Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
he is dangerous. he drips of ancient evil. a king pharoah, loosed from his desert tomb; all hot sighs, heatwaves and suffocating sand, twisting against gilded flesh of black and gold. he is death, incarnate. he weaves webs of desire, deviltry and damnation, against the opulent rose of her blood-tinged flesh. his presence weaves lurid hunger, through the ornate cage of her sinful bones. stitching, her soul in the violence of want and need and dangerous yearning. he is death. a chanting, ancient, old age type of evil - and she dances with the devil; sings, and purrs and loves every delicious minute of it. she wears her cerulean mists, like a funeral gown. ghosting, so fine a blue filigree. azure lace, curls and howls with such benevolent hunger. crystal moans, drips from the mouths of old ghosts - haunting, their siren blues alongside and against them. haunting, with the rough pursuit of the hunt. a wolf's hunt. a wolf's howl. a wolven promise of feral language and bloodlust and desire.
across him. around him. against him. stormy blues, dances like a playful noose, a tattered funeral dress drenched in oily azure. her blue, trails and trails and trails. dragging, frail blues over his immaculate gold; her blue, trails over his toned, godly flesh. like sleek seductive fingers, running down the curve of his smooth spine. tracing, the muscles of his body. dancing, a spider's sultry dance of delight and arachnid fever. the blue fever, pours from the voluptuous symmetry of her curves. euryale, feels rejuvenation in his presence. alive. alive. alive. yet, never more closer to death, than she has ever been in her life. she wonders what his lips would taste of; would it taste of destruction? would all-consuming fire. drip from his handsome, draconian jaws; salivating sin and devouring virtue? should his lips taste of passion, and death and ire. should he taste of ancient evils, and bittersweet, delicious damnation.
her silken, feminine voice floats wickedly in their thick, rimy lavish; playful dare, eliciting soft challenge. lay me in a bed of earth, but only after you comfort me with the taste of your blood, she almost wants to whisper back and taunt, taunt, taunt him further. yet only delicate laughter, curves her wicked lips. only sweet, girlish mirth rings at the admonitions of him. hushed, bubbled cherry laugh flashing amid rows of sharp insisors. bringing, soft chords to sing in a delicately, gilded serenade. she is flirting with his demons, and she knows this. she feels herself being hunted; hunted; hunted, by the piercing gold of his hungering, criminal eyes. by the massive warmth of titanesque wings, that unfurled like great masts and billowed soft threats along the sleek, sloping invitations of her spine. o, he is the god to which she'd gladly pray, pray, pray. he is death and destruction and the hunger in his voice, and the need in his eyes, drips of a yearning void, so vicious and all-consuming. there is nothing gentle about his eyes, yet, that feeds its hunger into the soft, tender crimson of her flesh. that feeds, along the curve of her hips and spine, like deadly lovebites carving into her skin with all the adoration of a knife.
as euryale moves away to lay lavished, khol-rimmed ruby eyes upon the art of the golden apple, he follows, too. death, shadowing her heels. blue, trailing her wake. she is cautious of him, yet. the way he speaks, brings a foreboding chill to crawl upon her spine. his voice tastes of delicious masculinity. their husky tone, drawing a rough purr from euryale's lips, as the edge of his sharp teeth feels more like playful fangs gripping into her flesh. catching, the soft tendon of her ear lobe in their tender tug and rough caress. euryale calantha, puts a gentle shoulder into him. brushing the heat of his toned frame with the slenderness of her figure. Feeling, the wiry musculature of his physique, the toned smoothness of him that oozed of virility and golden want. The tips of his archangel feathers, sings along her curvacious backline, painting luscious breaths of heat and damnation into her sweet skin. A breath of dangerous intimacy, shared, beneath compelling moonlight and the silversong of carnal whispers.
and by devil, i mean
you."
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright
