She moves, and he moves with her, against her, almost in to her, with each passing crescendo of grating intimacy that begs closeness, passion and maybe – maybe even death. It screams like a harp from heaven, or a bellow from hell, searing up and down his spine like lightning wound tight in his bones. He does not doubt her intentions or capabilities – he is not foolish. And so when she turns, swirls, dips from his touch, he follows both in want and ware, the first just as equally as the next. He waits for another axe to drop, but one not made of mist and venom, he waits for the thing that lurks beneath the placid surface of her patience and bedroom-glances. It's something he almost lures, craving it like a junkie, strung out on this heroin(e).
He feigns hurt when she expresses, “rather watch you burn,” a sore expression wrapping the cupidity of his adonian features, and his lips curl in a way that mocks silently, o, my heart - but though it swoons like the hot, hungry thing that it is, it only swells with the threat. Erasmus burns now in the throne of her eyes. And that is almost exactly where he wants to be. But he wants more, needs more, more flames, more chaos careening in the sacred places between her malicious eyes and her sharp teeth. So he dances the flames into the ground below, hooves hissing as they pass gracefully over the sand. Closer. Her shoulder narrowly grazes the hollow of his waist. Closer.
The first truth she has spoken into the night is like a prayer to him, a comfort, a salve: he would, in truth, enjoy her violence. Too much. Too greedily. And he grins when he does not deny it, because he can't, only smile as sharply as any devil never has – because violence waits for him at the bottom of the only romance he has ever known. It waits like a pit of knives, of vipers, of fangs, and he wonders which of them is pain and which is pleasure, after all. He assumed, fleetingly, that she had been the deity of pain, anguish, torment. But now, when he wanted nothing more than to fall in to the sway of her curves the way the moonlight does so greedily, he understands that he may have been wrong. Is he pain, then, tonight? Closer. As she passes and he thinks about the steadiness of her pulse, he becomes less and less like a wolf and more like a shark.
Each time she moves from his touch, he dreams of moving too fast, or just fast enough – of rushing her over, and closing his jaws over the softness of her throat, for a taste just for a taste.
Oh, what a lie that is.
He watched the brine drip from her like diamonds, the waters pour from the crook of her spine over the delineation of her curves, delphian, svelte, and the effect is bloodlusting. There is the hunger again, roving, the curse at his core that is snarling, closer, and he turns against the roaring ocean as it hisses behind him. In the space between her command and her desires, Erasmus narrows his eyes and teases, less than benevolently: "am i not?" and when he grins, it is a defiantly boyish thing that has no masters, no gods, the gold in his eyes sparking violently when it reflects her like dripping blood in the moonlight.
Erasmus dreams as she speaks, as she weaves the death of worlds and stars and suns, and is reborn in the cataclysmic burst of their fire – in blood, and woe, and tragedy spun. She tears the canvas of the sky from beneath Caligo, renders it asunder, dives deep into the depths of the Terminus Sea between the clenched jaws of her teeth. And from it, anew. The madness in her eyes is almost tangible when it dances from the lights of distant pyres to the full-moon wonder of Erasmus's gaze, and he finds that he has paused to listen. It cannot be helped, and he thinks he too has dreamed this dream before, but he is far too avaricious to share. His grin diminishes, but the shadow of it still lingers when the fading light of the embers catch a glint of fang. A fly settles on the glassy sheen of the stag's eyeball, and even in death it stares up to euryale in horror. waiting.
"yes, i cannot give you those things," He breathes, finally, a murmur unto the darkness that has coveted the sound and bears it to her tentatively as a hiss. His gaze dazes past her into the pines that climb the mountainside, dismissive, though not despondent. There is something that leans in his voice like but, and he lets it hang there like an empty noose. Who the noose is for, he can't be sure, but he knows that she wouldn't hesitate to place it on his neck. And he couldn't say he wouldn't do the same to her. They were too alike, too different, too volatile for this beach, these mountains, this continent. She, the stargazer supernova and he, the hungry black hole. One would swallow another. Violent delights and violent ends. "because there is too much in it that i would want for myself." this one more sinister, more jagged, more threat than a tease - darkened by the fact that he still doesn't grin, though his eyes have returned to her. They bear into her own, through the netting of shadows.
They return her hellfire. he moves closer.
"perhaps the hopeful men can build your altar, and bleed on mine."
He feigns hurt when she expresses, “rather watch you burn,” a sore expression wrapping the cupidity of his adonian features, and his lips curl in a way that mocks silently, o, my heart - but though it swoons like the hot, hungry thing that it is, it only swells with the threat. Erasmus burns now in the throne of her eyes. And that is almost exactly where he wants to be. But he wants more, needs more, more flames, more chaos careening in the sacred places between her malicious eyes and her sharp teeth. So he dances the flames into the ground below, hooves hissing as they pass gracefully over the sand. Closer. Her shoulder narrowly grazes the hollow of his waist. Closer.
The first truth she has spoken into the night is like a prayer to him, a comfort, a salve: he would, in truth, enjoy her violence. Too much. Too greedily. And he grins when he does not deny it, because he can't, only smile as sharply as any devil never has – because violence waits for him at the bottom of the only romance he has ever known. It waits like a pit of knives, of vipers, of fangs, and he wonders which of them is pain and which is pleasure, after all. He assumed, fleetingly, that she had been the deity of pain, anguish, torment. But now, when he wanted nothing more than to fall in to the sway of her curves the way the moonlight does so greedily, he understands that he may have been wrong. Is he pain, then, tonight? Closer. As she passes and he thinks about the steadiness of her pulse, he becomes less and less like a wolf and more like a shark.
Each time she moves from his touch, he dreams of moving too fast, or just fast enough – of rushing her over, and closing his jaws over the softness of her throat, for a taste just for a taste.
Oh, what a lie that is.
He watched the brine drip from her like diamonds, the waters pour from the crook of her spine over the delineation of her curves, delphian, svelte, and the effect is bloodlusting. There is the hunger again, roving, the curse at his core that is snarling, closer, and he turns against the roaring ocean as it hisses behind him. In the space between her command and her desires, Erasmus narrows his eyes and teases, less than benevolently: "am i not?" and when he grins, it is a defiantly boyish thing that has no masters, no gods, the gold in his eyes sparking violently when it reflects her like dripping blood in the moonlight.
Erasmus dreams as she speaks, as she weaves the death of worlds and stars and suns, and is reborn in the cataclysmic burst of their fire – in blood, and woe, and tragedy spun. She tears the canvas of the sky from beneath Caligo, renders it asunder, dives deep into the depths of the Terminus Sea between the clenched jaws of her teeth. And from it, anew. The madness in her eyes is almost tangible when it dances from the lights of distant pyres to the full-moon wonder of Erasmus's gaze, and he finds that he has paused to listen. It cannot be helped, and he thinks he too has dreamed this dream before, but he is far too avaricious to share. His grin diminishes, but the shadow of it still lingers when the fading light of the embers catch a glint of fang. A fly settles on the glassy sheen of the stag's eyeball, and even in death it stares up to euryale in horror. waiting.
"yes, i cannot give you those things," He breathes, finally, a murmur unto the darkness that has coveted the sound and bears it to her tentatively as a hiss. His gaze dazes past her into the pines that climb the mountainside, dismissive, though not despondent. There is something that leans in his voice like but, and he lets it hang there like an empty noose. Who the noose is for, he can't be sure, but he knows that she wouldn't hesitate to place it on his neck. And he couldn't say he wouldn't do the same to her. They were too alike, too different, too volatile for this beach, these mountains, this continent. She, the stargazer supernova and he, the hungry black hole. One would swallow another. Violent delights and violent ends. "because there is too much in it that i would want for myself." this one more sinister, more jagged, more threat than a tease - darkened by the fact that he still doesn't grin, though his eyes have returned to her. They bear into her own, through the netting of shadows.
They return her hellfire. he moves closer.
"perhaps the hopeful men can build your altar, and bleed on mine."
@Euryale
