Dygra
"Always, my sweet, dark boy."
Danta's closed eyes will miss the sight of the obsidian offering bowl spilling over with blood, but he'll hear the thick, crimson splash of it as it coats the flagstones, as it seeps into the cracks in the tiles and soaks into the fabric of his pants. Dygra's voice, low and sensual as always, will feel somehow closer than it ever has done before, and her touch, when it comes, will be a physical thing against Danta's flesh.
Pale, milk white hands caress his bare shoulders, settling the blood there into new patterns that swirl and move of their own accord. Rock whispers against rock, as if something impossible is manoeuvring about the Maverick, only to settle behind the obsidian bowl.
Waiting. Expectant. Endless.
"I know already what you ask for, ravenous little wretch," she purrs, the affection in her tone at chaotic odds with the words that lace through the air between them. "Speak it into being for us."
Danta's closed eyes will miss the sight of the obsidian offering bowl spilling over with blood, but he'll hear the thick, crimson splash of it as it coats the flagstones, as it seeps into the cracks in the tiles and soaks into the fabric of his pants. Dygra's voice, low and sensual as always, will feel somehow closer than it ever has done before, and her touch, when it comes, will be a physical thing against Danta's flesh.
Pale, milk white hands caress his bare shoulders, settling the blood there into new patterns that swirl and move of their own accord. Rock whispers against rock, as if something impossible is manoeuvring about the Maverick, only to settle behind the obsidian bowl.
Waiting. Expectant. Endless.
"I know already what you ask for, ravenous little wretch," she purrs, the affection in her tone at chaotic odds with the words that lace through the air between them. "Speak it into being for us."
