☈ g l u t t o n y .
Title: Seven Sins; Gluttony
Pairing: Clare // Ophelia
Summary: You won because you broke the rules. She should have known you would.
Rating: M
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, sadism, snake tail, etc.
This is fun, isn't it? You giggle, almost coquettishly, one deceptively delicate hand rising to cover your mouth, the other grabbing roughly at her breasts. She says nothing, only glares at you with those cold, angry eyes. But you know better, know she's here because you're the only one who makes her feel alive.
You coil your scaled body around hers tighter, dig your nails deep into her flesh, crescent moons of bright red welling up, spilling over to trickle down her chest. Your nostrils flare. The scent of her nearly drives you mad, wafting up like some tempting perfume, the promise of something sinfully divine. Your mouth waters, and the hunger sets in, sharp, stabbing. You are ravenous.
I'm so glad you lost, you say, and your voice lowers from that girlish pitch to something dark and feral. You lean forward, head lowered, to lap at the blood weeping across her skin. You drag your tongue, slowly, over a taut nipple. She gasps. You look up, silver eyes flashing, and your smile is sharp and deadly like the edge of a knife. This is the most entertainment you've had in years.
She does not move as you suckle at her, teeth scraping against such sensitive places, does not make a sound beyond that first plaintive breath, but the frantic heaving of her chest, the rapid flutter of the pulse at her throat, give her away. You run your mouth along her neck to that alluring throb and bite down, hard. The blood is rich and metallic on your tongue, you think you will never have enough, that there is not enough in all the world to satisfy your longing. Her hands fly up to tangle in your hair, and she pulls, hard. The pain is almost as delicious as she is.
Bloody lips pressed against her ear, you laugh, and the sound is almost cruel. You're glad, too. A tiny, desperate sound escapes from her throat. She claws at your back, and you curve into the sting, hissing with pleasure. She is such a warm little thing, so full of stuff that burns. But you've always known how to play with fire, and her flame is such a tiny one. A little flicker behind the eyes, a quick gnashing of teeth before it's pushed away again. You want to bring it out, to drink it in and gorge yourself on it, to explode with the fulfillment of all your deepest desires. There's never enough for that, no, but almost enough to drive back the craving for a moment. Almost enough to stop.
You don't want to stop.
She goes boneless, limp and bent at odd angles like a rag doll when you slide between her splayed legs, press the smooth ridges of your body into her, arms wrapped around her waist. Your eyes narrow and you pull her closer, slipping like silk along the wetness that betrays her. You stretch along the length of her, muscles contracting, and you watch the blush that creeps up her neck, follow it with your tongue to her lips. She tries to turn her head away, crimson blooming in her cheeks, but your hands are there faster, holding it still, forcing it forward.
Her eyes go wide, for a fraction of a second they shine bright and gold with her defiance. Her body is stiff, hands clamped at her sides, mouth a grim-lined slash across her face. Her eyes close. She stays silent. You kiss her, almost sweetly, lips parted to let a pink tongue dart between them, tasting, testing. The hunger in you rages.
When she relaxes, when her body begins to move against your own, when the resistance has faded from her limbs, you press against her, harder, faster. Her breath comes in shudders and sobs, her hands lift to rest just above your hips, flexing rhythmically with your every movement. Teresa, she whispers as you push into her.
Ophelia, you whisper back as she comes, and lick away the tear that rolls down her cheek.
Pairing: Clare // Ophelia
Summary: You won because you broke the rules. She should have known you would.
Rating: M
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, sadism, snake tail, etc.
This is fun, isn't it? You giggle, almost coquettishly, one deceptively delicate hand rising to cover your mouth, the other grabbing roughly at her breasts. She says nothing, only glares at you with those cold, angry eyes. But you know better, know she's here because you're the only one who makes her feel alive.
You coil your scaled body around hers tighter, dig your nails deep into her flesh, crescent moons of bright red welling up, spilling over to trickle down her chest. Your nostrils flare. The scent of her nearly drives you mad, wafting up like some tempting perfume, the promise of something sinfully divine. Your mouth waters, and the hunger sets in, sharp, stabbing. You are ravenous.
I'm so glad you lost, you say, and your voice lowers from that girlish pitch to something dark and feral. You lean forward, head lowered, to lap at the blood weeping across her skin. You drag your tongue, slowly, over a taut nipple. She gasps. You look up, silver eyes flashing, and your smile is sharp and deadly like the edge of a knife. This is the most entertainment you've had in years.
She does not move as you suckle at her, teeth scraping against such sensitive places, does not make a sound beyond that first plaintive breath, but the frantic heaving of her chest, the rapid flutter of the pulse at her throat, give her away. You run your mouth along her neck to that alluring throb and bite down, hard. The blood is rich and metallic on your tongue, you think you will never have enough, that there is not enough in all the world to satisfy your longing. Her hands fly up to tangle in your hair, and she pulls, hard. The pain is almost as delicious as she is.
Bloody lips pressed against her ear, you laugh, and the sound is almost cruel. You're glad, too. A tiny, desperate sound escapes from her throat. She claws at your back, and you curve into the sting, hissing with pleasure. She is such a warm little thing, so full of stuff that burns. But you've always known how to play with fire, and her flame is such a tiny one. A little flicker behind the eyes, a quick gnashing of teeth before it's pushed away again. You want to bring it out, to drink it in and gorge yourself on it, to explode with the fulfillment of all your deepest desires. There's never enough for that, no, but almost enough to drive back the craving for a moment. Almost enough to stop.
You don't want to stop.
She goes boneless, limp and bent at odd angles like a rag doll when you slide between her splayed legs, press the smooth ridges of your body into her, arms wrapped around her waist. Your eyes narrow and you pull her closer, slipping like silk along the wetness that betrays her. You stretch along the length of her, muscles contracting, and you watch the blush that creeps up her neck, follow it with your tongue to her lips. She tries to turn her head away, crimson blooming in her cheeks, but your hands are there faster, holding it still, forcing it forward.
Her eyes go wide, for a fraction of a second they shine bright and gold with her defiance. Her body is stiff, hands clamped at her sides, mouth a grim-lined slash across her face. Her eyes close. She stays silent. You kiss her, almost sweetly, lips parted to let a pink tongue dart between them, tasting, testing. The hunger in you rages.
When she relaxes, when her body begins to move against your own, when the resistance has faded from her limbs, you press against her, harder, faster. Her breath comes in shudders and sobs, her hands lift to rest just above your hips, flexing rhythmically with your every movement. Teresa, she whispers as you push into her.
Ophelia, you whisper back as she comes, and lick away the tear that rolls down her cheek.