05-08-2018, 05:42 PM
god make me pay
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
She no longer needs to worry about what lives in the darkness of the abyss, because now she knows. It is him that haunts the blackness of the lakes and rivers, he who controls the seas, and it is he who will always be there - waiting for her.
Krone does not try to fight him off of her (bless her if she had tried), for all her strength had been taken from her in their terrible and exhausting journey from Tephra. Bruised and battered, she is now easily his plaything at the lake’s edge, covered in the sweet scent of his only love - himself and the water. She belongs to him, to this lake, and to his cruel intentions. He wonders if she realizes this, or if despite her body physically giving up on her, if her mind continues to fight it - riddling herself with the delusion that she will be saved, that he will set her free, that this is all a dream.
He almost laughs at the thought.
It certainly is not a dream.
As if to remind her, the needy way he sucks at her skin becomes painful as teeth scrape possessively against her water-logged body, his ears pinning back against his skull at the force in which he adds pressure. Soon there is breakage just below her neck-line, where he had left a trail of fresh blood from his hungry bites. Her blood is metallic and life-giving, a blazing inferno of darkness shining in the blackness of his irises at the taste. His pale lips - dry and cracked - are stained an almost beautiful red from the open wounds, intermingling with residual salt from the ocean and the briny waters of the river and the lake.
She flinches only when his voice rattles into the cold air, and he shows his displeasure at the gesture with a growl that reverberates in his throat; warning her. Next she wants to know who he is, and what he wants. A tiny smile curls onto his blood-stained lips (shouldn’t you know who I am already, sweetling?) as he runs his muzzle up her neck and then down her cheek, tracing her body. He shivers, still damp from their journey, and the wind cut through the forest unmercifully. He steps closer to her, his eyes on the cavern behind them, his breath hot on her skin. “Who do you think I am?” His voice is garbled and ugly, fed by too many days spent in the salted water of the seas, a poseidon come to life to walk amongst the mortals and deem whether their lives are worth living.
“What do you think I want?”
Krone does not try to fight him off of her (bless her if she had tried), for all her strength had been taken from her in their terrible and exhausting journey from Tephra. Bruised and battered, she is now easily his plaything at the lake’s edge, covered in the sweet scent of his only love - himself and the water. She belongs to him, to this lake, and to his cruel intentions. He wonders if she realizes this, or if despite her body physically giving up on her, if her mind continues to fight it - riddling herself with the delusion that she will be saved, that he will set her free, that this is all a dream.
He almost laughs at the thought.
It certainly is not a dream.
As if to remind her, the needy way he sucks at her skin becomes painful as teeth scrape possessively against her water-logged body, his ears pinning back against his skull at the force in which he adds pressure. Soon there is breakage just below her neck-line, where he had left a trail of fresh blood from his hungry bites. Her blood is metallic and life-giving, a blazing inferno of darkness shining in the blackness of his irises at the taste. His pale lips - dry and cracked - are stained an almost beautiful red from the open wounds, intermingling with residual salt from the ocean and the briny waters of the river and the lake.
She flinches only when his voice rattles into the cold air, and he shows his displeasure at the gesture with a growl that reverberates in his throat; warning her. Next she wants to know who he is, and what he wants. A tiny smile curls onto his blood-stained lips (shouldn’t you know who I am already, sweetling?) as he runs his muzzle up her neck and then down her cheek, tracing her body. He shivers, still damp from their journey, and the wind cut through the forest unmercifully. He steps closer to her, his eyes on the cavern behind them, his breath hot on her skin. “Who do you think I am?” His voice is garbled and ugly, fed by too many days spent in the salted water of the seas, a poseidon come to life to walk amongst the mortals and deem whether their lives are worth living.
“What do you think I want?”
m a u g r i m.
@[Krone]