WHISKEY IS MY HOLY WATER
12-09-2013, 09:15 PM
He was obnoxious, but he was hers, and Vyvienne wanted to make him bleed. She was a dark sort of girl, twisted and possessive, but so far nobody had quite made her feel like this boy had. He awoke a different sort of monster within her bodice, made it rattle at the bars of her ribcage, made her heart pump in frantic ways. The boy bumped into her and she snorted; if he desired to leave, he ought to run from the monstress, not come closer to her grasp. Jaws twitched, tempted to sink into him as best they could, and yet for now she resisted. She desired not to discourage contact, after all; it rubbed her scent upon him, so all would know who he belonged to.
She tolerated his closeness, until he dared to defy her. Immediately ebony lips would peel back violently, large (relatively so, for her age at least) frame pushing forwards. Vyvienne desired to topple him, to push him to the ground so that his belly would be up. Her frame wished to crash upon him, jaws turning to her own right and hoping to grip around his throat tightly. Not so she would kill him or shred his jugular (no, she liked her pet, she merely wanted to rip his voice from him by temporarily ripping away his air). The voice of another one of her possessions then wandered into her ears, acidic gaze flickering up to focus upon the form of Cynder. If her teeth had met any success she would squeeze tightly and then release momentarily. "We are playing a game called make him mine. Decorate him, sister," she demanded, teeth once more seeking to press around his throat, hoping to cut his air off so that he could not so much as protest the happenings.
She tolerated his closeness, until he dared to defy her. Immediately ebony lips would peel back violently, large (relatively so, for her age at least) frame pushing forwards. Vyvienne desired to topple him, to push him to the ground so that his belly would be up. Her frame wished to crash upon him, jaws turning to her own right and hoping to grip around his throat tightly. Not so she would kill him or shred his jugular (no, she liked her pet, she merely wanted to rip his voice from him by temporarily ripping away his air). The voice of another one of her possessions then wandered into her ears, acidic gaze flickering up to focus upon the form of Cynder. If her teeth had met any success she would squeeze tightly and then release momentarily. "We are playing a game called make him mine. Decorate him, sister," she demanded, teeth once more seeking to press around his throat, hoping to cut his air off so that he could not so much as protest the happenings.