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09-15-2013, 11:43 AM
The General belonged to the ferocity of slinking, slithering bones, to the satanic reveries and raptures, to the conniving arches of instigating iniquities; a creature of his capacity, a monster of his machinations, couldn’t cease its infernal malevolence. Vicious, baleful animosities coiled into his lungs, festered and feasted within his licentious pulse, crawled from the waves and fingertips of his invocations, never gratified, satisfied, constantly consuming, devouring. To scrape away the edges of defeat, he’d drive to conquer again, unyielding, impenetrable, the deadly flame casting its wrathful shadow upon the world. He was Mephistopheles’s constant phoenix, the noxious, destructive ashes tethered together in a throng of wild, ferocious decadence, boiling, simmering, smoldering in the scintillating plumes of heathen grandeur. Lucifer’s raw magnum opus, never fully embellished until the tyrannical strings were pulled, blessings forgotten, ruined, abandoned, and the layers of bestial, ravenous puissance was lifted, released and relinquished along the earth. Torrential, turbulent, virulent and belligerent, tearing down the vivid creations of spun aspirations and harpsichord dreams, staining the passionate with savagery, annihilating the stalwart with ruthlessness, and even she, Huyana the raingirl, couldn’t strip the lacquered depths of his predatory immorality. Without carnivorous actions, without the beating hymn of war drumming in his ears, without the haunting tides of violence humming in his chest, he’d be an entirely different being, softened, muted, and diminished. What was a reaper without his scythe? What was a monster without his transgressions? What was a beast without his burden? No amount of prayers for his body, for his soul, for his enigma, could scratch away the condemnation, the loathing, the abhorrence painted across his flesh. For a moment, sinking against the warmth of the hot springs, Deimos thought she’d attempt to pluck the devil on his breath, seal away the irreverence, the unholy, the selfish, merciless chords of his seditious outline, wash away each wicked, treacherous deed stained and scarred along his skin – but she spoke no word of deliverance. No preaching, no devout pleas, no intercessions of sacrificial virtues, pleasant divinities, harmonies, melodies, chants for the forsaken, and he realized she knew him better than most, droplets capturing the tangible boleros of his motions, his movements, and his motives. She sanctioned his heartless ventures, asked naught of his actions, and never tried to change, alter, or morph his ambitions. Was this disappointing to her, to pervade and surround herself with an unwavering behemoth, with death, with demise? Had she merely concocted another version of silent, calm, composed acceptance? Become settled in the dark debauchery of their livelihoods?
Diabolical and avaricious, the Reaper pushed further into her form, caressed the distinct hues of blue and black blinding his sight, greedily, covetously, stole her sinew for himself. He acquired her scent, her touch, her brushstrokes, like naught he’d committed before, gently, the rippling cascade of breath ghosting over skin, sin singing an exotic murmur, a silent croon, a barbaric whisper. He carved his possession over her body amongst the close, intertwined darkness, sought not to destroy, but to empower, absorbing the radiance of her stature, recoiling and distorting it so that it was his, his, his. Would she mind if she became haunted, became tainted, became blemished from the quiet, sordid delusion of his piercing villainy? He shuddered beneath the warmth of her stroke against his jaw, forgetting who thrummed and hummed with the most prowess, the most authority, the most control in the Stygian veil. Who prevailed and who surrendered? Submerged, drowned, he didn’t tell her any of his thoughts, filled with desolation, loneliness, the bitter decay and disrepair of a forlorn soul destroying absolution. Instead, he reveled in the sensation of feeling another, swayed into the depths of her cascading rivulet, sighed, breathed, hissed deeper into her seraphic allures, her nymph enchantments, controlled the fine temptation of annihilation as it beat against his veins. His argent body leaned, sought her form, closer, closer, until each vice, each disgrace, seemed to become subsumed by her presence, by her grace, and he was permitted to forget devilry, heresy, and burning kingdoms down until they were aching facets of rubble, splintered and decayed. Was this reassurance, comfort, assuaging gestures, all the sensations he’d missed, consigned to oblivion? Was this what had been renounced upon his first birthday, disappearing into the midst alongside his innocence, morality and decency? Airy sentiments floated along his statue, fluttering, flickering, glowing, distinct and clear, light and cordial, incited and invoked the clamor of his seething doldrums; he’d tasted victory, he’d relished triumph, but had his herd? Had his empire, with its perilous peaks and glacial walls, swallowed the glory of destruction? Musing, he dragged his teeth over the shell of her ear, grinding and clenching the friction of its wild, beating pulse, savoring, relishing the torment of her ambrosia, tearing against the armor of her past, of her fantasies, of her dreams, trampled and crushed. The monster’s voice resonated across her flesh, fleeting reverberations of a deadly, infernal snare, nipping, grating, ghostly severity, the hot knife, the carving, sumptuous, scintillating bayonet. “What do you think of?” Deimos drew back thereafter, conquered the absent, the bereft nature of sin against skin, puncturing stare riveted, fixated, upon the answers in her expression, in her features, in her inhalation, tracing the incisions he’d concocted, eager to revel in the response, in the temptation, in the inclinations and enticements. Of me?
