I do not own Warcraft. I do not profit from it.
Crimson
He came to her, silent—no armor, no words, no steel, only the white flesh, bared—an offering to her. And she laid him back upon the blood-red silk, opening her wings above him, as he stretched out, vulnerable, beneath her—eyes seething, pale lips smiling, as she enfolded him in her feast of pain.
The agony of her custody, sharp glisten in the ruthless, ribboned light—the lethal arc of a killing bite, the violation of unresisting ice flesh. Slowly, she took and savored him, owning the heady weight of his relinquishing. His stone face was masked in shadow, head tilted to give her his strong throat. And how she fed upon his pleasure, how she thirsted for the sweet poison of desperate pain, a lace of venom in her piercing kiss. Her hands trembled to caress his skin of snow, the argent ice of his hair, so bitter-cold. Covetous fingers, winding tight, to hold him fast—like prey.
He...as prey...crucified for her, in crimson.
Divine, that momentary power he allotted, as he succumbed to her. His terrible compliance, hers—as a gift. Yet how she strove to urge him to resist her—to struggle in the web—so that she might possess him fully, and force him to her will; but he only hungered for more, always more. More.
And how addicting he was, his strange blood, wreathed with the lightning of his tantalizing glamour. Ferocious, incited, aching for his pain, she savaged him, tearing through the pale mist of ghostly flesh, to where the red roared—ravenous—as he growled his dark passion—for her, alone, soft, in his willing throat.
She sought to open him, seize and demolish him. Until even his blackest shadow fell to her, devoured.
It seemed she thought she might carve him out from his dominion in her soul, if she were voracious enough, cruel enough, frozen. If she were but ice...as he was.
How willingly she had perished, craving his seductions—the death in his caressing voice. Such a simple thing, it was...the plunging fall into his deep oblivion...
He burned—the spark, in the heart of the Dark—the hollow chatoyancy in the eye of a blind god. He was the cold stench of rage, the razor-edge of steel's temptation, and power writhed in the chill taste of his magical blood. Shaping her in his indigo image, until nothing lingered but the fixed mirror of his darkness, shattering all light.
Had she lived before his brutal advent?
No...
She arose in him, a blood seed, seeking sustenance in shadow.
He was her dead, dark sun, rising—and all the world was his ice.