the swell of her breast. As he comes around to where he initially started, low and smoky words blow from his mouth. “Mother did well on you.”
@[Trissy]