When she arrives, it is as though blood through black waters – the river of him, the ocean of him, entangled and split by this carmine current that rushes. And he, the pall of dark skies and turbulent waves that crash against her. The shadows that trail him spark like fire; raven-hewn tongues of iridescent shade lick across her form, smooth their feline touch across the tightness of her hips and the softness of her thighs, the elegant bow of her shoulders. As each thread is pulled from the outer reaches of mirror-stars they are left pale and wanting, deadened to accept the encroaching warmth of the rising sun with the desperation of a cursed emptiness. they watch like a thousand clouded eyes, lustful for life, for a taste of immortality.
As she moves to him, the dance of her graceful steps are scant to split the reflections in two; but they ache to bear her countenance, and the swell of it reveals its truth only to her. In the spaces where they meet, the celestial darkness of harrowing ungodly things made of dying starlight and meteor pulls into the likeness and unlikeness of him – those shapes which are jagged, full, fanged, hot. When he turns his head to greet her, the smile is amiable, but the mirrors do not lie. In them his image darkens, divides, lips peeled for braided fangs by the hundreds of hungry desolate things, each sharp and bright as a half moon. In few, their tryst is one of tenderness, the softness of passionate admiration, the pleasant twining of wine-reds and bruised violets, accepted in a gracious bouquet. In most, she is devoured by blue-black and teeth, and claw, and scales, and the flood of them is at last red, red, red.
There is no one way in which she is consumed. In the darkest faces hidden from the witness of day, it is in savagery, a profane menagerie of most sacrilegious violence. In all, delight has its every end, and they are lost to the swimming cosmos that bears them. Erasmus knows which is true desire.
He greets her with silent softness that contradicts his barbarous reflections, a meek chivalry exchanged momentarily as she speaks. When her breath stitches warmth across his shoulder, he moves to eclipse her closeness, and a strip of aether crushes a mirror between them that reveals their throats bared and streaming into the blackness of night. She speaks like a dream – or with the woolly-headed softness of a dreamer, lost in the expanse of ecstasy – and always, the lilt of wicked desire. Cheek to cheek in heat-seeking reticence, he searches her eyes for the depth of those dreams, those desires, and curious contempt knots like fire in his core. Your guardian angel when you sin. The pall of glimmering shadow passes over another mirror in which he devours her, piece by aching piece, and presses slowly until it is dust. His grin spreads.
"Restless." He lulls simply, a drifting note malignantly soft amidst the revolving imagery of chaos that surrounds him. His silhouette hounds her like a dark god, the shreds of aether settling in the bow of her back, mingling in the thin reaches between them that howl, blood singing, and possess like pins and needles. When his lips glide across the fullness of her neck they bid warmth to its surface, earnest as prayer. As promise. Firm as demand. "And what draws you here, to me, at such an hour?" he speaks against the most tender curve of her neck, ambrosial and pulsing.
As she moves to him, the dance of her graceful steps are scant to split the reflections in two; but they ache to bear her countenance, and the swell of it reveals its truth only to her. In the spaces where they meet, the celestial darkness of harrowing ungodly things made of dying starlight and meteor pulls into the likeness and unlikeness of him – those shapes which are jagged, full, fanged, hot. When he turns his head to greet her, the smile is amiable, but the mirrors do not lie. In them his image darkens, divides, lips peeled for braided fangs by the hundreds of hungry desolate things, each sharp and bright as a half moon. In few, their tryst is one of tenderness, the softness of passionate admiration, the pleasant twining of wine-reds and bruised violets, accepted in a gracious bouquet. In most, she is devoured by blue-black and teeth, and claw, and scales, and the flood of them is at last red, red, red.
There is no one way in which she is consumed. In the darkest faces hidden from the witness of day, it is in savagery, a profane menagerie of most sacrilegious violence. In all, delight has its every end, and they are lost to the swimming cosmos that bears them. Erasmus knows which is true desire.
He greets her with silent softness that contradicts his barbarous reflections, a meek chivalry exchanged momentarily as she speaks. When her breath stitches warmth across his shoulder, he moves to eclipse her closeness, and a strip of aether crushes a mirror between them that reveals their throats bared and streaming into the blackness of night. She speaks like a dream – or with the woolly-headed softness of a dreamer, lost in the expanse of ecstasy – and always, the lilt of wicked desire. Cheek to cheek in heat-seeking reticence, he searches her eyes for the depth of those dreams, those desires, and curious contempt knots like fire in his core. Your guardian angel when you sin. The pall of glimmering shadow passes over another mirror in which he devours her, piece by aching piece, and presses slowly until it is dust. His grin spreads.
"Restless." He lulls simply, a drifting note malignantly soft amidst the revolving imagery of chaos that surrounds him. His silhouette hounds her like a dark god, the shreds of aether settling in the bow of her back, mingling in the thin reaches between them that howl, blood singing, and possess like pins and needles. When his lips glide across the fullness of her neck they bid warmth to its surface, earnest as prayer. As promise. Firm as demand. "And what draws you here, to me, at such an hour?" he speaks against the most tender curve of her neck, ambrosial and pulsing.
@Euryale
