04-15-2019, 08:43 PM
She is too tired to care that her antics elicit little in the way of a response from him beyond the pinch of his teeth at the nape of her neck. Maybe not that tired to feel the quick flare of pain and pleasure that always seem to mingle together around him. For just a moment, she is renewed by his little nip that she contemplates stoking his ire further by splashing him with just a bit of water from the river but the fevered conflagration of mischief leaves her as quick as it had come, and she is dull-eyed and tired once more.
Each ounce of strength is sapped from her and she just wants him to… maybe to hold her close, though she is no longer certain it would be in girlish innocence and ignorance. Neither of which Shroud has really ever been. But his flesh is a hearth that beckons, except she knows better than to mar the rich blue of him with the filth she is wearing from her sins and travels. Bathe first, snuggle later - play the docile obedient sick girl and maybe, she’ll feel his teeth on her again.
She had burned beneath his look.
The kind of look that makes wax melt and fires smolder. But he dropped his head back to the river and took another sip. It made her start to smolder in a different way then before. Before it was desire - that feeling of being desirous and looked at in a new light, and now, it is anger that summers and spits in her because she is a child again in his eyes. Shroud’s tolerance is a pendulum that swings precariously between an even keel and a wild temper.
Right now, it surges towards temper and hellfire as if he’d scorned her. He’d done no such thing of course and her tired plague-battered self tried to tell her as much but she wasn’t having it after the fires of desire had slowly but quickly been lit. Except he surprises her by coming to her of his own regard and in his own time - -
So unexpected!
There is the slightest quirk of her lips in a manner most coy as he begins to groom her neck. His teeth are rough; his mouth is rough - he is roughness incarnate, and her eyes shut in a blend of ecstasy and hopelessness. Even the shove of his head against her is deliciously rough enough to unsteady her but she maintains her balance. Shroud waits, patient and impatient for the bite she knows will come and anticipation makes her shiver beneath and against him.
Her flesh seeks his for strength and warmth and his sheer masculinity. Shroud leans in his direction always, like a flower listing after the hot bright sun. Knowing he’ll scorch her to dust but it will have been worth it. Just as she knows that some tide in her had turned from filly to mare, young yet but Shroud knows what she wants and that’s him - it’s always been him since they first met. He’s that shadow of doubt; that alarm that sounds in the back of her mind the moment her disobedience kicks in.
Then, his teeth on her neck -
A small gasp escapes her, pleasant and surprised. Her knees grow weak, she might stagger for a moment, then she braces herself in sheer foolish resistance - she’ll not submit unless he is right there beside her. Unconsciously, her wings are shuddering back into their favored form of brambling lashes and the thorny bits lift in open defiance - the only warning she gives him as he looks at her, and the look is one full of anger that she knows all too well and adores because she inspires it in him.
Her laugh rasps out of her throat as she falls against him, “I helped.” His teeth nip and send little jolts of pain ricocheting through her that leave her tingly and spent. Even her wings reassemble into feathers that brush against him as they tuck back up against her sides, soft as kisses. Shroud had undeniably taken pleasure in the mindless mass slaughter that unleashed the plague upon the lands. But he then asks about her disobedience and she laughs again; “You never said I couldn’t kill someone.”
Part provocation, but also so much truth. He had never said directly that she couldn’t stray from his side, couldn’t bask in the sins of the earth. There had been no further instruction on his part so as long as she came back to him, to their haunts in the forest each time. Hadn’t she? The disobedience came in the fact that she rubbed his face in her caveats; sauntered them about like the sashay of her virgin hips - to provoke, to displease him, to rile him up until he broke over her in waves of teeth and torment.
(who manipulates who here?)
Shroud begins to rub the side of her whiskery mouth against his chest before delivering daring little nips here and there to the sleek folds of his skin. “You never said I couldn’t…” she murmurs, biting hard before jerking her head back and managing another coy look at him.
@[Tunnel] haha she’s likes bite me more but I’ll bite back! ❤️❤️❤️