A fever takes hold of her; one of boiling hunger, lips cracked and dried from the salted brine upon them. She feels like a fire of baptism, a flame of reincarnation to char him down to dust and recreate him with the mortar of her blood. To be defiled by her is to be 'made', to live inside something who might whisper stories of creation by the pulse of organs and the thrum of blood.
Burn, burn, burn.
She's burning up in the licking flames of his fury to live, the rushing blood-water that moves like white-water inside the cage of his skin. He calls to her like an oasis, the salt of his death-knell as he sweats in the killing madness. He is water to the desert of her, fresh lake waters to her ocean-salt.
He lashes against her and she forgets the suffering of her wings, the drip of her blood as she oozes out on the stakes of his horns. For her the moment whips by. His sweat runs rivers down his flesh and she licks her tongue down in the hollow, dipped skin between his rib cage when he finally stills and bows underneath the shrine of her wings.
Below them, under the cracks where the marble has been pieced together the worms, the carrion beasts of the soil, gather beneath the altar. They feast on her blood where it has dripped and gathered and promised to rot the sanctity of this forgotten, ivy covered shrine. There are no gods here, no immortals who have forgotten how to suffer, to bleed, to lay broken in pits of sin.
Here there is only Wormlust: the cosmic predator. There is only suffering, only dark rituals made in survival and wildness, only prey digesting in the bowels of her belly.
And oh, oh, oh! Oh, he tastes like wine. His skin could be a fermented garden left abandoned by the sea and rotted by the salt and moisture. Her teeth feed deeply, sinking into him, dipping deep inside the tender muscles between his rib bones. He is as cosmic as she, aged and flavored by all the secrets his blood cannot keep from her.
The could be an obourous--wing to horn, teeth to bone. They are knotted and bleeding as they devour each other.
His struggles resume, his memories perhaps flickering like the sun upon the waves. Wormlust reacts by rearing back when his hoof brushes her chest. She is made rabid but not foolish by the drunken headiness of his flavor. It's enough to draw her wings from the crucifix of his antlers. They are a fury of feathers as they peel back from him, spraying him with a sea-spray of blood.
A star could have imploded inside her for all the heat that fever still burns into her flesh, writing patterns of need on her bones. She's mad with the need, the fever, the rabidness for his blood-water to slake this beastly thirst of her.
She's mad enough to take to the thin air between this cage of marble of holiness. Her wings brush the ceiling and her blood rains down like the start of some flood, drops that promise more, more, more, death. Those wings are large enough, massive enough to still take flight without the use of the torn up, bloody feathers that bathed him in her.
It is no horse-like sound that falls from her lips as she moves to swoop down upon him and grab his neck between her teeth like an crocodile might.
Wormlust makes the sound a moon might make, ivory stone that screams as it burns through the atmosphere when it falls.
WORMLUST
monster of the sea
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