Even the greatest philosophers have understood that love, despite all its softness and heart-pounding merry, is a carnivorous thing. What is a love that does not destroy you, devour you, break you, bury you; and render you from the ashes? An ache settles in the pit of his core – and crawls, sparking like wildfire, up the base of his spine, his shoulders, his neck; it reminds him of petrichor and blood, of standing on the edge of a battle field or the brink of an impending storm. Is it not? But it is a different ache that blends with hunger and want and need in such a way that it is fury, it is dripping adulation that begs and pleads against the knife. The warmth of the firelight crackles embers across his virile likeness, while the cool jeweled moon smooths her curvaceous delineation in its milk-white ecstasy. Two deities possessed in their lurid dream, and the air smells like war, roars with the distant hum of a forgotten mythos. If he knelt before your altar, would you bathe him in blood?
Will you worship him, as he worships you?
He watches the sea unravel from her quarters as she ascends, angelic in the pandemoniac siege that courses close behind – a furious sea, ravaging her heels with the licking contempt of a bitter lover. The brine crests on her slender back, diamonds cascading into the panting blackness of hungry torrents; they are a veil that glissades across her supple hips and entangles with the warmth of her thighs, the tight curve of her waist. She sheds her thalassic mail, Venus exposed in the donning lunar rays; and in the distance, ships are lost to her beauty. and he feels, he has seen this before, in the tides that time cannot touch – but he stares as if it is the first, he drinks her deeply as if he has forgotten she is venom and hotness and the dark things we dare not think ––– She is the wrath of femininity incarnate, framed by the deceiving grace of the depthless sea which wants and wanes with undulating ardor, its mist crashing against her in their mettle of splintering pearls.
She speaks, and he is wont to listen to her confessions, his ear pressed tight against the mesh; he hears each nectarous syllable drip with vitriol and threat, and he sees she is a blade but o, how men with warrior hearts do see the romance in sharpness and the beauty in death. When she speaks, he cannot want anything but to breathe each word from the heat of her lips, and he steps boldly over the discarded stag to catch them in detail, and the decay below is left behind for the chaos above. And he thinks – he prays – that he feels her heat careened against his flesh, and breathes the waft of decadent temple incense and the taste of molten ore. Her voice is a lull that dismisses the listless roars of the ocean that seems so far behind, receding back into the dawn of all time. There is only her now, and the inescapable entrenchment of physicality that no longer seems like a burden but a momentum, as caught within their orbit are all things dissolved.
Would you drink of his blood, as he eats of your flesh? Like wine, like bread; love is sacrifice, is veneration, is domination and submission and the lie of forgiveness –
She sings of death and decay, as she once did for the stag, but he is not wont to fear and is a fable in danger, long entranced by the dirges of ruination. He welcomes her lethality, revels in the prospect of eternal agonies, if only it means to burn in the unholy flames of her lapping reverence. Her words chase traitorous syllables around the curve of his ear, and he heeds them as a hunter must, between the devoted pulsings of her arterial pangs and the sweet gale of her breath. His gaze is restless and merciless, hotly consumed of her delicate features, the shape of her eyes and the cut of her pale cheekbone, the lush curve of her lips as they break and murmur and snarl. The sweltering mien of the fire is left to the cold embers of night, and he, cut swaths of hard granite and burnished gold, craves a new art that dances along the sanguine softness of her waist.
He approaches again, and it is hard to say where Erasmus begins and the wolf ends, as hackles rise and fangs knit against the tightness of his lips. He prowls, hunger grating the cathedral of his ribs and lounging along the plinth of his spine; a desolate vagrant of abandon, predatory and cruel. The dance is masculine, raptorial, and he forms himself as a crescent to her burning starlight, his lips hotly teasing the aching space between his teeth and the stretch of her ribs bathed in moonlight brine. It is enough that he breathes her in, the smell of babylonian gardens and the taste of sweetened offerings, aromatic as ale. And when her blade rises, rises, an executioner's axe lingering heavy and menacing above the nape of his neck, he bares it with a vehement grin that is all fang, all sharpness, all boyish arrogance and adonian grace.
When it crashes, it bathes him with the lacings of cool dew over his dark skin, glistening like salt over the line of his shoulders. There is no sharpness but a promise of it that breaks over him like a spell, like a curse, whispers of ancient betrayals and ungrounded rage – centuries of scorn, or bitter reveries, a memoir nuanced with disheveled silk nights and the coldness of empty mornings. No apology meets it – for war is insatiable and lust, eternal. The grin remains, bright as a comet, carved with unblemished desire and the stitchings of peril. "would you?" Each whisper curls itself against her spine, languidly nestling warmth between each vertebrae. he almost remembers her, then - she is every sharp thing in every dream, every hot thing that burns against his touch, every wound that screams for mercy, but only cuts deeper and deeper and whispers, 'for what good is pleasure, without pain'?
"would you haunt me, so violently?" The heat of his breath teases the flesh of her nape, tangles itself among the lilac waves of her mane, his mouth lingering just above the curve of her ear. His grin is palpable, mad, resonating in its sly, teething humor. Its tone complements the lingering ghost of her words, prying each sensible threat with a taunting fervor. Husky breaths, draconian and bourbon slick, pervade his lips like molten gold. His tongue curls about each syllable, presses the point of his fangs that ache for cleaving. "would you crash against me, like waves against a stone?" Tenderly, he brushes violet tendrils from her smooth neck, and as his gaze seeks each undulation of pulse and breath, violence swarms reckless in the depths of conjecture.
"no," he sighs, and a shadow reaches to trace the suppleness of her neck, gathering at the soft, pale line of her throat. It is uncertain whether it is the imitation of a soft caress or asphyxiating grip, as it breaks in intangible waves against her risen flesh. perhaps, it is both. "what is it you truly want?" his words close like hands in prayer, while starlight hangs from his curved horns. your daemon, martyr me for your revelations and burn.
Will you worship him, as he worships you?
He watches the sea unravel from her quarters as she ascends, angelic in the pandemoniac siege that courses close behind – a furious sea, ravaging her heels with the licking contempt of a bitter lover. The brine crests on her slender back, diamonds cascading into the panting blackness of hungry torrents; they are a veil that glissades across her supple hips and entangles with the warmth of her thighs, the tight curve of her waist. She sheds her thalassic mail, Venus exposed in the donning lunar rays; and in the distance, ships are lost to her beauty. and he feels, he has seen this before, in the tides that time cannot touch – but he stares as if it is the first, he drinks her deeply as if he has forgotten she is venom and hotness and the dark things we dare not think ––– She is the wrath of femininity incarnate, framed by the deceiving grace of the depthless sea which wants and wanes with undulating ardor, its mist crashing against her in their mettle of splintering pearls.
She speaks, and he is wont to listen to her confessions, his ear pressed tight against the mesh; he hears each nectarous syllable drip with vitriol and threat, and he sees she is a blade but o, how men with warrior hearts do see the romance in sharpness and the beauty in death. When she speaks, he cannot want anything but to breathe each word from the heat of her lips, and he steps boldly over the discarded stag to catch them in detail, and the decay below is left behind for the chaos above. And he thinks – he prays – that he feels her heat careened against his flesh, and breathes the waft of decadent temple incense and the taste of molten ore. Her voice is a lull that dismisses the listless roars of the ocean that seems so far behind, receding back into the dawn of all time. There is only her now, and the inescapable entrenchment of physicality that no longer seems like a burden but a momentum, as caught within their orbit are all things dissolved.
Would you drink of his blood, as he eats of your flesh? Like wine, like bread; love is sacrifice, is veneration, is domination and submission and the lie of forgiveness –
She sings of death and decay, as she once did for the stag, but he is not wont to fear and is a fable in danger, long entranced by the dirges of ruination. He welcomes her lethality, revels in the prospect of eternal agonies, if only it means to burn in the unholy flames of her lapping reverence. Her words chase traitorous syllables around the curve of his ear, and he heeds them as a hunter must, between the devoted pulsings of her arterial pangs and the sweet gale of her breath. His gaze is restless and merciless, hotly consumed of her delicate features, the shape of her eyes and the cut of her pale cheekbone, the lush curve of her lips as they break and murmur and snarl. The sweltering mien of the fire is left to the cold embers of night, and he, cut swaths of hard granite and burnished gold, craves a new art that dances along the sanguine softness of her waist.
He approaches again, and it is hard to say where Erasmus begins and the wolf ends, as hackles rise and fangs knit against the tightness of his lips. He prowls, hunger grating the cathedral of his ribs and lounging along the plinth of his spine; a desolate vagrant of abandon, predatory and cruel. The dance is masculine, raptorial, and he forms himself as a crescent to her burning starlight, his lips hotly teasing the aching space between his teeth and the stretch of her ribs bathed in moonlight brine. It is enough that he breathes her in, the smell of babylonian gardens and the taste of sweetened offerings, aromatic as ale. And when her blade rises, rises, an executioner's axe lingering heavy and menacing above the nape of his neck, he bares it with a vehement grin that is all fang, all sharpness, all boyish arrogance and adonian grace.
When it crashes, it bathes him with the lacings of cool dew over his dark skin, glistening like salt over the line of his shoulders. There is no sharpness but a promise of it that breaks over him like a spell, like a curse, whispers of ancient betrayals and ungrounded rage – centuries of scorn, or bitter reveries, a memoir nuanced with disheveled silk nights and the coldness of empty mornings. No apology meets it – for war is insatiable and lust, eternal. The grin remains, bright as a comet, carved with unblemished desire and the stitchings of peril. "would you?" Each whisper curls itself against her spine, languidly nestling warmth between each vertebrae. he almost remembers her, then - she is every sharp thing in every dream, every hot thing that burns against his touch, every wound that screams for mercy, but only cuts deeper and deeper and whispers, 'for what good is pleasure, without pain'?
"would you haunt me, so violently?" The heat of his breath teases the flesh of her nape, tangles itself among the lilac waves of her mane, his mouth lingering just above the curve of her ear. His grin is palpable, mad, resonating in its sly, teething humor. Its tone complements the lingering ghost of her words, prying each sensible threat with a taunting fervor. Husky breaths, draconian and bourbon slick, pervade his lips like molten gold. His tongue curls about each syllable, presses the point of his fangs that ache for cleaving. "would you crash against me, like waves against a stone?" Tenderly, he brushes violet tendrils from her smooth neck, and as his gaze seeks each undulation of pulse and breath, violence swarms reckless in the depths of conjecture.
"no," he sighs, and a shadow reaches to trace the suppleness of her neck, gathering at the soft, pale line of her throat. It is uncertain whether it is the imitation of a soft caress or asphyxiating grip, as it breaks in intangible waves against her risen flesh. perhaps, it is both. "what is it you truly want?" his words close like hands in prayer, while starlight hangs from his curved horns. your daemon, martyr me for your revelations and burn.
@Euryale
