08-03-2016, 12:53 PM
Reach out and touch faith
Underwood
I will deliver; you know I'm a forgiver.
Her voice is as sweet and as tempting as the gentle trickle of molasses to a starved tongue; something to be revered and savored - and as it reaches him, it envelopes him and sends an unusual shudder along the length of his spine. Very few things rattle him the way that she does, and he has gone far too long without her. The feathers that line his magnificent wings bristle slightly against the gentle breeze that weaves through the heavy foliage, his own heavy heartbeat in line with the pace his powerful legs keep.
Though flight would bring himself to her sooner, he knew that if he elongated the time she spent waiting, the more eager she would be upon his arrival - such a powerful, yet easily manipulated soul, his mother. She doted on him so deeply and adored him so blindingly, she saw little of the malicious prowess within his dark, soulless eyes. He would never do anything to harm her, no - not his precious mother - but the sin-laced thoughts that he kept cloaked within the recesses of his mind were enough to cause even the most resolved to crumble beneath the weight.
Her scent caresses his flesh, and the way it wraps itself around him causes the corner of his wry, whiskered lips to tug up into an uneasy smile. He is no longer a child, but a blossoming, poisonous bloom of testosterone and sinewy muscle. He emerges from the depths of the shadows with a darkness in his eyes as he observes the slender curves of her body, marred by dried streaks of blood and the occasional welt and bruise. The smile twists into a grimace of distaste, and soon a simmering rage bubbles from within, and he moves past her to delicately press his lips to her wounds.
He can taste the sweet metal of her blood, and he can feel the way she flinches beneath his youth. Her scent is not the only one that lingers. Intermingled is the sweat, blood and semen of his own father, and he circles behind her rear end to press the corner of his muzzle along the length of her trembling side. He comes up alongside her, dark eyes meeting with her own. Something remains unspoken, but he touches his cheek to hers, and she is his again. In the end, it is all that matters.
"You are hurt; you know that I do not like to see you in such pain." He murmurs, voice drenching with wickedness. He glances to her ear, which appears pink, hairless - fresh tissue, slowly mending. "Perhaps you should tell me of your assailant so I may tear their own tissue from their flesh."
Though flight would bring himself to her sooner, he knew that if he elongated the time she spent waiting, the more eager she would be upon his arrival - such a powerful, yet easily manipulated soul, his mother. She doted on him so deeply and adored him so blindingly, she saw little of the malicious prowess within his dark, soulless eyes. He would never do anything to harm her, no - not his precious mother - but the sin-laced thoughts that he kept cloaked within the recesses of his mind were enough to cause even the most resolved to crumble beneath the weight.
Her scent caresses his flesh, and the way it wraps itself around him causes the corner of his wry, whiskered lips to tug up into an uneasy smile. He is no longer a child, but a blossoming, poisonous bloom of testosterone and sinewy muscle. He emerges from the depths of the shadows with a darkness in his eyes as he observes the slender curves of her body, marred by dried streaks of blood and the occasional welt and bruise. The smile twists into a grimace of distaste, and soon a simmering rage bubbles from within, and he moves past her to delicately press his lips to her wounds.
He can taste the sweet metal of her blood, and he can feel the way she flinches beneath his youth. Her scent is not the only one that lingers. Intermingled is the sweat, blood and semen of his own father, and he circles behind her rear end to press the corner of his muzzle along the length of her trembling side. He comes up alongside her, dark eyes meeting with her own. Something remains unspoken, but he touches his cheek to hers, and she is his again. In the end, it is all that matters.
"You are hurt; you know that I do not like to see you in such pain." He murmurs, voice drenching with wickedness. He glances to her ear, which appears pink, hairless - fresh tissue, slowly mending. "Perhaps you should tell me of your assailant so I may tear their own tissue from their flesh."