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+---- Thread: [AW] hymns of salt and terror; (/showthread.php?tid=3054)
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hymns of salt and terror; - Amaroq - 01-09-2019
 | Death can be kind For many days Amaroq keeps to the sea. Like a seal he spends the daylight hours idling in the shallows, occasionally diving deep to twine himself in the kelp, to wander across the seagrass without touching a hoof to the ocean bed. Only once the sun has set does he drift in with the tide, surging pale and quick as a wave and fading like a glimmer of moonlight into the forest to hunt. Though he loves the moonlight hours, though he suffers under the hot glare of the summer sun this far from his frigid home, it eats at the kelpie that it must be so. He should not be the one in hiding. But this place is still too new to him, and Amaroq can be as patient as a glacier until he understands if there is danger, and where it lies. It is a rare day that drives him further inland at last. A summer storm has swept in from the sea, a wailing wind that lashes the waves up against the coast. If it were not for the rain that came along with it Amaroq might have kept to the depths, but the downpour is cool against his shoulders and along his back as he stands amid the stones of shore, and he is ready to taste something other than salt on his tongue. There is no sound but the rain against the leaves as he disappears into the darkness of the forest, the air heavy with the smell of brine and petrichor and pine. He moves pale as a ghost beneath their boughs, silver as the rain and white as the foam of the waves. Despite the cool rain on his back, frost draws patterns on his skin, and his breath is a mist. No part of him blends in here, and yet he hunts. His prey do not know he is a predator; they smell only a horse, and only the sea. The saltwater washes the blood from his skin like a mother’s tongue. To the hare and the foxes and the deer he is only another unicorn - and oh, how the beasts of the forest love unicorns. So he can already taste the copper on his tongue when a doe crosses his path. She pauses midstep, uncertain in the rain, and turns her dark and liquid eyes on him. Amaroq arches his neck like a prince; the tip of his horn dips graceful as a saber. Her wariness falters, and she flicks her large ears at him. Between them, in the little current of rainwater washing back to the sea, ice begins to form filaments like pale cracks. “Come,” he says in a voice like new snow, “let me see you,” and she bobs her head but takes a step toward him. Still Amaroq does not smile, but regards her with his pale and empty eyes, and she halves the distance that separates them. Oh, he is ravenous now, and his teeth are sharp as he runs his tongue across them, waiting, patient. She is near enough he can make out her eyelashes, even in the rain. Overhead the wind is moaning still and if they had shadows they would soon meet - There is a crackling of limbs, the snap of a branch. The doe flinches and bounds away, her tail a flag behind her, never looking back with those dark-moon eyes, and Amaroq snarls like thunder and lashes his tail even as he turns toward the source of the noise. A figure stands there, equine, dark with the rain and the shadow of the trees. Though frustration and hunger flex leonine claws within him he only stands, silent and pale, as ice crackles around his feet. @Euryale if you want, otherwise open! amaroq |
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Euryale - 01-10-2019
i want the rain that makes you wet
sun's last breath of aureate light, pools, through the lavished, summer canopy; golden embers, lace wickedly through the forest canopy in a filigree of immaculate shadows. the sun's golden moans, drips from the beachside banks of a stormy, terminus sea; drawing, the fiery sun to sigh its last breath and kiss its last kiss. breathing, a sweet lover's caress, against the gilded approach of dusk, that so ravages the forests and the oceans in a violent fire-color. the sky becomes a sudden floodlight of throbbing hues. splintering, the skyline in thick, flowing blades of red, orange, yellow, as they dance sharp as razors. flickering, eeriely, in the pagan light. piercing, the sky with the sudden hunger of angels and demons. stormy clouds, bursts in heavenly seas of malevolent orange, so that every live and dead thing, smothers so, so hotly beneath the last rays of unyielding heat. the final kiss, that ravages the land in a red, violent color of war and death and passion.
euryale calantha is their violent crimson song. the deep red of her toned flesh, singing through the wicked forests, sprawling in thick, luscious shadows. she moves with silent, predatory ease - the eternal grace of her feral bodice, twisting with lupine restlessness; feeling, the coarse, caressive ferns and loamy mangroves, brush warmly the curvature of her spine and flanks in sighs of hot, summer surrender. thick foliages of verdant green, sways hushed and hallowed breaths, against the passionate red of her body. the she-wolf prowls more upon stealthy paws than hooves, moving through the oiled sweat of ravenous, and salivating shadows. she weaves through the thick spell of the hungering blackness that so encompassed the dangerous forests, in a shroud of penetrative, blue-tinged veil. the sing-song tales of the approaching moon, glows, in fervid promise against the slim curve of her backline. lavishing, trails of soon-to-be silverlight, against every slender crimson inch of her. every arching, purring angle of her sleek, feral figure, that curls with lithe grace and glimmers in wolven supremacy.
she is out here, purring against the darkness of the forest. combing its ruins, with hungry eyes. but even after consuming several rabbits, euryale is still ravenous. betwixt, rough rows of CALIGINOUS, mighty trees; beneath the tangled lengths of curling, swarming ferns, our fiery euryale calantha, dances, dances, dances. an ephemeral demon, drenched in red light and voluptuous webs of arachnid ivory. and it is naught until the silver song of him, captivates the wild glint in her khol-lined, ruby eyes. till the silver song of threat, rings malevolently through the trees. the rough, masculine growl caressing her ears in a wild noise of hunger and delicious aggression. the she-wolf pauses as a doe from afar jumps, scattering deeper into the woodlands. the she-wolf gazes at him who stalks the forest along the oceanside.
it is the deathly, chilling silver of him, she spots first through the gilded whistle of a violent summer storm; a violent summer storm, that pours, and pours. singing a torrential shower of crystalline liquid, as the heavens open from up above, to drip below with thunderous fervency. his muscles were thick. powerful. graceful. he moves with all that hunger of a silvery anaconda. his fur, sleek and leonine and wrathful, glows in the deathly pale of frost grey. as the air around them swells with liquid; euryale feels the heat of his chilling gaze, throbbing and metal and full of copper taste and feral promise. rain, pours through her damp, lilac curls; rainwater, streaming down her flanks in a gilded, watery hiss of violent deluge. euryale's voice is a soft murmur against the thrumming violence of raindance; her voice, a song of fire and ice, against the arctic shadows of him.
i want everywhere that you've been
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Amaroq - 01-19-2019
| Death can be kind The storm rages in earnest now, rain in sheets and lightning arcing overhead, only visible as a flash through the canopy of trees. The leaves shudder and twist in the wind, flashing silver and green, and as the doe vanishes in the brambles Amaroq wishes, for a moment, that he had kept to the sea. There is little he can claim to love, but to wait below the waves while a storm roils overhead, to watch the lightning split the sky, to feel the turbulence sing in his blood - that he can appreciate. But he is not in the sea. And he puts away that wanting as he studies the mare, bright and vital against the dark forest. There is too much distance between them for him to scent the blood on her; the rain lashing has washed clean her sins. But the kelpie regards her plainly, the way she stands, the tilt of her head, the storm-soaked sleekness of her skin. When she speaks he flicks an ear forward, but if he is surprised at what she says nothing of it registers on his face. His expression remains as impassible as ice, the rise and fall of his breathing as even as the tide. Oh, Amaroq is still hungry. But the doe is forgotten, like a seal below the ice. At last he lowers his head a fraction, his horn pointing at her like a blaming finger, a challenging sword. “Almost does nothing to fill my belly,” he says, low. Where the rain touches him it begins to turn to ice; a raindrop is frozen midway as it slides down his ivory horn. For a moment he only breathes out another breath of mist, as though he stands in midwinter and not a summer storm, and then he adds, “Won’t you come closer?” There is an echo of the command he had used on the doe, but only an echo; there in his voice, mingled with the hunger, is a curiosity just as sharp. Like any beast of tooth and claw, Amaroq can sense the difference between predator and prey. @Euryale <3 amaroq |
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Euryale - 02-18-2019
i want the rain that makes you wet
beneath the waning moon, the forest sings with violence. with sharp sleets of rainwater, and the deep gloaming of trees. songs of armageddon. songs of the storm. the pounding lullaby of rain. the harsh cries of thunder. all shattering summer's gentle reprieve, with the stormy violence of its kiss. how long ago had she heard such music? how long ago had she danced in the rain? tasting the raw midnight air, and devouring storms, with each breath of feral wanting? to feel the ravenous breeze weave like fingertips through her hair? or to taste sweet moonlight, as it runs with hot desire and wild abandon upon her flesh?
for so long has she loved the moon. for so long has she loved the forest. she so coveted the storms, as well. the storms that lit the forest floor in a brazen dance of thunder. the beautiful dissonance of its electrifying form. o, she devours it all up. the lights. the sounds. the taste. the smell. the pitter-patter of wet soil. curling moist and heavy against the pungently-damp air. the ambiance of the storm. the deep, wracking shivers of molten white. that flashes across the woods, in violent spells of silver. the pounding bullets of rain. the feral breath, that pools into arctic mists. descending his lips, like smoke spilled from a cigarette. the silhouette of his form. ever deadly. a hungering blade. all of it weaves like silver madness. like a primal predator unfurling great talons before the blood-red fire of her gaze.
into a delicate smirk, her lips curves. her fangs bared into a playful smile. she feels the rain dancing sharply upon her skin, and she sighs with a feral hiss; somewhere between a growl and a righteous purr of wildcat thrill. she should feel wary. and yet, curiosity unfurls like a serpent within her. slithering, coldly. coyly. her voice, floats to reach him. curling like blue fingertips through the air. her azure trails about her form. dancing beneath the feral curves of her; now drenched in misty rain. she should feel leery beneath the frigid stare of this predator. should be cautious of strangers painted in death's design, glowing beneath a cannibal moon.
yet she is fearless; perhaps, even wickedly playful. the lupine fur of her tail lashing the curve of her hips; waving thru and fro. swaying with all the daring hunger of a she-wolf. he beckons to her, and she follows. waltzing, towards him in a SHASHAY of visceral red curves. who is he? this man dripping of silver soot, painted in the acid-white of ocean's carnage. how sharp his fangs. how perfectly sculpted his horn. every edge of him, laced in killing elegance; she wonders then, if the gods crafted him with a leopard seal in mind. a wolf of the sea. an orca. a predator. a killer. he reminds her of someone she knows; someone that sings of gold, instead of silver.
she draws nearer. she stands close enough to hear his breathing. close enough to taste the would-be-ocean upon his breath. close enough to touch, but touch she doesn't; content to let their breathing, mingle hotly into the darkness. content to watch from beneath the languid sigh of his shadow's caress.
i want everywhere that you've been
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Amaroq - 03-04-2019
| Death can be kind I could help you hunt, she says, and it is not the sight of her fangs alone, small and pale and almost hidden in the rain-drenched shadows of the forest, that makes him think yes, she could. It is the way she watches him, the way she moves, the way her fearlessness is not borne of ignorance. It is clear that she knows some of the same lessons as he - the old things, the blood-and-bone things. He only wonders how, for he has never seen anything of her like before. Amaroq says nothing in response to it, but his eyes like ice-chips flicker to her smiling mouth, to her curving body, to the ribbons that trail her like bubbles below the ice. The kelpie does not have a tale to ascribe to her; all his stories are born of the ice and cold and black black sea. There is no name for a color like hers in his world. But he is not in his world anymore. And at last he tilts his head, not quite a nod, and feels the raindrops turn to ice and stutter like pricks along his skin instead of sliding, smooth and warm. Only his tail moves as she at last steps nearer, each step releasing the scent of damp green forest, of rich black earth. Everything in the forest is luscious and strange, nothing like the world of starkness and cruelty he has known, and curiosity is only another kind of hunger in him now. When she is near enough for their breaths to mingle (hers summer-warm, his rimed in frost) he shows his teeth, but it is something other than warning. One wolf to another, a more primal testing. As he does it he tests the scent of her, puts it against what else he knows of this warm strange world. She is not like the unicorn queen, and he wonders - he wonders - if she is alone, too. They are alike, but oh! in how many ways? “For now,” he says, and still he does not smile. He has stood long enough now that the rainwater collecting beneath him is beginning to freeze, a skein of ice so delicate in this summer storm; as soon as he moves again it will be gone, melted to nothing but a cool wet kiss on the path. What are you? he wants to ask, and his tail twists, leonine, straying so near one of her trailing, sinuous bits of cloth. The trees groan in the wind, the rain drowns out the sound of the nearby sea. “What is your prey?” He thinks she might name anything, a creature such as this - it is so easy to picture her with blood on her jaws. @Euryale late and meh but I love her! amaroq |
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Euryale - 08-05-2020
i want the rain that makes you wet
her heart flutters like unfiltered moonlight. her skin, warms. thunder breaks free of the onyx canopies that shivers hungrily, up above. violent flashes of light ripples across her crimson curves. they dance, dance down the witch's spine until the ivory curvaceous body of hers', shimmers with wicked illumination. shimmers with blood-red desire. suddenly, the rain feels hot and heavy and drips like holy sacrifice upon her breast. suddenly, bits of lupine hunger forms within the lilac-haired banshee. like shafts of glacial ice smashed together, so violently, euryale's love is a savage, ravening thing too sharp to be ever called love.
her love wants to consume amaroq like winter consumes heat. a hunger for him burns in her svelte chest. it penetrates her heart, like an arrow dipped in the sweetest, hottest, wildest of venoms. he is her venom. he is her winter soldier, she decides. he is a storm-squall, to which she'd gladly beg release. gladly beg forgiveness. she wants to paint her lust against his skin and pull him apart piece by piece, if only to remake him into the image of a god. like frothing waves crashed upon arctic rocks; she wants her heart crucified to the hard-muscular edges of him. she wants him, she decides, like wild wolves ache for their eternal moonlight.
there are few things in this world that makes euryale feel this way. apart from the endless hunger she feels, everything else feels less than eternal. when he draws his tail against her diaphonous baby blues - the fire, the hunger she feels - erupts in her jaws like screaming streams of light. his touch is so, so cold it almost feels like death; and she loves it like that. euryale wants to press her curves against him. she wants to taste the poison from his lips and drink all of him down, down, down.
she drinks these dark thoughts, and all thoughts lead to a single narrow path. she thinks he could satisfy her. she thinks she could find aching solace in him. her heart feels hungrier than ever. hungry for his touch. hungry for the million ways she could describe him to be this beautiful. if he is the leopard seal, euryale wants to be the orca that sings for him beneath the raw waves of a cold, savage ocean. she feels the rain caress her body like silk, and a wild purr leaves her plush lips. "maybe it is you i hunt," she laughs, her sugar-voice twisting into icy wicked mirth. she steps closer, closer still. she looks up at him beneath long, ebony lashes. she leans into him, pressing a whisper of a kiss upon his lips. she wants to taste his winter. she wants to tangle her hot breath against the arctic sateen folds of his too-long hair. she wants to taste what he's tasted, and she hopes his lips still tastes of blood. "i have always loved the cold..."
i want everywhere that you've been
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Amaroq - 08-06-2020
| Death can be kind There is a different kind of hunger in her than what set him after the doe, but it is just as needful, just as ancient. Overhead the heavens groan, and rain hisses on the leaves. Amaroq finds storms mesmerizing from underwater, but they were few in the frigid seas he was whelped in, and there is a vitality and immensity to standing amid this one. Through eyes as pale as ice he watches lightning paint the stranger; where before she was strange and beautiful as a viper the flashes of shadowless light paint her yet more arresting, holy and cruel as a goddess. But the kelpie is a heathen; he submits only to death, and follows only his hunger. Right now his stomach ripples with it the way the world does with thunder, and he licks his teeth for the memory of iron. Even so he forgets his earlier prey when she steps nearer still, a vivid ember beneath the driving rain. At her words, the laugh in them, he grins at last; it is wolfish, as much warning as mirth. “I am no one’s prey,” he says, yet still he lets her catch him - breathing frost into her lungs, a kiss that nips with teeth and cold. Amaroq breathes a pattern of vapor onto the place where her neck and shoulder meet so that his horn touches the crest of her neck like a knighting. Already his teeth ache for more; already his saltwater blood begs him as both man and monster. By now they are both soaked, seal-slick and dark with rain, and when she speaks again he meets her eye. “Ask me,” Amaroq tells her, low as the thunder, “and I will make you a queen of dark waters, such places as the sun never finds.” Unspoken, his gaze adds the warning - do not waste my time, not when I am hunting, not when I am hungry, or you’ll find you’ve come too close. There are many kinds of cold, and not all are for the living. @Euryale amaroq |
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Euryale - 08-09-2020
i want the rain that makes you wet
a fever takes her. wild, wicked desires. moonlight braids her tresses, silver. claps of thunder boom violently, up above. god is angry, but the goddess laughs. the red huntress, glows, like sigils of bad omen, against fervent lightening strikes. discord plays, yet the forest sings foreign songs with a maddening hunger - passion - for her. silver serenades the she-wolf's form; her curves were bedazzled diamonds, caught by too many flicker-lights. the illuminating chaos dances all around her. laughing with all the hunger of wolves, of dragons. before her winter soldier, she wears rainwater like a wedding dress. hot, hot summer rain. wet, silky ribbons ever flowing. drowning the image of euryale calantha, in a brazen flush of dove-grey mist. her blood-heat rises beneath skin like a tidal wave does. their warm tenderness, folds against flesh, like petals blushing beneath her rose-cheek. he feels so cold, and she feels too hot. she is fire. he is ice. both wants to violently consume the other.
"a queen," they are so close - too close, too close to stay in control. she imagines pressing her face into the hard flesh of his toned chest. burying her lips into his too long-hair, listening for his heartbeat. listening for the howling madman in his veins. "then you must be king," he is an icy wraith come to haunt her. he is december's venom. his heart, buried in kilometres of snow, while hers were punctured by his silver bullet. she listens to his silky words, then. the chill of his tongue dipped by the aftertaste of iron, of blood. she listens for the ancient wisedom in them. the exotic way he pronounces each syllable. rugged. devilish, utterly husky; a male of faraway northern kingdoms, with winter-smoke for breath. she hears the promise in his voice - also, the faint ache of something more. what could be more sacred than making love underneath the stars, beneath the moonlight? what could be more beautiful than sleeping wild in the forest floor, bare before twilight, sunlight and starlight? what could be more beautiful than two lovers awake at dawn? two lovers, caught in the throes of passion, by nightfall?
o, the earth on her skin feels amazing. the leaves in her curls, feel like belonging. the spiders on her flesh belong there, too, as did the moist droplets of rain and the hint of stars. euryale so loved the earth, the forests, the eternal paradise of sky, wind and snow. she loves the cold, cold taiga woods. was there a kingdom beyond the pine trees then? beyond the snow? beyond these forest fortresses? what will you show me? she wants to ask, and so she asks him. female alpha, to her alpha male; she steals yet another kiss from his lips and her whisper feels so hot, so hungry, so bold. "then show me your world," she flicks her vermillion gaze upward, her lips nearing his once again. cerulean mists becoming lithe fingertips, as they intimately trace the lines of his facial contours, in the sudden flashes of lightening and darkness.
they share the sensuous kiss. euryale gives him another kiss, and another. slow, earthy, sensual, infinitely tender kisses. it feels like a hit, a prayer, a covetous drug; slipping, like slipping out of a dress in her mind. suddenly, her blues disappear in a hiss of vapour. the misty dress falls to the earth with all the rippling sighs of barely-there lingerie. suddenly, she is no longer laced in ribbons of blue, but the hottest, most wicked fiery scarlet. all of him fills her flesh and soul. she feels his ice, deep in her bones. in her lungs. even as he presses his unicorn horn to the flesh of her nape, she feels no fear. only hunger. only the wildest of passion and desire, effortlessly masked beneath the hot-venomous seas of her salivating indifference.
she moves away from him then, as slow and steady as a panther. her throaty rumble, the deep purr of a lioness in the beginning throes of a feast. she moves away, as a booming strike of lightening flashes against her unholy figure. thunder thick with wrath, descends from up above them. allowing the darkness to slip tightly around her, like the arms of a possessive lover. another jolt of lightening strikes, and she turns her back to him. towards the ocean, she slinks. her gait a smooth, even swagger of swayed hips and too-slender legs. her hooves track like blades against the wet mud; her tousled hair a forlorn mess of unruly, lavender ruin. her tail lashes out to slip beneath his chin, teasing, playful even. they run their fluffy length against his brooding jawline, like come-hither fingertips on a devastatingly graceful woman. "show you me your world. i want to see what you've seen. i want to taste what you've tasted," and the holy way she - demands - no, whispers each word above her shoulder; each sentence falls like hymns, like prayers, like drugs. each whisper runs along her spine, dancing towards him, full of wolven allure and soft, female enticement. "please?"
@Amaroq
i want everywhere that you've been
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Amaroq - 08-20-2020
| Death can be kind There is something gluttonous about her hunger, something insatiable about her want. It is different than the way the land-horses have always wanted him, drawn by the glamour of his kind; he would think her a fool, if not for her teeth. If not for the snake that curls along her rump, a plain promise. Here is a woman who knows what games she plays. Here is a woman used to winning. Rarely does Amaroq’s blood run fever-hot. Since the loss of his kind he has lived as remotely as a star, his affection as cold as hoar frost. But in the summer storm with her skin close enough to taste, her voice like a finger tracing her jaw, he begins to remember another kind of wildness, another kind of joy. And he thinks, too, of what a hunter she will make. If she is reckless, if she is careless with her killing, then it will be the land-horses who will suffer. This thought draws a smile across his mouth, one he presses to the arch of her neck, inhaling the musk of earth and cedar and rain. The bells and bones wound in his hair chime laughter. “I must be,” he echoes, low as a rumble of thunder, but it is a lie - a king is a thing that men have made up, and all kingdoms have an end. The sea, oh the sea, goes ever on. She takes from him another kiss and his breath frosts her cheek. It is hard, even still, not to nip, and from there to bite - his lips peel back from his teeth, a show of wicked canines and red tongue. Show me your world, she says, but its her own she reveals, as vapor tracks a cool touch across his cheek and throat and draws his gaze down. In the darkness of the storm without the blue to guard her like a fog, to coyly clothe her, she is crimson and amethyst and the pale color of bone. Against his monochrome she is as stark as a scream, a spill of blood on snow, and he is aching when he presses closer. When she turns he almost stops her, almost catches her in a grip of ice, almost commands her stay. But there are other wants at work, other needs as ancient, and Amaroq can be patient. But he does not feel patient as she turns from him. A flash of lightning paints her stark and shadowless and for a moment he only watches her, gaze wolfish, a pleased rumble in his throat as she moves toward the sea. At last he goes after her and still she teases him. The unicorn snaps at her tail, playful even as want makes him feel taut, a hollow belly begging to be full. Her eyes are a bright stars in the dark, a constellation he’s happy to follow; her words make his lips curl dangerously, his neck arch. His spiral horn points to the sea, and the shells bound in his hair sigh soon, soon, and run with rainwater as though it is the sea. Please, she says, and he makes another low sound in his throat, reaching out to tap the curve of her haunch with his horn, against one of the coils of her snake. It’s a battle not to follow the action with his teeth. “It will hurt,” he warns her, his gaze on her face, and there is no regret in the words. All beasts know that love and pain share the same mother. @Euryale amaroq |
RE: hymns of salt and terror; - Euryale - 08-21-2020
This hurricane's chasing us all underground
though we are but strangers, i feel like i've known you since, forever. she thirsts for him, the way an ocean thirsts for its moon. she wants him to wrap her body in the coldest moonlight. she wants to be consumed by his hard, icy touch. to feel his silver fingertips, caress the black, raging seas of her heart and drown her in his love. to feel the strength of his body against her own, as together they dance in their mating ritual. beneath moonlight. beneath sea-storm. beneath lightning, and savage thunder. tossing and turning, as lovers do. as waves, that lap the fervent shore with rumbling carnality and hungering, violence. their lips meet like stars meet horizons. a cosmic bliss, fills her soul. he is the legend she hunts for. he is her north star. her hunter. her orion. she will be his artemis. the one woman he can count on, to follow him to the ends of the earth - and kill him, if necessary. i'll put an arrow through you, darling.
the desire she feels for him is more than tangible - it is legendary. it is boundless. he is her dream within a dream. purely instinctive, predatory-driven. he is her moon-shadow. she is his wolf. she wants to sing for him. sing lovenotes and love-howls, so that the whole world may break their hearts, listening to such a timeless, fairytale love. the love between moon and sea. their intimacy, is not the coy flirtatiousness among young, romantic lovers. not the give-me-now-sweetheart, nor the give-and-take, among husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends. o, this feels older than those things. it is the take. the take. the taking. it's ancient lust, ancient love, she feels like succumbing to. it is dark and primordial want, that breathes like wicked wildfire through the prayer of her lupine veins.
it's religion. it's religion. the way she deliciously offers herself to him. curves, impossibly tender. body, smooth and feminine; feeling perfect against his divine masculine. o, she would bow for him. she would pray. come, submit like lovers submit to the bedroom floor, dripping in candlelit incense. but come sunset, come moon-hour. it will be him that's pressed with his back to the rough earth - and she up above, gasping his name. his lover. his woman. his moon. she is living caricature of both carnal desire, and salivating threat. but the only threat here is that she may take too much, and he may (he will) take even, more. she drinks him down. she drinks him down. and he goes down as easy as, breathing. she wants to go down with him; and she wants to be up above, as they sink. sink, to the bottom of the ocean floor.
she hears the rumble of his heart, purring like a tiger beneath his chest. she can taste the hint of impatience, and she only laughs, as cruel as any woman could possibly be. she pulls herself closer into his embrace. against the icy chill of him, she tangles herself like gunpowder tangles with fire and smoke. they lean against one another, they share such intimate kisses. and even as she leaves his side to follow the aching sound of the sea, even then, she is relentlessly, quietly, teasing him. "i do not know pleasure without pain," she whispers, her voice a playful hiss full of sensuous enticement. they walk, together. she in front. he, behind. but he teases her, too. with the dark promise of his eyes. the promise of his sharp teeth, and sharp lips, that ached to trace her flesh in the lightening-dark. with the caress of his unicorn horn, that taps at her svelte hip; like male fingertips, tapping the curvaceousness, there.
the ocean calls her by her name; another reminder, another promise. she feels its salt-gilded breath, run its icy tang along her lips, her cheek, her brow. she feels its untamed wrath, howling with something like jealousy. it howls. it bleeds wildfire in her veins. and euryale laughs, a hungry huntress, in the dead of night. when the mangroves part their foliage like rough-cut bedroom curtains, euryale only dances forward in a serpent hiss of laughing desire. the sands kick up beneath her dancing feet. she draws gracefully along the water's edge; the ocean spray mingling, with the jasmine-iron perfume of her fur. "is this deep enough?" she whispers, her hooves sinking into the murky ocean-froth. her gaze never straying from his, as she rears, then slowly walks backwards into the black-water. she taunts him further, a single finely sculpted brow elegantly raised, "deeper still?" every part of her body screams challenge. every part of her is daring him to come, come close. come fall into the ocean, with me.
"how deep into the oceans must we go, for your spell to take?" she laughs once more, wild and untamed like the sea. the ocean licks for her thighs now, then her belly, as the further she goes, the deeper the oceans groan. euryale is a slow, seductive dance; all come-hither glances, all come-hither smiles. but instead of the proverbial dancing against his lap; o, the ocean is her table. the sands, her bed. the ocean writhes, black-white bedsheets tossing in the night. another crack of lightening erupts, flashing violently. wickedly. the ocean bellows, twisting. churning. threatening to take, take, take, take, take. a stray lilac curl falls devilishly over her gaze, and the witch licks the rainwater from her lips. purring and taunting, whispering and singing; "don't be shy," but this time her voice is scarcely heard above the thunder. above the rainfall. i can wait all night. but, can you?
@amaroq
and a riot about to explode into flames