There are heartbeats and breaths and a wild surge, irrevocable and absurd in the stillness of the marsh. This quiet and sepulchral world of stale water and decomposing bodies, barren trees and unkind shadows seems to shiver for them: as if the feral intensity of their actions would be enough for galaxies to collapse into themselves. Skywalker, try as he might, cannot retain his essence, he cannot keep the steely grip around his restraint any longer. A tremble runs down the length of his gaunt neck and he abandons his frugal sense of composure for the intoxicating closeness of his queen. A fair trade, he decides with his heart beating like an angry rod of vengeance in his chest and the sound of his blood rushing like a melting glacier in his ears.

She is enough to distract him from his wild ambitions; the nearness of her is a strong enough poison that he nearly forgets the cold fingers of death that avariciously claw against his soft black skin. Fingernails and bones: rot and despair. Just a little longer, he thinks while a shadow drifts towards him from the nadir of the marsh; just a little longer, he thinks without feeling how the frigid grasp of winter still resides in the water. Just a little longer, her voice echoes in his head and he watches her blue eyes, cloudy with a remarkable trinity of lust, madness and ghastly shadow. Amidst the stench of death and pestilence, she seems to smell of wildflowers: treacherous briars of blood and thorn. Skywalker is woozy with the cider of his desire, this strange thing that has fermented for eons in dark cellars of solitude. Had she been anything else than queen, he might not have wanted her in the manner of the madman he feverishly denies that he is, but that prospect of a crown entangled with her red mane is to him what a opium is to the addict, and for that he would sell his soul, if need be.

The marsh reaches after him and in doing so it knows no penance, it does not recognize the proud, intelligent conqueror – the grip tightens and he finds that his mouth is dry with the fear that he should feel but does not. Awakened by a giggle and the swat of her tail, he realizes the prowess of his self-induced plight and struggles to find his traction again. She is watching him as he ascends, with great effort and a hideous, sucking sound, from the pallid grip of ruin. Water and mud is rushing off him, leaving him standing: a thin, wet ghost in the middle of the marsh. With every muscle taut – the immense exertion mingling blasphemously with his uncouth desires – and his breath far up his throat, he turns towards her again; a stinking, unapologetic monster emerged from her marsh. The pious submerge themselves in holy water and cleanse themselves of their sins, Skywalker on the contrary, does no such thing. Only the opposite is good enough for the untested conqueror. “I am my word,” finally he answers and the sound is hoarse and reminiscent of the looming death he stood in, only moments ago. He looks at her, unusually honest in his desires, assured that their little ritual should be a heavy enough stone to anchor his promise to. The queen moves away from the subject, but he does not immediately follow – perhaps the marsh still clings on to him, his muscles rendered stiff by the icy waters? Stranger things have happened. “Their power only belongs to you for as long as they chose to give it to you,” he continues, gathering up the hems of their conversation, making sure that there will be as little interruption as possible, “and that may be a reassurance to you, but for how long? Their power will belong to you in truth, only when you dictate when they should give it to you.”

Now he follows her as he moves out of the marsh, his head poised elegantly aloft his thin neck, his short mane sticking to it, making it seems even thinner. While the fury of his desire – all components of her: the singsong voice, the giggles, the gentle sway of her hips, the lunacy simmering complacently in her eyes – pulses relentlessly through every morsel of the stallion, he cannot quite abandon the matter-of-factly questions that remain unanswered. “I’m more than willing to give you that trinket crown, make me your general and you shall have it,” a shameless proposal, no doubt, but who said that there was room for shame among madmen? Again he closes the painful distance, his slick, black body brushing against hers – the mud and the grime and the stench of death entwining them in a sickly, wet embrace. Lowering his head he carefully traces the lines of her again, that complex juxtaposition of vermillion and dirtied gold. The curve of her cheek. The ridge of her nose. The underside of her neck and the gentle, dizzying tingle of her mane. To her withers where his lips linger for a while. A gentle tug at that last mouthful of mane before the beginning of her supple shoulders. “I’m here for you to try,” he whispers against her wet, soft skin – she reeks of the marsh as much as he does, and somehow the pungent smell turns alluring, “do with me as you please, but I must warn you, I am not exactly the docile kind. You see: I always get what I want. And so happens, I want you, empress,” a slow, outdrawn murmur, pregnant with the promise that there is no return from here.

They are doomed.

He presses himself against her as if her was her shadow: now his lips are at the slope of her croup and they bear the pleasant burden of a smile that betrays his every intention. Everything is quiet, everything is still; the world is waiting. There is his shoulder by her hip; there is a painfully slow exhalation and the movement of his chest – he breathes and knows that that steady breathing is the only thing that keeps him from defiling her. “Yes,” he purrs while his muzzle crawls down the length of her thigh, “please do,” because he can’t keep his fingers outside the cookie jar for much longer.

They hold hands, walking onto a field of mines.

S K Y W A L K E R.
Eris

WC 1068
OMG, this makes me blush. Stupid Skywalker being all horny -.-