He wants to scream, he wants to ask why she’s doing this. He wants to run, he wants to get as far away as possible — but he is so hungry. There is nothing quite like a dark childe’s hunger, an insatiable need that can completely consume the creature itself if it isn’t careful. His hunger is getting the better of him; he finds himself approaching her despite himself. He feels colder and colder the closer he gets, but there is nothing to do now but give in: he needs blood.
He’s close enough, now; he can taste the blood in the air. Lips part, and tongue meets flesh — he licks the blood from her face, a low whine souding in his throat.
head tips back , a malicious grin widening across her face. marcella breathes out a laugh, eyes falling shut. she feels the heat in her chest rise to splash colour across her cheeks. young girls in the small town that fringes her forest claim she bleeds black --- cut into the witch’s flesh and watch maggots crawl onto the blade. she wonders if it’s vitriol on his tongue. bitter , thick and foul like tar.
still , it mustn’t be enough for him , fingers snake through his hair, find a too - rough grip on his roots and coax him further down. her throat’s already scarred , impossibly faint white lines laced across her windpipe . rope burns, knicks, cuts, bite marks, all too faint to see from a distance, but close up it’s like botched patchwork.
it’s more invitation than command , marcella tilts her head to one side, bare throat exposed.












