Evilangel
Cherry Kiss, Nancy Ace, Kristof Cale Pic(s)
The ancient clockâs pendulum swung in a slow, hypnotic arc, its rhythmic tick a deep drumbeat that seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of her bones. She stood at the center of the chamber, her skin tingling as the flow of moments thickened like honey around her, a palpable, viscous energy that clung to her bare arms and legs. With a deliberate, whispered incantation, she reached out a hand and felt the fabric of an hour yield, its taut linearity softening into a pliable ribbon of potential. A sigh escaped her lips, a sound of pure pleasure as the boundary between then and now dissolved under her touch, the past becoming a silken echo she could caress and reshape. The air itself grew heavy with the scent of ozone and aged parchment, charged with the raw power she was coaxing from the silent gears and weights surrounding her. She could feel the ghost of a long-passed second brush agat her neck, a phantom touch that sent a shiver of exquisite awareness down her spine. Her fingers traced the contour of a suspended minute, feeling its fragile structure pulse with a life of its own, warm and yielding to her will. Every deliberate breath she drew was a catalyst, pulling threads of destiny from the loom of chronology and weaving them into a new, desired pattern. In this sacred stillness of her own making, she was the weaver and the thread, completely immersed in the intimate, boundless dance of controlling what was, is, and could be.
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