A chilling understanding washed over Myra. The terror in Freya’s eyes wasn't just fear for herself; it was fear of what she might become, a desperate battle against the primal hunger that threatened to consume her very being. Myra knew, with a sickening certainty, what Freya needed. It wasn't just the small vial of stored blood; it was fresh, vital life force.
"Freya," Myra said, her voice trembling but clear, taking a hesitant step closer. "Don't fight it. Don't resist." She could see the agony contorting Freya’s features, the internal struggle tearing her apart. "You're suffering. It's okay. Don't fight the hunger."
The words seemed to break through the edges of Freya’s desperate struggle. Her wild eyes flickered towards Myra, a flicker of confusion repcing the raw hunger for a fleeting moment. But the primal need was too strong, too deeply ingrained. A guttural roar tore from Freya’s throat, her body convulsing once more as the st vestiges of her rational control shattered. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity, all humanity draining away, repced by the cold, predatory lust of the ancient vampire. She turned towards Myra, no longer the woman Myra had come to know, but a creature driven by an insatiable thirst.
Freya’s gaze locked onto Myra, the st vestiges of recognition extinguished, repced by the predatory focus of a starving creature upon its prey. There was no hesitation, no flicker of the gentle soul Myra had come to know. With terrifying speed and inhuman strength, Freya lunged, her movements swift and brutal.
Myra barely had time to react as Freya’s icy grip cmped around her arm, the pressure instantly bruising. She was lifted effortlessly, her body swung through the air with arming force, and then smmed onto the nearest surface – a rickety antique bed piled high with dusty velvet throws. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, a sharp pain shooting through her back.
Before Myra could even register the shock, Freya was upon her, a primal snarl escaping her lips. Her hands, nails elongated into razor-sharp cws, tore at Myra’s simple cotton top with savage force. The fabric ripped and shredded, exposing her skin in jagged slices. A searing pain erupted across her chest and shoulders as the sharp cws raked through her flesh, leaving angry, scarlet welts in their wake.
Myra gasped, a strangled cry escaping her lips, the initial shock giving way to a burning agony. But amidst the terror and the searing pain, a strange sense of acceptance washed over her. She had offered herself, however unknowingly, to this ancient hunger. She had told Freya not to resist. And now, she would endure the consequences.
Closing her eyes, Myra let out a shaky breath, focusing on the image of the Freya she knew, the woman who had shown her kindness and shared her ancient wisdom. This creature before her was still Freya, albeit lost in the throes of a desperate, primal need. She would not fight. She would not scream in defiance. She would bear this, for Freya.
The tearing of fabric continued, each rip accompanied by fresh stings of pain. Myra’s skin was now exposed and bleeding, the scarlet lines a stark testament to Freya’s uncontrolled hunger. Yet, amidst the overwhelming sensation of being vioted by this raw, predatory force, Myra remained still, her body tense but unresisting, her silent offering hanging in the tense, blood-tinged air.
Freya’s focus narrowed, her primal instinct driving her towards the most vulnerable source of life. Her hands, still trembling with a desperate hunger, grasped Myra’s head, tilting it back with surprising force, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Myra’s breath hitched, a silent tear tracing a path down her cheek as she felt the cold press of Freya’s lips against her skin.
Then, the sharp, agonizing pierce of teeth. Freya’s fangs sank deep into Myra’s flesh, a searing pain unlike anything she had ever experienced erupting through her neck. It was a raw, visceral viotion, the tearing of tissue accompanied by a sensation of something vital being violently extracted from her body. A strangled gasp escaped Myra’s lips, her hands clenching into the dusty velvet of the bedcovers.
The frantic slurping sounds filled the dimly lit room as Freya began to drink, her grip tightening on Myra’s head. The pain was intense, a throbbing, burning agony that spread through her neck and into her shoulders. Myra squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the image of the gentle Freya, the one who had shared stories and deciphered ancient texts, clinging to the hope that this horrifying moment was not the true essence of the woman she had come to care for.
After what felt like an eternity, Freya tore her mouth away from Myra’s neck, leaving behind two raw, bleeding wounds. Without pause, her head lunged downwards, her teeth sinking with equal ferocity into Myra’s shoulder. The pain here was just as sharp, just as vioting, tearing through muscle and sinew. Myra’s back arched against the bed, a choked sob escaping her lips this time.
Despite the agonizing pain and the primal fear that still flickered at the edges of her consciousness, a strange calmness settled over Myra. It was the peace that comes with acceptance, a quiet surrender to the inevitable. In this brutal act, a twisted form of intimacy was forged, a terrifying merging of their very life forces. She was sustaining Freya, giving a part of herself, even as her body protested with searing agony. It was a sacrifice born of love, however unconventional and terrifying the circumstances.
Tears streamed freely down Myra’s face, mingling with the blood that now stained the dusty bedding. Her body trembled uncontrolbly, a testament to the agony she was enduring and the terrifying viotion she was experiencing. Yet, even as her senses reeled from the pain, a strange sense of resignation settled within her. She had made her choice, however naive, to not resist. And now, she would bear the consequences, offering her life force to quell the monstrous hunger that had overtaken the woman she loved.
Naked and bleeding beneath the weight of Freya’s desperate need, Myra could only lie there, enduring the agonizing embrace of the vampire’s hunger, her silent sacrifice a testament to a love that transcended the boundaries of life and death, humanity and the supernatural. The only sounds in the room were Freya’s frantic feeding, Myra’s choked sobs, and the heavy, ragged breaths of two souls locked in a terrifying, intimate dance of survival and sacrifice.
