Between the amaranthine folds of darkness, I watch him. Beneath a veil of sable lashes, I savor him. Sometimes, between the shadows of moonlight and ocean-dreaming, I feel that we are not meant for eachother. I feel that he could never belong to me, nor I him. Who could tame my lust? Who could surrender my heartbeat? Who could sleep in my fire, and make ashes, of my restless spirit? Maybe him, with all his gentleness. Maybe him, with all his tenderness and beauty and graceful mercy. But how could I afford to lose a heart, I claim to not have? How could I learn to love. (Why do the forbidden things, always taste the sweetest?)
Drink her in, like drinking absinthe. Euryale is deliciously feline. Her breath falls, like blue smoke. It mists the elegant bridge of her delicate nose. The curve of her lips and soft, feminine jawline all traced in svelte, azuline silk. She could live in his darkness, forever. But her darkness is sensual. Her darkness is carnal. Cloying, sweet jasmine and blood-kissed ambrosia. The kind of darkness that kisses your eyes, closed. Steals a prayer from your lips, with every fervent kiss whispering, forevermore; 'You're mine, I want you, I need you'. Her darkness is a siren. Unholy scripture. It swims against her silken bodice, like black oil swims in water. Thick, silky, heavy darkness.
The kind of darkness you can never come out from, as it swallows your heart with a single, whispering kiss of lust, of love - of eternal damnation. The cave seems to echo with the coo of the witch's heartbeat. Silence, like a spell; drips of fevered blackness, against her lithe, serpent physique. She feels hungry. She feels cold. It's only his body, next to hers, that keeps her warm. Its the sticky sensation, that suddenly feels like wanting; as it grasps for her curves and smoothes slowly down her sides, with all the ardent sweetness of barely-warm honey. Euryale feels herself curling lazily around Asterion, like a dragon curls golden-sweet, around luxury. She moves, slowly. She dances, subtly. Her long, lupine tail sweeping low, for all the way it slides against him within the shadows of their hidden caress.
Her vanity wants her to pull away. Her narcissism, to peel from his side like a new disease. To ignore the urge she feels - an urge to be close to him. An urge to surrender within his embrace. Yet there is a hidden longing to press up against him, even closer. If only to feel the beat of his heart, next to her own. If only to taste the rhythmic pulse of his veins, as she imagines each of her kisses - sharp with love, hot with need - draw down his jawline, and throat, with a dark, forbidden passion. She wonders, how she wonders; are you as dark as the ocean, beneath a full moon? Would you taste as deep and mysterious? She wonders if his heart is dark like hers'. She wonders if it is love she feels, or if it's purely lust. But if it's lust, why hasn't she kissed him yet.
Why hasn't she touched him, the way she touches others; in ways only dreams, would allow. Why do I come close to him, if only to shy away, again. A wolf who has learnt the world is no gentle place, yet he makes the promise that he could be gentle with my heart, if I only let him in. Not with a flash of fangs, but a tender kiss, a soft howl. Asterion is different to Thana, to Erasmus, to Amaroq. Euryale feels heat rise to her cheekbones. Apart of her does not want to feel this way; to feel this heat - this wanting - rise like ruination. Rise like flames, from below the abyss of her soul. Euryale does not want the weakness of a mortal's heart. To feel this weak is frightening. And so, she sheds these thoughts, these feelings, gracefully aside.
She rends these emotions with a flash of blood-tinged fangs. When the stranger does not reply to Asterion's words, Euryale makes her leave. Her voice becomes cold. Her lips, whisper with a thin, icy smile, even as Asterion brushes the back of her ear with a faint caress. Distract me from wanting, her body seems to say. Distract me from wanting you. With military smoothness, she brushes past him. She puts a light shoulder into his own, but this time her voice is not laughing, even as her blues trail hungrily over his skin. Ghostly blues, that slither cooly, over his masculine frame. "I guess you will have to explore these caves on your own," Euryale is cold, militant, with a sharp kind of reptillian grace. The last of her words, echoes with taunting provocation; "Don't get lost."
@Asterion @
Exit Euryale.
