Tender, tanned flesh. The valley of her spine leading up to a neck fragmented by taut tendons. Marked by teeth or fingerprint bruises. Either posed as a visual representation of possession.
Collarbones that cut through skin. A protruding ribcage that protected a bandaged heart. Her body had endured much. Physically, emotionally. Strenuous activities through fitness and other, much more intimate, means. A needle to the skin to reiterate art in the form of swirled ink, another to illicit pain for bad behaviour.
Eyes cast in the shade of poison ivy. Heavy-lidded. Once the eyes of the doe, now an entice for the bedroom. Often squinted with intrigue or concentration. Judgemental. Unwavering. Eyes that felt little pity for her prisoners.
An overbearingly sensual scent of lavender and sage. A notification that the Raven was gracing the atmosphere. An intoxication that served as addictive.
Draped in black, she floated. Wraith-like. Almost foreboding to those that did not know her.
Fabrics, feathers and distressed leather. Her boots were inappropriately tall. Pulled to the farthest reaches of her thighs. Buckles that matched an array of silver, snake-like accents upon the corset she tightened between her grasp.
Raven hair fell in waves and tresses, ever-growing and ever-wilder. As the most recognisable trait, it could hide her away. Or, once in a crowd, do the exact opposite. The signature characteristic and identification of her being.
Her tongue sharp with humour and wit. He could be easily challenged. His smirk copied by herself. She offered more than a simple warming of his bed that eve. She could understand the pain that lay beyond. So much so that she would never give herself to anyone in the same intensity again.
She was the 'what if'. The idea of some kind of normalcy in such a bitter reality. A chance to fix himself. A chance to patch up the cracks in his expression or fill the hollowness of his being with something other than drink or feminine callers.
Her lips were bitten tightly between teeth. Plumped. Stained a shade so deeply red that it imitated the blood of those who had displeased her. Fingernails dug into muscles: the Raven imprinted the softest touch with her talons.
She was a seductress. A winteress. A temptress of sorts. But she was loyal to one and one alone. Even without a cause.
A strong feminine. A damaged woman. A resilient mother. An intellectual guide. A past victim. An anti-hero.
These characteristics were the ones that would haunt him. Characteristics that he would try to seek out in another. But any replacement could not quite recreate the same addictive high that the original could supply.
He was a man made up of addictions. And she was certainly one of them.
