And I know that you'll find, love I will possess your heart.
( A Continuation)
Lara would be the first to say that there was no art to the Hunger's feeding, that despite its knowledge and its cruelty, it was still simply Hunger, that it took because taking was what it was meant to do. But when coupled with a mind, especially one that had studied pleasure for centuries, then feeding became artistry.
And a willing victim, broken to her will, that had always been Lara's favourite canvas.
The Hunger whispered low and sweet against Dean's mind, promises of eternity, of shelter and rest. Each word carefully chosen to play upon his deepest fears, his deepest desires. You are mine, now and until the end of time. Stay with me and you will know rest. I can give you the darkness you seek, and send you into oblivion with nothing but a whisper of pleasure.
Her touch played on his body the same way. One hand held him to her with an iron grip, while the other danced lightly beneath Dean's clothes, fingernails scraping up his side, running along well-defined muscles, her touch alternating pain and pleasure along his nerves.
Somehow, she managed to speak though the slow, lingering kisses, her voice like velvet over a knife blade. "You are wearing far too many clothes."
Lara would be the first to say that there was no art to the Hunger's feeding, that despite its knowledge and its cruelty, it was still simply Hunger, that it took because taking was what it was meant to do. But when coupled with a mind, especially one that had studied pleasure for centuries, then feeding became artistry.
And a willing victim, broken to her will, that had always been Lara's favourite canvas.
The Hunger whispered low and sweet against Dean's mind, promises of eternity, of shelter and rest. Each word carefully chosen to play upon his deepest fears, his deepest desires. You are mine, now and until the end of time. Stay with me and you will know rest. I can give you the darkness you seek, and send you into oblivion with nothing but a whisper of pleasure.
Her touch played on his body the same way. One hand held him to her with an iron grip, while the other danced lightly beneath Dean's clothes, fingernails scraping up his side, running along well-defined muscles, her touch alternating pain and pleasure along his nerves.
Somehow, she managed to speak though the slow, lingering kisses, her voice like velvet over a knife blade. "You are wearing far too many clothes."