WHEN SHE WAKES; SHE WAKES, IN THE EMPTY, CERULEAN MISTS OF A STILL-SLEEPING FOREST. WITH LEAVES IN HER HAIR AND THE EARTH EMBRACING HER FLESH FROM BENEATH. THE SOIL; DARK, COOL, SWARTHY WITH FETILE DREGS AND FRAYED LEAVES; SMOOTHES ACROSS HER FRAME WITH ALL THAT SWEET ROTTING, OF DECAYED WILDFLOWERS. AND THEIR SNAKES, CURL BY THE LENGTH OF HER LEGS; SWIMMING AROUND THE SCARLET CONTOURS OF HER FRAME, WITH SUCH VENOMOUS RECKONING; HOW WELL DO YOU REALLY KNOW YOUR, EURYALE? WHEN SHE WAKES, SHE IS COZIED BY THE MUSKY FRAGRANCE OF PINE NEEDLES, AND THE SCENT OF MIDNIGHT JASMINE, FLUTTERING UPON HER RED, RED LIPS. SHE WAKES NAUGHT IN THE LUSH, EXTRAVAGANCE OF MONARCHIAL WEALTH AND FEMININE GLAMOUR; NOR THE REPOSING SOFTNESS OF DELICIOUS, CRIMSON VELVET, SMOOTHED LUXURIOUSLY ACROSS THEIR VICTORIAN BEDFRAME. ALL SILK TOUCH, BRUSHING HOT AND RAGGED, AGAINST HER BREAST.
O, SHE IS FAR FROM THE PURITAN SNOW OF HER HURRIANCE PALACE. FROM THE COLD COFFIN OF A DESOLATE BED. SHE IS HERE BY THE RAW, MOIST EARTH; BETWEEN SHADOW AND THE FIRST STIRRINGS OF NIGHTFALL. SHE IS HERE; AMONG THE RICH, LOAMY PENUMBRA; THE WILD, SIREN CURVES OF HER BODY, BATHED IN THE SOFT LUMEN RAYS OF THE COMING, SUMMER MORNING. SCARLET, WEAVES THROUGH MARBLED BLACKNESS. A VERMILLION FRAME, CURVED AND LITHE. SWIMS LIKE SAVAGE WILDFIRE AGAINST THE DUSKY ILLUMINATION OF AN IVORY RAVINE. THE LILAC HAIR, FALLS AS A VEIL OVER HER BODY. THEIR COLD MIST, ON BARE SKIN; SWIMMING DOWN HER SIDES, WITH ALL THAT CARESSIVE LANGUAGE AND GENTLE MOTION. SWEET, EASY MOTIONS THAT MAY SUGGEST OUR GORGON MAIDEN COULD BE FEELING SERENE THIS EVENING. AND IT IS IN THESE VERY WOODS, THESE VERY MOUNTAINS, THAT SHE FINDS SANCTUARY; HER EDEN - HIS EVE.
SHE RISES FROM HER EARTHEN BED, DECORATED IN BONES. DECORATED IN BLOOD. THE VIOLET STRANDS, SLIP OVER HER FLESH. DESCENDING THE CURVE OF HER SHOULDER TO SMOOTHE ACROSS AN ELEGANT RIBGCAGE. AND SHE MOVES, QUIETLY, IN THAT INVITING, CRIMINAL SAUNTER. BURNING, THROUGH THE STONEY PATHWAYS OF DENOCTE WITH A LOW GROWL. EURYALE, IS THAT BURNING IMAGE OF VIOLENCE; OR WAS IT, EUPHORIA? THE FIERY, CLANDESTINE ARMAGEDDON, CAGED IN FEMALE FLESH. AS IF VIOLENCE COULD NOT ESCAPE HER; NOR, SHE - ESCAPE THE VIOLENCE. SHE HAS LONG DESTROYED HER OWN PATH TO SALVATION; AND THE FIRST VIRTUE SHE HAD DESTROYED, WERE THE HUMANITY IN HERSELF.
SHE LEAVES HER FORESTED EMPIRE IN THE PAST OF A SINGLE AFTERTHOUGHT. THE FERAL WOODLANDS, FADING BACK INTO CIVILIZATION. ENTERING ANOTHER REALM IN PASSING, AS SHE YET SATISFIES HER WANDERLUST. THE LIGHT, SMOOTHES LOW ACROSS THE EARTH, CARESSING SOIL. FADED, IS THE SUN. AN ENGORGED BEACON OF LIGHT, SHATTERING LOW. DRIPPING AMOROUS GOLD THROUGH THE SWARTHY EXTERIOR OF THE ELABORATE GREENSCAPE. FADED, IS THE LIGHT; SLIPPING INBETWEEN THE COLOSSAL, PORCELAIN BEAMS THAT LAVISHED PALE IVORY AND HIGHLIGHTED THE CHAOTIC, ROVING PALACE OF BEAUTIFUL DENOCTE, NOW LAVISHED IN SILKEN EXTRAVAGENCE. ILLUMINATING THE LAST HOURS OF LIGHT, BEFORE SUNLIGHT DRIPS OVER ITS COFFIN ALONG THE HORIZON. POURING DUSK THROUGH THE ILLUSTRIOUS ROADS, THE BODIES THAT SO FLOODED THE STREETS, AND SOON SURRENDERED BENEATH MOONLIGHT AND NIGHTFALL.
EURYALE MOVES QUIETLY THROUGH THE CROWDS OF NIGHT COURT, TILL SHE SURRENDERS HERSELF INTO THE CONFINED GARDEN-PATHWAYS OF THE MOUNTAIN GALLERY, ALONE. THE JADE-BLUE SCARF HOVERS AGAINST THE LITHE, CRIMSON CURVES OF HER PHYSIQUE - DRAPED, ACROSS HER SKULL, ENIGMATICALLY; LENDING A SOFT, MYSTERIOUS SHROUD TO HER PROFILE. UPON HER TEMPLE LAY THE MITHRIL TIARA, WITH ITS MATCHING BANGLE GLINTING ICILY AGAINST HER DELICATE ANKLE. IT IS THE FIRST TIME SHE HAS STEPPED OUTSIDE FROM THE SOVEREIGN LANDS OF TERRASTELLA, AND SHE SOAKS UP THE AMBIENCE OF DENOCTE WITH ANIMAL-LIKE CURIOSITY. THE BEAUTY OF THE GARDENS, FILLED WITH ARTWORK, DREW THE SILENT AWE FROM HER LIPS; AND SHE DRAWS DEEPER AND DEEPER INTO THE FLORAL ALLEYWAYS, PAVED OF MIDNIGHT DREAMS. THE FRAGRANCE OF IRON JASMINE, EVER FOLLOWING THEIR MISTRESS' WAKE.
the divine beasts ' Hardly has the universe stretched its wings to span '
It is not the artwork that has him lingering at the bottom of the mountains as the night just starts to paint the sky with line after line of blue until the sky looks as dark as ink (or as crusted blood). None of the paintings or the sculptures catch his gaze. Certainly none of the art sparks something in the hollow, needy pool of his soul.
Veer's soul wants things darker than art. It wants blood and violence, wealth and sin. It wants like a god's soul, it wants the universe.
So tonight when he walks through the gardens with Najjad his side it's not the art that makes them look away from the glow of the moon. Their eyes catch on the shadows at the base of each sculpture and on the darkness between the lights. It's the secrets that they want tonight, the secrets and the debased monsters that hide out of sight and pretend that it's art that brings them into a garden like a Eden.
Every garden needs a snake just as much as every garden needs a rose.
Najjad is the one that spots her first. The part of the gryphon that is more bird that lion always spots the brightest things first. She glitters like the scales of of a fish swimming too close to the whitewater of a dark stream. Look. Najjad says to Veer in that yawning space between them, look there.
Veer, when he turns to follow the arrow of his friends beak, sighs. She looks almost like art lingering between shadows in a pool of moonlight between the soft frame of vellum thin silk. And ah! This is the art that Veer can appreciate-- carnal with blood rushing in rivers beneath the canvas of it.
His steps when they carry him to her are slow and heavy. Each twig snaps under his hooves and he bids Najjad to ruffle his feathers loud enough to make the two of them the loudest song below the mountain. Tonight Veer is golden, bright and bold and he has no need for the silence that comes when he dips his body in ink and ash.
He joins her with a smile that shines like pearls in the dark and looks nothing like a lion's smile. At his side Najjad only lingers, now silent, beneath the shadows of Veer's massive wings. “Do you feel anything when you gaze at it?” He gestures to a sculpture of twisted, dark metal beside them. It looks a little like iron and silver as the moon sweeps out from a cloud to shine on it. At the base of the twisted metal small roses bloom, red as blood with thorns that look a little like teeth.
And in the silence he inhales the smell of her, flowers and violence and wealth.
EURYALE IS THE BLOOD-SOAKED APPARITION, BATHED, IN THE MOON'S NOCTURNAL RADIANCE. ASTRAL BEAMS, FELL UPON HER PHYSIQUE. HIPS SHIMMERING, IN SENSUOUS CRIMSON. HER INKED SNAKES, COME ALIVE - WRITHING, IN ALL THE MOON'S FLORESCENT HEADLIGHTS; SLITHERING, IN ALL THEIR GRACEFUL MALICE. TATTOOES. SCALES. CURVES. BATHING, OUR MISTRESS IN A DRESS OF INK and BLOOD, light AND SHADOW. DARK. MOON. ETERNAL.
ASHEN RAYS, WOVE THROUGH THE SUCCULENT CANOPIES. DUST PARTICLES, LINGERS ACROSS HER SKIN. FLOATING HEAVENWARD; DRIFTING UP, UP TO THE MIDNIGHT CURTAINS OF ITS INKY, TORRENT. FALLING DOWN UPON THE SLENDER SCARLET OF HER BODY, AS SHE WEAVES THROUGH THE LUSH, SUMMER GARDENS FULL OF SOFTLY-OMINIOUS SHADOWS, AND GLISTENING SCULPTURES. FOR ALL ITS DARK, LUXURIANT SPLENDOUR; IT IS AN EVENING SWATHED IN THE SILKS OF FINE, DENOCTIAN VIRTUOSITY. LATHERED, BY THE TASTE OF MIDSUMMER HEAT. AWASH, IN THE HALCYON BEAUTY OF STARLIGHT, PARAMOURS AND OPULENT DREAMERS.
SHE FEELS THE HEAT OF MIDNIGHT, PET THE CURVE OF HER NAPE. A KISS OF LINGERING HUMIDITY. SMOOTH. STICKY. GENTLE. NIGHT'S MOONSONG, CHIMES WITH THE STIRRING MELODY OF CRICKETS. A MERCIFUL EVENING, FULL OF LONG, DARK SHADOWS AND SECRET, SECRET SPACES; WHERE BEASTS AND ANIMALS, MIGHT PROWL AND MASQUERADE IN THEIR NOCTURNAL HOUR. OUR EURYALE CALANTHA, IS AMONG THEM ALL. BETWEEN THE FIRST STIRRINGS OF VELVET BREATH AND DARKNESS, ETERNAL. SHE IS AMONG THE BEASTS AND THE ANIMALS AND THE HUNGRY SERPENTS, WHO'D ROAM THE LOAMY WARMTH OF MIDNIGHT. HOT SCALES, TWISTING BENEATH LUXURIOUS, CHIFFON SILKS - THE HEATED FIRE OF LONG, PASSIONATE STARES; BURNING DEEP, INTO THE CURTAIN FOLDS OF THE EVENING.
HIPS, SWAY, WITH THE SHE-WOLF'S FERAL LANGUAGE. EURYALE WANDERS FROM MOONBEAM TO MOONBEAM; FEELING THE SOFT, LUMINOUS MOON, DANCE - RAY, UPON GILDED RAY - AGAINST THE CRIMSON FLESH OF HER BODICE. AGAINST THE COME-HITHER HOURGLASS, OF THEIR SUN-KISSED CURVATURE. TILL THE EVENING MOONLIGHT MADE A GOWN OF HER PROWLING, LUPINE FIGURE. DRIPPING, A TRAIL OF RESTLESS SILVER TO HUG THEIR MISTRESS' WAKE. EURYALE ROAMS THE PROLIFIC GALLERIA OF ARTS, WITH THE MOUNTAINS' JAGGED TEETH, EDGED ACROSS THEIR LEGENDARY HORIZONS. SHE DOES NOT ENJOY THE ARTISTRY, AS MUCH AS SHE ENJOYS WALKING BENEATH THE POETRY OF MOONLIGHT, AND THIS ALONE IS ENOUGH TO DRAW A HUM OF SATISFACTION PAST HER LIPS.
HER THOUGHTS, WERE LOST IN THE STILLNESS OF THE MOUNTAINS. IN THE STILLNESS OF THE WOODS AND THE FIELDS OF NUMEROUS ARTWORKS. UNTIL DEATH, ARRIVES; SINGING SONGS OF BLACK AND GOLD AND DELICIOUS MASSACRE. UNTIL SHE IS PULLED INTO THE SHADOWED CARESS, OF AN ADONISIAN BEHEMOTH, AND HIS GRIFFIN COMPANION. PULLED, BY THE RICH FRAGRANCE OF BLOODLUST AND FURY AND GODLY REFINEMENT. DRAWN, TO THE SHIFTING RUSTLE OF GILDED FEATHERS AND CROONING, MALE SENSUALITY.
HIS WINGS, WERE THE WINGS OF FALLEN ANGELS DRAPED ACROSS GOD'S THONE. REGAL. BEAUTIFUL. SO DEADLY, SO PERFECTED, IN ITS ALLURE. THE MUSCLES ALONG HIS BRONZED BODY, RIPPLES WITH A LETHAL GRACE - GOLD CHAINS, SMOTHERING, WITH SUCH UNBRIDLED MASCULINITY. SHE HEARS HIM, APPROACH. HEAVY FOOTFALLS, LACED IN THE SINISTER BRILLIANCE OF GOLD. GOLD. GOLD. DRIPPING, OF WEALTH. DRIPPING, OF DANGEROUS INTRIGUE; AND A SOFT, BEAUTIFUL BRAND OF HUNGER, THAT COULD ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS DEATH. SHOULD SHE FEAR HIM?
"CAGED,"
EURYALE WHISPERS, WICKEDLY, HER MELODIOUS VOICE A PURRING LILT OF WITCHY ENTICE. LIFTING HER RUBY GAZE FROM THE METAL ROSE-WORK, THEN THE GRIFFIN, BEFORE RESTING HER SMOKY, khol-lined EYES UPON THE TITAN. SOFTLY, SHE WHISPERS AGAINST THE HOLLOW OF HIS THROAT. BENEATH THE REGAL SHADOWS OF HIS MASSIVE, DARK WINGS; WHERE WILD, TANNED FEATHERS MAY COLLAPSE, AND CROON; FOLDING, INTO A VELVETY SEA OF BLACK, VIOLENT SATIN. HIS SMILE IS SAUVE. REFINED. HE SMELLS OF WEALTH, LUXURY, PRESTIGE. THE TANGLED CHIME OF LUXURIANT JEWELS. GLITTERS, WILD AGAINST THE Swarthiness OF HIS DEVILISH PROFILE.
GOLD GLISTENS AGAINST BLACK, AND EURYALE IMAGINES DEATH SINGING FOR HER THROAT. BREATHING, DOWN HER NECK. SQUEEZING, HER HEART WITH A HOT, DESERT SIGH, AND TAKING HER SOUL WITH A GENTLE KISS OF RUINATION. HER VELVET BREATH, STIRS AGAINST THE CORNERS OF HER RED, RED LIPS. HE IS TALL. HIS SHADOWED WARMTH, DRAWS THE FUR TO RISE ACROSS HER SPINE; A DECADENT, BARELY-THERE SHIVER, TRAVELING DOWN THE GRACEFUL LINES OF HER BACK.
"LIKE A WILD ANIMAL, THAT SHOULDN'T BE,"
EURYALE CONTINUES, TURNING TO FACE HIM, FULLY. FOLLOWING THE OUTLINE OF HIS FACIAL PROFILE. THE THICK, STRANDS OF EBONY HAIR, THAT CLUNG TO HIS NECK, FURTHER ACCENTUATING HIS SERAPHIC COUNTENANCE. ARTERIAL RIBBONS OF BLOOD JASMINE, DRIFTS LIKE IRON SILK FROM HER WOLVEN CURVES; CURLING, VORACIOUSLY, IN THE FOREST HOUR. TANGLING, IN THE WILD LENGTH OF HER LAVENDER MANE, AND DRIFTING AGAINST THE SMOOTH LINES OF HER IVORY CHEEKBONES. CARESSING, HER SLENDER THROAT WITH EACH VENOMOUS, VENOMOUS RECKONING. SHE LEANS FORWARD, BRUSHING PAST THE ANGEL OF DEATH, IN A FLURRY OF SOFT, LILAC TENDRILS. HER JAWS, CURLING AROUND THE THINNEST METAL STRAND. TILL SHE BENDS ITS SHAPE, AND A SINGLE ROSE UNFURLS IN THE MOONLIGHT, FREE OF ITS METALLIC CONTRUCT, ENTIRELY. THORNS, SO SHARP, SO ALLURING. THORNS, RIGID LIKE TEETH; THIRSTY FOR BLOOD AND THE PRICKING OF FLESH made immortal.
"ISN'T THAT BETTER?"
she looks up, and whispers; that her breath might find their longing, and linger softly against his cheek.
the divine beasts "It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be."
Something dark unfurls in him, like an oil stain on water, for her boldness. It spools beneath this skin like a disease and drips down into the marrow of his bones. He swallows down that thing in him that loves the wild, fearless siren in her, and pretends that the curl of her breath, like smoke against his throat, only makes him feel nothing but shallow appreciation.
Veer pretends that he doesn't want to unfurl his feathers like a universe and swallow her and her ribbons whole like they are nothing more than a fading star before the black hole of him.
At his side Najjad shakes his feathers in the moonlight like a lazy lion might shake their mane before a feast caught by a lioness. A thread of some nameless, deep thing passes between the two males and neither has a name for it. Caution, one thinks. Now, now, now, the other chants. Neither of them move a single hoof or paw.
She sheds blue slick like Veer sheds gold and feathers. Part of him wants to drape her in rubies and pearls just so that he could pluck them off one buy one until she doesn't notice that it's skin he's taking instead of gifts. Another part, when he listens to her voice and almost laughs, wants something so very, very different than skin and pearls and wealth.
Veer swallows all that down too when her ribbons brush against his like frail snakes. He only watches her with a heady sort of focus as she wraps her teeth around the metal and pulls. And if he blinks away some shadow across his eyes who is to say that it's more than a trick of moonlight against his golden gaze?
“No.” He offers his denial as gracefully as a sword swung by a master of war. “That is not better at all.” This time he is the one to move past her, a slow influx of feathers and grace. Each arrogant curl of him offers promise and threat. He moves more like a lion than Najjad could.
And when he's close enough to wraps his teeth around the stem of the rose and pulls. The thorns cut at his lips and when he swallows he can taste the iron and ichor of his blood on his tongue. It's a bitter sort of sting and he relishes in the way that even as it dies the rose still fights.
Casually he moves back towards her and goes to tuck the rose into her mane, hoping that maybe the thorns snag and pull just enough to remind her of a feral thing fighting against a cage. “No wild animal belongs in the dirt.” Only then does he let his feathers unfurl until he's a beast of the sky and it's painfully obvious there is not a cage in all of Novus that could hold him.
he drips of gold, the way a narcissistic god, drips of holy blood. divine sacrilege. divine worship. flowing, through veins of seraphic immaculacy. fore he is the beauty of death, swathed, in carnal allure. he is wealth. he is influence. perhaps, even sadism. he is amorous, perfectionment; halcyon midnight, painting him a wicked lucifer of sheer, romantic cruelty. o, but bewarned; his love, is the killing kind. there is something about him that screams, danger.
his façade, glints fiercely in the moonlight. full of sharp, alluring angles toned of bronze marble; tainted, a sinister black - mirroring, the crimson of her vices. the crimson of her sins. in the obscurity of the evening. in the deep hours of starlight. euryale, glistens, against him; a blood red sea, full of life. glowing, in the iron grasp of his immortal darkness. the darkness. that grasped them both. held them, in a languishing caress of twilight intimacy.
held them together in the language of temporary, lovers. a moment of intimacy. so close. so near. she can hear him, breathing. breathing, against the curling whisper of her veins. against the ragged want, of an ephemeral breeze; that clung to the silken tendrils of her amethyst hair, and pulled. pulled. pulled. ever, hungry. ever, tortured. an adamant caress, of yearning, and vicious need. the will of the gods, they say. is he a god? or is he a devil? perhaps, even both?
apart of her, wants to taste this devil-god. taste him, upon her lips. fill her jaws, with his divine blood. till he drips with holy revelations, against her breast. apart of her, wants to peel back the layers of his sins; his secrets; his flesh. till he is nothing more than an immortal surrender - till he is nothing more, than groans of dark desire. lust, and passion, tangled against the heated flush, of their bedsheets. nothing more than a man, with need; and she, to worship him in an altar of blood - then, wild unadulterated s-u-b-m-i-s-s-i-o-n. if she should taste him, would she taste divinity? would she taste, violence? euphoria? would she be his lilith; or would she be, his eve?
her crimson fur, ripples against the wild allurement of her curves. smooth, sun-kissed hips, dragging a trail of ice-blue slick. their translucent form, fluttering in a ragged hiss of ophidian desire. their feral chill, glides against her serpentine physique. twisting, in ribbons of silky azure. ribbons, that fell along her figure. undulating, waves of smoke. trailing her hips, and the delicate lines of her ankles, with each gossamery caress of seductive blue. follow me. they seem to whisper. follow me.
her azure is a wicked, wicked siren. a slender beast floating, upon aerial seas; reaching, for the god in him. clawing for him. in smooth, bone-jade appendages, that drips of savagery and thirst and airy, acid-white teeth. how fervent their touch. curling outward, in yearning desires. to taste his blood. taste his soul. lashing out, in thin spectral fingers of sharp, misty hunger; that clung to his mane; that ached, to find purchase along his skin, and t-a-s-t-e him. taste you. her snakes, seem to curl around him with playful entice. taste you. soft, sensual, gentle, feather-light touches. that would bring any lesser man, down to his knees.
yet, for all his dangerous allure. for all his power. euryale evades desire. she evades touch. she curls, indifferent, against all manners of affection. the way a predatory lioness curls outward, from a male lion's caress. creatures, too violent, to have ever known gentleness. all cloying curves, all salivating fangs, and feline temptation, lingering just out of reach. yet in this moment, she belongs to him; and him, to her. predators, cut of the same mold. with only APATHY, and narcissism, as forms of love.
"the earth is comforting in her embrace,"
her whisper, is a bedroom-whisper. dripping with smoky fevor. full of playful, pretend-protest. her hooves like talons, digs into the moist, pliant earth. an adamant caress, of red-stained rebellion. no, he says, elegantly. euryale pouts. she draws, closer. allowing his warmth, to guide her in the darkness. a soft, animalistic purr of velvet amusement, leaves her lips at hearing him whisper the demise of the rose. she watches him pull forward, gracefully. a bestial hush, of arrogance and danger. feeling the sigh of his tall, muscular body, temporarily caress her own.
she watches him move past her. she gazes at him, undoing the rose; as easy as fingers might undo the lace-strings, of a dress. if only to return by her side, and tuck its petals, into the lilac oceans of her mane. the titan of his wings, now spread in raptorial prowess. herculean might. swallowing the moonlight. glossy feathers, tinged in deep, golden ambrosia - darker than wine; sweeter than honey. with her. following, the shadows of his lips, with her piercingly, immaculate stare.
"the sky may be glorious. but the earth will always be dark, and smothering,"
her whisper, drips, slowly; like blood, dripping against broken glass. a velvet whisper, that rises with venom, purring from her slender throat. blooming, their wild abandon against her wicked, vampy lips. she lets the silence, linger between them. she lets the silence pant, heavily, between their bodies. feeling the cool weight of his shadow, coiling against her smooth, crimson skin. she closes her eyes. she breathes him in. she takes in the scent of the rose. she imagines the scent of him, dancing wetly across her lips.
the curve of her mouth, curls upward in a languid display of fangs. the serene thirst of their hunger flashes, subtly, as she smells his blood upon his lips. she laughs, and her laughter rings like a sharp, silver bell. full of wicked mirth, and devilish desire. she finds his fragrance alluring. All iron, all ambrosia; and she leans into his coppery fragrance, the way a lover might lean into a caress. staving, the urge. the urge to lick the blood from his lips, with a kiss.
"o, but what do you think of this?"
euryale sighs, and she moves away from his intoxicating self. silk ribbons, fluttering a gossamer trail; their whispy, undulating azure feathering the scarlet of her ghost curves, with each demure gesture of retreat. to the next piece of artwork, euryale lingers. where a pile of black feathers, pools into a concrete basin, painted bronze. at it's oozing center - a shimmering golden apple, with a bite mark upon its flesh. euryale chimes in, her voice darkly, playful. teasing, even. the rose, still tangled in her mane, sheds petals in their wake; floating in a sea of lilac - dripping petals, for tears. a single breeze, stirs the feathers upon the ground, as her gaze flicks from the dark man to his golden griffin. flashing a come-hither, feminine smile.
It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you?
P
erhaps if he were another male he would have been caught like a fly in honey by the silken caress of her ribbons. Maybe then Veer would have smiled like a lamb and followed the siren call of her and dove headfirst into the red hot sea of her. If he were another sort of stallion he would have smiled and laughed as he drowned.
But Veer is not a fly or a thing to be trapped in waves of sensuous appeal. Veer is bottomless pit of need and want, rage and hunger. When he ruffles his feathers he's suddenly not dipped in gold but black. He could be the night for how dark he seems when he looks at her with both pity and desire flashing in molten sparks across his gaze. “Spoken like a true creature of the earth.” Veer sounds like a universe when he taunts her, all cold winter wind and salted storm seas.
This time when he closes the distance between them it's into the press of her blue ribbons. They dance around him like a thin silken webs and he laughs as they tangle and tease at his legs. He wonders if she fancies herself a spider, a siren or a snake. There is nothing shy about him, nothing coy. Veer is only boldness, only sin.
“Shall I bury you in it then?” He's a threat too, and his wing arc above them like a church steeple. “Will it comfort you to feel dirt beneath your teeth instead of air?” Perhaps it's a blessing that she moves away then, trailing rose-petals like tears.
Veer almost wanted to strike then, although he still hasn't decided if we wants to corrupt her love her.
For now, though, he follows her like a wolf stalks a lamb. The art around them in nothing to Veer, nothing more than pillars of wealth in the darkness that he knows will return home with him. Each twist of gold, each glimmer of glass, each sheen of moonlight on silver, belongs to him. Foolish Denocte, tearing down a gate and welcoming all the beasts in to drink from pools of wine and sin.
They should have known the monsters would come. The monsters always come.
It's not until she stops that Veer ceases sharing with Najjad the list of all the things the belong to him now. When he turns to watch his little siren and the art she has found Veer smiles wickedly and adds in that silent chord between stallion and gryphon, one more thing, Najjad. This is too is ours. The gryphon clacks his beak like the single tick, tick of a metronome as Veer joins her before the golden apple.
“It makes me think of how the world began.” He lifts his wings up to drape across her back. Each of his feathers whispers against another feather, until his wings sound like a siren song of their own, urging the blue ribbons to tangle between them. “But as for feeling--” His words smolder on his lips as he presses them close enough to her ears that he thinks it might be fun to grab one between his teeth and pull.
“That I would have to show you.” He says, and never has he felt more like a god than he does tonight.
The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress
Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
he is dangerous. he drips of ancient evil. a king pharoah, loosed from his desert tomb; all hot sighs, heatwaves and suffocating sand, twisting against gilded flesh of black and gold. he is death, incarnate. he weaves webs of desire, deviltry and damnation, against the opulent rose of her blood-tinged flesh. his presence weaves lurid hunger, through the ornate cage of her sinful bones. stitching, her soul in the violence of want and need and dangerous yearning. he is death. a chanting, ancient, old age type of evil - and she dances with the devil; sings, and purrs and loves every delicious minute of it. she wears her cerulean mists, like a funeral gown. ghosting, so fine a blue filigree. azure lace, curls and howls with such benevolent hunger. crystal moans, drips from the mouths of old ghosts - haunting, their siren blues alongside and against them. haunting, with the rough pursuit of the hunt. a wolf's hunt. a wolf's howl. a wolven promise of feral language and bloodlust and desire.
across him. around him. against him. stormy blues, dances like a playful noose, a tattered funeral dress drenched in oily azure. her blue, trails and trails and trails. dragging, frail blues over his immaculate gold; her blue, trails over his toned, godly flesh. like sleek seductive fingers, running down the curve of his smooth spine. tracing, the muscles of his body. dancing, a spider's sultry dance of delight and arachnid fever. the blue fever, pours from the voluptuous symmetry of her curves. euryale, feels rejuvenation in his presence. alive. alive. alive. yet, never more closer to death, than she has ever been in her life. she wonders what his lips would taste of; would it taste of destruction? would all-consuming fire. drip from his handsome, draconian jaws; salivating sin and devouring virtue? should his lips taste of passion, and death and ire. should he taste of ancient evils, and bittersweet, delicious damnation.
"don't make a girl a promise you can't keep,"
her silken, feminine voice floats wickedly in their thick, rimy lavish; playful dare, eliciting soft challenge. lay me in a bed of earth, but only after you comfort me with the taste of your blood, she almost wants to whisper back and taunt, taunt, taunt him further. yet only delicate laughter, curves her wicked lips. only sweet, girlish mirth rings at the admonitions of him. hushed, bubbled cherry laugh flashing amid rows of sharp insisors. bringing, soft chords to sing in a delicately, gilded serenade. she is flirting with his demons, and she knows this. she feels herself being hunted; hunted; hunted, by the piercing gold of his hungering, criminal eyes. by the massive warmth of titanesque wings, that unfurled like great masts and billowed soft threats along the sleek, sloping invitations of her spine. o, he is the god to which she'd gladly pray, pray, pray. he is death and destruction and the hunger in his voice, and the need in his eyes, drips of a yearning void, so vicious and all-consuming. there is nothing gentle about his eyes, yet, that feeds its hunger into the soft, tender crimson of her flesh. that feeds, along the curve of her hips and spine, like deadly lovebites carving into her skin with all the adoration of a knife.
as euryale moves away to lay lavished, khol-rimmed ruby eyes upon the art of the golden apple, he follows, too. death, shadowing her heels. blue, trailing her wake. she is cautious of him, yet. the way he speaks, brings a foreboding chill to crawl upon her spine. his voice tastes of delicious masculinity. their husky tone, drawing a rough purr from euryale's lips, as the edge of his sharp teeth feels more like playful fangs gripping into her flesh. catching, the soft tendon of her ear lobe in their tender tug and rough caress. euryale calantha, puts a gentle shoulder into him. brushing the heat of his toned frame with the slenderness of her figure. Feeling, the wiry musculature of his physique, the toned smoothness of him that oozed of virility and golden want. The tips of his archangel feathers, sings along her curvacious backline, painting luscious breaths of heat and damnation into her sweet skin. A breath of dangerous intimacy, shared, beneath compelling moonlight and the silversong of carnal whispers.
"I didn't think the devil is capable of any feelings,
and by devil, i mean
you."
Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright
It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you?
T
here is a moment, only a brief one, where the golden apple is brighter than him. It comes to him like an epiphany that he is more wicked than a apple, more wicked than a million different sins. For a moment, that tiny silver in time where the moonlight loves the apple instead of him, that he might taste like freedom (sweet and bitter and like a god) if she was brave enough.
But then the moonlight shifts and returns to him. Once more he's bright and hungry and alive, alive, alive. Soon he only wonders if she is as hungry as he is, if she might look at him, count his feathers and add all the number of him to a list too.
Veer doesn't think he'd mind, not tonight, not when it suits him to be counted and claimed.
Yet the night still ticks ever onward and each moment rings to him like a shovel against a coffin. Clang, clang, clang. Veer feels like a legend, a creature of the night that instead of drowning in an ocean decided to drink it until he was bloated and full of all the secrets of the sea. Fitting then, is it, that she whispers and rings out through the darkness like a siren song.
He lifts his wing from her spine and rises both wings above their heads. He imagines their bones like altars and his feathers like gods, a million faces peering down at their mortal flesh and imagining all the ways in which they might repent. And perhaps that is what makes him bury his nose into her silk and her mane and coo, “There is no promise I would make to you that I do not intend to keep.” Najjad reminds him of the list and they both know that those little things marked with mine are all promises too.
Already he has forgotten about the apple and all the gold (except the gold that is on him). The only art he cares about now is blue and red and bone white. He is shallow and wanting and his laughter is full of hollowness, like a great-bellied snake that circles a world and waits to consume even the religions of that world. He laughs and he wants and he drags his teeth in a kiss down her neck.
“It's only the cleverest of devils that make you think they can't feel, love” He does not deny that he is a devil, although he ponders again that he would be a better god than a monster of the dirt and magma. Isn't it obvious, he thinks, that he is made to fly above the universe and anything in it? “But inside they feel. Oh they feel so many things.” His lips and his teeth would etch the words into her skin, tangle them into her ribbons if only she was brave enough to sink instead of flee.
“They can feel rage, want, desire and hate.” What he doesn't say is that they can feel satisfaction. That they have never learned to feel. He pulls back, holds his breath and meets his gold gaze to her ocean deep ones. He thinks mine, mine, mine and his lungs quiver with the need for air as he lets the night tick onward like shovels against coffins.
“Even a devil can learn to love.” And when he finally takes a mouthful of air his lungs ache with the sweetness of it, of her.
Veer has always known the sweetest things in life come after suffering.
worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins & you can sharpen your knife
the night feels alive, dragging on with the cresendo of lovers' promise; cradling the warmth of them in the velvet crush of midnight eternal. up above, the clouds float heavy with misty-rain, and the quivering, opal moon watches as euryale folds into his embrace; curling around him, with each carnal whisper.
beneath the mountains, they were but one ominous shadow of passion and dare. entwined, sensuously, against each other. her body tangled with his. tangled, in heat. tangled, in fevor. despite his dangerous appeal, her heart beats too fiercely, to feel completely cautious in his presence. for him alone, her heart bleeds raw and wanton. like a wild rose she unfurls around him. devouring his touch by the silver light of the moon.
into his arms, she finally sighs. his wings, crowns high above them; cradling, their universe in a sea of black and golden satin. she loves the way his whiskey breath buries, hotly, into her skin; into the tangled length of her mane that dances, flush, against his face. each caress of him lingers with desirous promise. each touch of him burns with devilish need. kissing silk skin, with such wicked adoration.
beneath the gold of his feathers, his words felt nothing more than a hot blur of heat and hunger against her sweet, rose-dusted flesh. along her skin, he leaves a fevered trail of kisses. full of longing, they pierce with their lovebites. they feel like ecstacy. caging her soul in a sanctuary of wicked delight; such dark, sensual kisses. bringing yet another sigh, to smother delicately upon her lips.
how he sings against her body. brushing her flesh with the devil's song. he whispers serpent words of lust and desire. he offers the delicious temptation. he is the golden apple, tinged in the sweetest, darkest poison - to make even the gods, themselves; blush. and who is she, to not feel temptation? to not take a bite of its divine flesh, and swallow?
o, he feels like euphoria. like darkness purring wickedly against her curves. grasping her in the decadent ritual of touch. to join him in his sins. to join him in his warmth. to feel the naked shadows of him, tangled against her slender limbs; the way his powerful wings, draws her into an embrace. thick. heady. feathering hungerily above them like fingertips running, over lace. all silently screaming; want you. need you. have you. devour you.
to feel him in the shadows, makes her heart growl with hunger and need and violence. he makes her heart, burst, with each silk touch of revelation. fluttering with sinful abandon, beneath the bone-white of her ribs. the wanting echoes like the howl of a wolf. yawning, beneath the cage of her breast; where passion blossoms, into a wicked, hungry animal. searing, against flesh and tearing into red, red ribbons of amorous yearning. she loves him for his wickedness and her heart only covets for the darkness, seething in him.
with every touch her heart burns and burns and burns. each of his kiss leaves a promise of sin. each of his kiss, is bold and carnal and tempting. there is nothing gentle about him, as he moves down her neck. there is nothing soft in the fire of his lust; that carves into her flesh, with such passionate male need. need, enough to burn the whole world asunder.
even his breath feels sharp and intoxicating. his crooning voice drifting like smokescreen, poisoning her rationality. o, there is a doctrinal hunger in the way his lips, so eagerly travels and descends down, down, down. burying, into the silken arc of her neck. into the sweet perfume of her skin and hair, that now dances with the keen scent of him.
she feels beautifully bruised, as the sharpness of his teeth, buries against her flesh like a forbidden prayer. the sharp ritual of his kiss, that razors possessively against her skin. kissing sins, and devouring religions, with each breathy growl of adamant need. and who is she to deny the devil? she will not deny the devil, fore the devil lives in her - as she lives in, him.
"then you must be the cleverest devil of them all,"
instead of drifting away, this time she drinks in his millionaire-cologne, and tastes his poison upon her lips. he whispers of rage, want, desire, hate and love, and euryale all but laughs softly, as she leans into the strength of his body. pressing her pale breast against the defined muscles of his chest; so that he may yet feel the tender songs of wicked ruination, burning in her heart. so that he may learn he is not alone in his wanting.
she is the prayer to his altar. she is the song to his flame. she is the ardent subservience to his master. and how fervent her worship. how fervent her voice. every touch is europhic, as she melts deeper into his embrace. every breath is heaven, as her lips flutter against his ear with another wild purr of righteous hunger; skin on skin, till their breathing falls into the same rhythmic pattern of wild, dark longing.
"want. need. have. hurt."
she speaks slowly, murmuring into his neck; her voice a husky tease, brushing over his skin like scripture. a sensual hiss leaves her lips, with her eyelids fluttering close as their obsidian lashes caresses porcelain cheekbones. she tilts her neck, and gives into the intoxicating surrender of his wants. all around them the world becomes such a blur. all around them the world fades to black, and she is drowning in his religion. she is drowning in him. she throws her head back with a soft, delicate moan, to take all his hunger.
"love, is all these things."
as he pulls back, she presses into him. she whispers breathily against him. her lips shall caress his cheek. tracing his skin with a single, sharp fang. all around them, the loosened rose petals begin to shimmer and float upon the air. crushing its fragrance into the tangled length of his hair. running, beneath the curve of his jaw, like playful fingertips. the petals drift for a hungry, wanting moment; floating for a few seconds, then falling upon him. swaying in a curtain of blood-red, as they drift to land across his spine with their ghost-kiss.
"but most of all, love is surrender."
her azure ribbons, now becomes a hundred grasping arms; bursting like angelfire, as the azure reaches for his neck. collapsing around him in an ethereal hug. how they bow beneath him. how they shiver, writhing like blue scales beneath the weight of his frame. digging into his shoulders, like misty nails. she has been in love once; and it cost her, dearly. she vows to never fall in love again. she could love him for the evening. but at what cost? surely, for the price of her soul, she shivers to think.
"and you don't seem the type of man to surrender,"
this time it is she who drags her fangs across his flesh, and tastes. raking her teeth down his brow, as she seeks him in the dark. planting a string of passionate kisses along his jawline, till she finds his lips and kisses him there; softly. slowly. tenderly. and though their hearts were worlds apart, in a kiss, she feels like they've shared an eternity together.
"could you surrender;
even for one
evening?"
the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you
It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you?
V
eer feels a bloom of something that might be a little like satisfaction when she drinks of all the spaces around him like an offering. She sips at him like blood and drags her ribbons across him as if he is a knife. He wonders if she wants to know if she can still feel pain. And he promises, in feathers that fall around them like rain, that he would be happy to show her. He would etch scripture into her flesh with bones if she let him.
She could be his religion and he her god.
So of course he lets her taste of him and drag her fangs down his skin as if he might be impressed by her violence. He's not of course, he is the only violence this night. And oh! The hunger in him boils sinks through his body like molten gold. He could be a statue for how still he stands under her touches. Only his feathers and his gold chains sing for her ribbons and her kisses.
His smile is bright on his face, brighter than the moon, when he looks down, down, down at her. “Such cold words to describe love. How sad.” Veer folds his feathers down and one tucks to his side and one slams down against her. “But it's not cold.” When he catches a falling rose-petal between his teeth it tastes both sweet and bitter on his tongue.
He swallows it.
“Love is like swallowing the sun.” What he wants to say is that love is like swallowing him whole, like being eaten from the inside out. It tastes like gold and wealth and copper (metallic like blood). He wants to say that he knows how like the sun he feels.
A part of him wonders if she can taste the sand on him, taste the heat that wants to melt her flesh from bone (and see all the secrets inside her). He could make a masterpiece of her then-- a pyre.
But then like all women she pushes and pushes and pretends that he is made for anything but destruction; her destruction. He breaks her kiss with teeth, pulling at her lips like a wolf fretting at a bone. “You're right.” The feathers of his wings are not loving now, they are hungry. Najjad snaps his beak and eats silently at the sudden weight in the air around them.
But of course even as he pulls away Veer still thinks and counts, mine, mine, mine.
“I never would.” It's all he says before him and Najjad turn and walk into the darkness of the mountain garden. The dissolve into the darkness easier than two bright, golden things should.
