Nymphetamine
(part I)
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"With skies fire-paved
I begged you appear
like a thorn for the holy ones…"
- "Nymphetamine" - Cradle of Filth
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It was cliché, their meeting; the kind that occurred in fairytales and left outsiders swooning, while knowing, deep in their hearts, that such an event was unrealistic, a chance in a million. They were from different worlds, different times, and at first glance, completely different people. Truth be told, he wondered what they saw in each other at all. But he supposed love was like that, so powerful an emotion that any dissimilarity, big or small, was taken with a grain of salt.
She'd changed him, of that he was certain, though hers was only the final, and perhaps the most significant, in a long series of slight metamorphoses to his hellish being. If he was going to be truthful, and he would -- he was not that arrogant to overlook his own flaws -- he was something rather frightening a good deal of time ago. A sight of demonic perfection, agile and athletic where others were lazy, short-tempered where others thought only of slumber when their next meal was not before them. Pitiful creatures, really, lower than dirt in respect to him.
He was a noble among the hellhounds, eloquent in speech and rich in thought, physically handsome and frightening at precisely the same time, the most sought after bachelor of the Underworld by the she-devils, and a few fervent males. His nonchalant nature proved an eyesore for Emperor Mundus, a great man himself with title of royalty. It became rather the amusing past-time to irk the old king to the point upon which the royal guard -- those buffoons -- were sent to discard of him.
The particular grounds for his little revolution -- rebellion, call it what you will -- were lost to time; even he did not know. It could very well have been out of disgust for the rotten state of Hell during Mundus' sluggish rule, a state of worms than Heaven's feared opponents, or it may have been a simple result of boredom. Few ventured out of the Underworld, fewer still into it. Where was the fun in lounging around like a sloth? Only war got the blood flowing and bubbling like volcanic lava.
It began simply enough. The murder of a noble, unexplainable and unprovoked, leaving the huddled masses in panic that a killer was about. He'd played the innocent, avoided questioning, remaining fairly unaffected by the whole ordeal, only to repeat the process time later. It became most useful to kill his friends and comrades, those with ties to him as it would puzzle the royal guard. On the one hand, all evidence pointed to him, while on the other…these were his cohorts; why kill them?
Because of their disregard for status and life. He declared war and therein vowed to recreate Hell in his image. The first step, of course, in any renewal, was to do away with the old, and the bloodbath began. But his was unlike all other rebellions in that none joined his cause. Those with the ability to fight remained forever loyal to their emperor, while the stains of society gave not a care.
They were the first to go. It was almost pleasant to watch their feeble attempts at begging, and if spared, they would forever be his servant, to fight for his cause. The sounds of gunshots and explosions of crimson were enough to shut them up. As if he would honestly yield to that; he was not a merciful being, nor was he stupid. Neutral swines or rebellious swines, it made no real difference.
Demons with status were a fair more difficult to deal with, but still, little match for him. He did not kill them all, though the reasons, he could not explain, and decided that perchance some day in future he would return to have a bit more fun whilst humiliating them, once powerful creatures defeated by a single demon. He sealed them away in prisons of their own, small in relative size to drive their unstable minds further into madness.
"It's like a game to you, is it not?" inquired a smooth, dark voice from the shadows. It took little ability to deduce the identity of the speaker, as he was in her territory.
Above, the moon shone a reddish hue, as though steeped in blood. Fog with a pungent stench hovered just above the dry, dusted earth, blurring the horizon, and the silence was filled by clouds of black bats, screeching like rusted steel. The shadows, created by towering spires of stone, twisted and convulsed, rising from the earth to sprout forth a fair skinned -- almost sickly pale -- woman.
The she-devil was a lovely sight indeed, equal in desirability to himself even, with a supple frame, slim and curved in just the right places. Clothing was a foreign concept to her, though she kept a slight degree of humility by hiding her nether half behind a puff of darkness and her gracious breasts behind tresses of scarlet. Two sharp canines poked passed her lips, dark as the blood she nourished herself on, and equally fearsome eyes, framed by thick lashes, caught his icy blue ones, unwavering.
"Have you come to kill me too, Dark Knight Sparda?" Her lips turned in a pout as she spoke, feigning innocence while fully aware that he would not be swayed by such childish behaviour. She was as wicked as he, perhaps more so, and in another time, he may have found bliss in her company.
She moved around him, each step graceful in its dark exoticism, trialing a single warm finger, nails sharpened to a point, up his arm and across his shoulders. Her touch sent a shiver of intrigue and repulsion throughout his body, though he retained his composure with expert ability. Were he a weaker man, he would have submitted to her seduction without a quiver of conscience.
"Kill you?" he repeated, as though the very idea was outrageous. "Now, why ever would I wish to do that? To kill such a beautiful creature would be a waste."
Her grin stretched further, flattered by his words, her next steps close until her breasts brushed ever so lightly against his coat. "Even a warrior such as yourself needs a little relaxation now and again, don't you agree? Allow me to take care of you; I promise you shan't be disappointed. In fact, you will never want to leave."
Up his jaw, her finger stopped against his lips, both strong and soft, and, playing along, the noble demon bit it gently, winding a strong arm around her slender back and moulding her against him.
"You are truly enchanting, dear Nevan," he murmured, drawing his face closer. A startled sigh escaped her rouge lips upon feeling firm pressure against her thigh. "And I would so love to remain here with you. However…there are things to which I must attend to."
She screamed aloud as the stone beneath their feet shattered in an explosion of gunpowder and spurts of red, the bullet creating a small crater. Sparda swung back his arm and bent in a humble bow, blowing gently on the smoking revolver tip, feeling no pity as the succubus tumbled to the floor in a dizzying heap of pale flesh and fiery hair, winged rodents all a frenzy.
"Have yourself a good evening, Nevan," he said over his shoulder, monocled eye winking. His haunting laughter reverberated against the stone, growing in magnitude, until it pounded against the demoness' already ringing skull. She watched him go, serpentine eyes evaluating the cocky strut and wondering how such a monster could allure her so.
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to be continued…
