She stood. The leather of her corset creaked. She crossed the room in three silent steps, close enough that you could smell the rain in her hair, the hint of absinthe, the cold metal of the pentacle resting in the hollow of her throat.
The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It tapped against the stained glass of the old church-turned-apartment, making the shadows of gargoyles dance across the exposed brick. Nika Venom liked it that way. Melancholy had a rhythm, and she moved to it. GothGirlfriends - Nika Venom - Enjoys Passionat...
From the doorway, you watched her. The way the silver rings on her fingers caught the candlelight. The sharp line of her black eyeliner, winging out like a raven's feather. The faintest hint of a fang when she bit her lower lip, lost in a stanza about decay and desire. She stood
Intense. Loyal. Quietly dangerous in the way that makes you want to be bad just to see her smile. The rain hadn't stopped for three days
She tilted her head. A ghost of a smile. Not sweet. Possessive.
"Passion isn't loud to me," she said, finally pressing her palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "It's this. A slow, deliberate pressure until something cracks."