[ Respond | Andarin: The Mountains ]
Posted by WICKED | PAGAN on February 3, 2009, 11:22 pm, in reply to "pretty much. " She does not realize what is coming until a split second before it happens. Or perhaps that is lie. Perhaps she knew this would happen the moment she walked away from the charred remains of the innocent mare to find the monster that did it. Perhaps she wanted this to happen all along. Whatever the case, she does not flinch when he draws closer, does not turn and run when he speaks to her with a voice that drips with the most delicious evil she has ever heard. She is rooted to the spot, entranced by him, enticed by him, and it occurs to her that she wants him to touch her so bad that she can taste it. The blood pounds in her ears, and her mouth goes dry.
70.129.4.134
When he lunges, she is still, eerily still. She does not even try to pull away when his teeth tear into her shoulder; she simply closes her eyes and acquiesces, succumbing to the pain. It seems to her that she can feel the blood rush from her veins, yet at the same time something is flowing into her, something that is strange and very reminiscent of the wonderfully dangerous feeling she gets from the savage beast whose lips are attached to her flesh. When a sigh escapes her lips, she is vaguely aware that she should be ashamed of herself, but she is not. Perhaps the influence of the shard is working on her already, or perhaps she senses that this is where the momentum of her life has been leading her. Her whole life is coming to a head at this point.
By the time Alcatraz has satiated his thirst, Wicked is half-lidded and breathing hard. Her knees are weak with the loss of blood and the shock, and she manages to lean into him just before her knees give out, slumping against him as if he is a life preserver holding her afloat rather than the demon that just stole part of her life away. Her breath is hot on his skin as she pushes her nose into his neck, breathing him in. Oh, she is not her own now. She is his. With a groan, she closes her eyes again and gives in to it.
I hope you know what you are doing. Her voice is a tired whisper, and she can only vaguely guess what the consequences of his actions might be, but it seems irrelevant now. If they come for him, she will protect him, not because she wants to, but because she has to. I am his. I am his. He is mine. Her brain chants and hisses, and she answers her thoughts with a cock-eyed grin, an unsettling grin. Finally, Wicked belongs to someone.
((Ohmigod, I am going to love this, I can tell already. Wicked was born to be a minion.))
gold
WICKED
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