Frustration blooms akin to a sunflower in the midst August. She cannot help the way her body responds to his demand, how his voice flows through her like a gentle breeze through trees. Loni doesn't wish to listen, truly she doesn't, yet she still finds herself crawling over to him- ever a loyal hound would when summoned.

Biting down 'pon her tongue she slips a hand below the god's shirt. The fabric was soft against her scarred digits, clearly expensive based on that simple fact. He wished for her to listen, and clearly she was, but a thought did cross her mind. Not bothering to think her next actions through she willed her claws to push out from her nail beds. Human nails fell to the ground, but the pitter patter wouldn't be heard over the sound of fabric tearing. I hope you loved this shirt.

Smugness consumed her as her lips curled into a victorious smirk. Obviously she was under the impression she'd won, but she hadn't been in her right mind. Had she not listened to any of his words in the past? He welcomed her instability and her violence. This was surely nothing compared to that. The loss of a shirt would be nothing if he would willingly feed her his own flesh any other day.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 something that the god had conjured himself — material akin to something between the finest silk and a smooth polyester, the fabric practically melts away, unraveling as long, thick claws tear clean lines down either side of his chest. ripping threads have a penchant for sounding papery, wiry; suddenly, the luxury is gone, replaced by the idea of what luxury might be, shreds dangling over his shoulders by the last dregs of friction alone. yet, even with a sweep of the hands, which tantalizingly smooth up and over his chest, the rest of the short falls away with no purpose left to serve.

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, a subtle glint emanates from fleurano's usually-radiant optics, reminiscent of both mischief and hunger. known to be an indulgent deity among others, there is no question about his intentions with loni, though the slow roll is part of the thrill. the defiance surrounded by plush lips stirs something within him — perhaps knowing that, in the end, whatever she does here won't matter to anyone else but herself.

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 like a sculpture, muscles appearing as though chiseled from stone, their definition indubitably crafted with vanity in mind. he wonders if she judges him more than she admires him, or simply craves him in his entirety. once his blood is upon her chin, all reason is gone to the wind. he cups her cheeks in his hands, presses a welcoming kiss to the tip of her nose and the bow of her lips, basking in the heat that rises from her skin, relishing her eyes aglow.

𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 her wrists, dragging scarred hands back down over rippled figure, allowing claws to tear dainty seams into the otherwise pristine flesh, until her fingertips meet the waistband of the matching set that she'd dared to ruin. where normally one would find flower buds and petals, beads of blood pool in each thin stripe, just barely catching the same light that reflects from the buckle of his belt. her affirms her gaze with a sweet smile, the kind that is keen to instigate. by all means, don't keep me waiting.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐒 have always lured fleurano in. he liked to see those inflections of confusion and fear; they made him want to dote even more. it became hard not to come and see adelaide again. had he a need for sleep, he might have tossed and turned in it, thinking about her. standing afar, his lips are graced with a patient smile — even without moving, he is already cornered.  ❝ what do you think you will achieve from biting me? ❞  the god prompts, his voice silken and honeyed.  ❝ you'd tear my hands off and find only flower petals. you'd rip me open and see eternity. a bite is nothing, my dear. ❞