My first fanfiction in a very long time. Well, the first one that I haven`t thrown out in complete misery.
But it still kind of sucks. DD: ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
Warnings: Angst, death, a little bit of smut.
Crawled along an entity all too ominous in its place, trailing to a timeless cause absorbed to the staleness of the air. It`s lenient, in all similarity to the coarse of his flesh with the exact troublesome reactions from something that seems so lifeless.
But, relying on it alone would only make the frail seem like more a fool than himself considers to be; as he had faced, royalty never to seem anything but a nobility through the surfaces of his own existence. For though, no things could surpass the hands of judgment upon himself, once too hard as the sting across the prince`s cheek ran dry. Never before had he taken fault, nonetheless a meander to his vice, but some things wrought his soul with the unsightly scintillations of guilt, just the way blood glimmers underneath the light of the moon.
Why let it be the only regret made was some what he would never control?
"You`ll tire yourself out. " had said the very brand burnt into Belphegor`s soul the meaning of too many, wonst he had caught the door angling itself with the lightest of a bellow. Unbeknownst to his prods of common ignorance, the royalty would assure him the latter with a condolence of a smile and with that, wander aimlessly out to the lilts of a starry night.
For the mist, the weight of a single breath would be enough to tire himself out in the miles of a day, and he would fade into the senses of the failing lights off in a murky distance.
Such to the way Mammon would clench away the world beneath the shadows of his eyes and still turn his head. He would fight, quite aimlessly amidst the consciousness of himself and choke back his words with silence in a stage of apprehension he himself could never comprehend. From on, only bitterness would leave his shaking lips to the prince, the prominence of his own fears and refusal.
Every moment of countless measure which he would hold against the dire in his throat, replacing the soft words with a maliciousness, it would give more of that constantly ousting heat.
Whenever it came to, Belphegor would fuck him harder; ignore the evidence of cries from the illusionist, at the time fluttered with an essence of pleasure in pain trailing down his cheeks.
Nights riddled with the ghosts of radiance whispered against the back of his neck with hot breath.
The same of which come those 'sweet nothings,' or so as the denial – ridden boy would mutter beneath even himself, would trail along the flesh in light kiss. It would still be so distantly as a call in the crebyss of the mist guardian`s thoughts; but to himself, it all remained a feign of iniquity that he himself surmised, none the matter how much he held back the express to do the same. Bury his hands in the leniency of Bel`s golden, charred strands and hold flesh tightly to flesh in a desperate of sort mannerism; whisper the exact of what he rids bane against the prince and collapse into the comfort of his body.
Had it been stubborn intent that kept him from giving whim to his holds, or a constant linger of fear nestled into his thoughts. A concealment of the crack of thunder scarring his while as he speak, the immediate feeling of his own idiocy overtaking his senses dare he utter those gentle cries of mutuality with the royalty that spurns his very being.
That familiar roughness of his voice as it glides along the fragment of a broken actuality, the path it took to run a hand down the length of his body.
That time it takes to pull the together in the creel of a fevering kiss, let it be gentle as the lightened speak they pull away, or tongues dancing against the surface of the opposite in solitude of the world around either.
Hands entwined together in the gift of subtle possessiveness, needless of context saying they belong to all parts one another for the remain.
Now all there keeps is an absence in and out of himself. The whole of itself calling outwards in earn when Belphegor sets foot in the treasury of Mammon`s abandonment, or pulls his palm along the surface of the ivory bed sheets next to him, should he wake in the dead of night, half – expecting the Arcobaleno`s body strewn lazily underneath it. Half – expecting to pull his arms around the form with hands outstretched across the breast, the pressure of himself melting inwards to the silence of Mammon`s breaths breaking over and over again in his imagination`s abode.
Never would he admit to yet another- lest the threat of a lost princely fashion; he would pull his arms outwards and back empty air that would act his petty substitution, the rest to his swellen memories if which would recite the warmth of Mammon`s body; the course of his chest moving with slept and spend breaths and the night protruding overtop with vague hints of moonlight pouring through the windows, illuminating the pale feathering of his face. Belphegor would smile in tune for himself of both pity and the condolence of his distant visions. He would scoff himself another, morning, perhaps, of letting the influence of peasants` emotion intrude him; but caught in the moment, let a warmth damp a trail along the curve of his cheek.
And let the slow fade of his memories replace Mammon`s breaths, lulling him back into the deepest of a sleep.
uh, r&r? 8D