11-10-2017, 04:25 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
”Good,” she coos to him as her lips brush along the ridge of his layered scales, observing the way the pale moonlight causes which to individually reflect with the slow rise and fall of his rhythmic breath. ”that only serves to delight me, Ivar.” She muses, her voice laced with amusement thought it does not reach her eyes (if he were looking, he might find the sinful, insidious darkness looming like a hazy fog, lustful but not for the sexual gratification he is seeking). ”Unsettling you is far more satisfactory than laying claim to your favor.”
The warmth of his breath along her sensitive skin does elicit a delightful moan, but it is not him she is thinking of. Her mind is elsewhere for the moment, remembering the way Gryffen had drawn her closer to him beneath the pale light of dawn, intoxicated by her as she had become enamored by him. Sin of the skin had been nothing to her until him, and even as Ivar presses his weight along the feminine curve of her hip and the slope of her spine, she is not thinking of him, nor the fullness of him (a gasp is drawn from her lungs, forceful and leaving her breathless as Ivar urges his sharp teeth through her supple flesh).
Her skin is painted with her own blood, seeping from the wound left by sharp, treacherous teeth, and while his hips cling closer to her with each sweeping, thrusting motion. While she is gasping and writhing beneath him, she is rife with arousal at the sheer thought of being closer to knowing the depth of his own depravity more so than she is brought closer to an end by his carnal desire. Her breath is caught within her throat each time he is sheathed inside of her; her heartbeat thrumming quicker as his seed is spent and buried within her – but it is over before it has begun, and she is left tired, frustrated, and still wanting.
But not for him.
His lips brush her own blood across her shoulder, and down to the curve of her barrel, and that is when her quickened heartbeat is suddenly stifled. It is halted by the abrupt thought of child, of bearing the sordid product of such sin. Seized by the thought of carrying his seed and the product of her own insatiable curiosity within her, and a grimace of disgust emerges where dissatisfaction and amusement once lay. The thought is shaken away (where had it come from?) and she is recoiling from his touch, the darkness of her stare boring into his own while suspicion is laced within the shadow of her silver eye.
The thought had not come from her – it had come from him; but how?
”You should be more selective. Your previous conquests have done nothing to improve your virility.” She murmurs with finality, her heartbeat having slowed to a mellow rhythm. Though her desire is not yet sated, she is content to have seen some small piece of the beast lay beneath his façade. As her shoulder pulsates with a lingering twinge of pain, and while her mind rampantly wonders if he can see inside of her mind or if he can merely plant the seed of a thought where there had been none before, she is reminded that evil can exist in many forms.
”I have had better,” she breathes across his shoulder once she has pivoted, pressing the curve of her hip along his shoulder and into the ridge of his own hipbone, where slickened sweat and seed lay drying across her indigo flesh. ”Poor Heda, no wonder she is so terribly wound up. But I have learned so much about you, Ivar.” She coos against his scaled hide. ”Invaluable information, and perhaps, in time, it will be a better lover to me than you.”
She does not look back to him, for he is parting from her as well as her legs carry her into the darkness, while the brittle bark of clustered hickory and pine bear her blood while she weaves effortlessly through the terrain. She descends into the darkness while shedding her indigo flesh, becoming the prowling wolf blanketed in blackness while her low and sullen howl permeates the shadow once more. All the while, the thought of an unborn seed implanted within her womb, try as she might, is never far from her mind.
The warmth of his breath along her sensitive skin does elicit a delightful moan, but it is not him she is thinking of. Her mind is elsewhere for the moment, remembering the way Gryffen had drawn her closer to him beneath the pale light of dawn, intoxicated by her as she had become enamored by him. Sin of the skin had been nothing to her until him, and even as Ivar presses his weight along the feminine curve of her hip and the slope of her spine, she is not thinking of him, nor the fullness of him (a gasp is drawn from her lungs, forceful and leaving her breathless as Ivar urges his sharp teeth through her supple flesh).
Her skin is painted with her own blood, seeping from the wound left by sharp, treacherous teeth, and while his hips cling closer to her with each sweeping, thrusting motion. While she is gasping and writhing beneath him, she is rife with arousal at the sheer thought of being closer to knowing the depth of his own depravity more so than she is brought closer to an end by his carnal desire. Her breath is caught within her throat each time he is sheathed inside of her; her heartbeat thrumming quicker as his seed is spent and buried within her – but it is over before it has begun, and she is left tired, frustrated, and still wanting.
But not for him.
His lips brush her own blood across her shoulder, and down to the curve of her barrel, and that is when her quickened heartbeat is suddenly stifled. It is halted by the abrupt thought of child, of bearing the sordid product of such sin. Seized by the thought of carrying his seed and the product of her own insatiable curiosity within her, and a grimace of disgust emerges where dissatisfaction and amusement once lay. The thought is shaken away (where had it come from?) and she is recoiling from his touch, the darkness of her stare boring into his own while suspicion is laced within the shadow of her silver eye.
The thought had not come from her – it had come from him; but how?
”You should be more selective. Your previous conquests have done nothing to improve your virility.” She murmurs with finality, her heartbeat having slowed to a mellow rhythm. Though her desire is not yet sated, she is content to have seen some small piece of the beast lay beneath his façade. As her shoulder pulsates with a lingering twinge of pain, and while her mind rampantly wonders if he can see inside of her mind or if he can merely plant the seed of a thought where there had been none before, she is reminded that evil can exist in many forms.
”I have had better,” she breathes across his shoulder once she has pivoted, pressing the curve of her hip along his shoulder and into the ridge of his own hipbone, where slickened sweat and seed lay drying across her indigo flesh. ”Poor Heda, no wonder she is so terribly wound up. But I have learned so much about you, Ivar.” She coos against his scaled hide. ”Invaluable information, and perhaps, in time, it will be a better lover to me than you.”
She does not look back to him, for he is parting from her as well as her legs carry her into the darkness, while the brittle bark of clustered hickory and pine bear her blood while she weaves effortlessly through the terrain. She descends into the darkness while shedding her indigo flesh, becoming the prowling wolf blanketed in blackness while her low and sullen howl permeates the shadow once more. All the while, the thought of an unborn seed implanted within her womb, try as she might, is never far from her mind.