Possession

@veinwitch

Daylight strikes the motes of dust that glisten down from the arching vaults of the soot stained cathedral ceiling, drifting like sun-washed snow, the front of a winter's storm with clouds not yet to breach the impossible golden halo of the sky.

Haleth sits, nondescript within a pew- hardened yellow oakwood polished by the seat of parishioners who came for years before her to worship these gods, to celebrate death, to mourn the wed.

It is a wedding too this day, though Haleth did not know the parties to be married, her morning was free and the doors open. It was amusing to watch such pageantry, even knowing for herself that feats of romance would never be possible. Perhaps that was the allure, to come as close to the wish of her delusion as possible.

ᒥ🕷ᒧ—      He had been grazed by an arrow, nothing worthy of concern in his book. Rinnill had suffered more grievous injuries and survived. Having removed his leathers and undershirt, he was preparing to clean the weeping slice when she approached.

"I do not need assistance for--!" His eyes widen as Serenei swipes her thumb under the small wound and licks the crimson liquid with ease. A warmth stirs within the pit of Rinnill's stomach, and he knows the glowing cerulean of a blush is blooming on his cheeks to the tips of his long ears.

@veinwitch cont. from (x)

The floorboards groaned under their weight, the house long since abandoned after its last offering to the Lord of Murder. The smell of old blood and viscera lingered in the walls, sweet and metallic, clinging to the damp, the marks of sacrifice etched into the walls like scars that refused to close. Broken furniture lay scattered where it had fallen, jagged wood still stained dark, a silent witness to the screams that had once filled the suffocating chamber. Through the cracks in the shutters, only a pale, sickly thread of moonlight fell across the floor, making his features a distorted mask of shadow and silver. Serenei was pinned against the boards, her back pressed hard into the splinters, wrists trapped above her head. Curumë loomed over her, his weight pressed into her chest until her breath came shallow, labored, the tip of a dagger pressed cold against her collarbone, biting into the tender flesh beneath her neck. Ribs burned with the strain of drawing oxygen, and her gaze cut up at him sharp and venomous, her lips curling as though she might spit in his face. “You're an imbecile if you wait for me to beg before I suffocate,” Sweat slid in a thin line down her neck, her voice hissed, scraped raw with the effort, yet it struck like a razor driven straight to the jugular. The knife pressed a fraction harder, a threat that could draw blood in an instant. “Just kill me already, let us be done with it.”

Kill me already.

Her words pulsated in Curumë’s mind, merging with the steady thump of her heartbeat and the creaking of the floorboards beneath him. He looked down at her, his gaze frenzied and unfocused. Blood spilled from former sacrifices, the weight of the blade in his hand, the pale, corpse-like skin it scraped against—all of it blended together before his eyes in a beautiful vision of gore and murder.

Inhaling sharply, he pressed the knife farther against the outline of her collarbone, and immediately, crimson began welling from the thin line he had cut into her flesh. Curumë swallowed at the sight. She’d make for such a pretty body, a most precious offering to the God of Murder, Bhaal.

This realization broke the spell.

With a scoff, he spun the knife around, burying it in the plank beside her neck before she had so much time as to blink. His lips pulled back in a smirk.

“No,” he said, nonchalantly, as he shifted more of his weight against her chest. “That would be too easy.” Too obedient to the Deity whose cursed blood ran through his veins and whom he therefore had little hope of escaping from. “I think I shall play with you a little longer, before I steal your last breath from your lips.”

⏾⋆.˚ Munday Questions ⭑.ᐟ

🌟 - What was the first fandom you remember Rping for?

... Hetalia. LMAO. Please don't judge me. I was fourteen.

✏️ - Why did you choose to write your muse(s)?

serenei's words dispel the fog clouding his mind, her mellifluous tone paired with the tantalising scent she seemed to emit naturally was almost bewitching. mouth-watering. astarion pauses, his fingers curling over the edge of their shared log bench, in the space that lay between them, as if to ground himself in the here and now.

when had he leant in? he must have angled himself towards her amidst their fireside conversation. odd, for one with a tendency to remain at arms' length. despite his lapse in concentration, he recovers relatively quickly, straightening somewhat.

“ and? ... is it working? ”

since she could see through him so effortlessly, there was no point in hiding his intentions. the corners of his mouth flick upwards sharply, the devious glimmer in his eyes subdued only by the quick flutter of his lashes.

“ can you fault me for trying? you smell divine. ”