CRIMSON EMBODIED, a red surpassing the devil’s burn, a red that makes roses wither in SHAME. she has been a storm all these years, a gale of sanguine bursting in cherries on clean white cloth, droplets of blood on snow ———- & she does bleed for him. her throat is ichor - stained, cheeks flushed rouge with heat, heart DRUMMING its sound, all as he shows his princely, monstrous affection, & fulfills her simple request so easily.
❝ oui, oui ——– ❞ eyes fall closed, her head thrown back against the chaise, body arching against his touch like a drawn bow, & she HALF HISSES / HALF GROANS as his claws dig into the softness of her flesh, so near tearing the skin yet so hesitant, as if anything more would displease her, as if even gentleman death would be fearful of HER DISAPPROVAL. & is it not TRUE ? she could command him to walk into flame, to step into the sun & lie still, & he would do it. a shame, a pity, that she perhaps does not share such a DEVOTION. give a woman a devil that loves her ——– what is she to do but USE him ?
❝ bois - me, juste un petit peu plus. ❞ just a little more. ALWAYS WALKING THE LINE between pleasure & danger. they do not call her the red death for naught.
ICY EYES GLOW in the darkness of her flat, marking the beginning of an end let go for far too long. and did time truly have a meaning to their escapades? a man that could live into the very death of their world so noting the passage of days, of months, of decades that left her so ALIVE? and would he have the heart to hear that blood slow when it neared the beckoning threshold of wrinkling, declining old-age? OH, IT MATTERS NOT. for it is only a matter of time before the lion TAKES her. before he DEFILES the blood-red rose and strips her of her petals, of her leaves, until she is naught but a collection of broken, POISONOUS THORNS !!
HE SHOULD WISH TO STAIN. to dye himself the crimson that so willingly bled from her throat, her head, her tongue. down he moves, moving with such speed that his knees all but rock the chaise where she has chosen to lounge. he deigns to STRADDLE those full hips, taking the flesh tight between his fingers. glossy nails create their bleeding crescents, digging and pricking and squeezing all that she had to offer him.
THE CADAVER slides down her being, sinking his fangs into the rounded flesh he’d been toying with mere moments ago. it is a brief moment of pain and relished SEX. a vision of fishnets and leather and the stomping of black boots on an all too-human SKULL. but he aims for an ichor less pure. THE FOUNT of mythical honey that the blood drinker has so longed to sample ‘tween her supple thighs. the holy grail to be his throat, her longing to be his WINE. ❝ j'ai encore soif. ❞ that he might bathe in her waters, he may drink enough to sate the BOTH their thirsts.
annaxmalina
stormborns
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
origamiaround
kianamaiart
snowghoul
