[A/N: 8/50 of the 50Shuffle Challenge! This time to Aluminia by Nightmare [aka. Death Note first ending theme ;D] And it's abstract! ]
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A whirling blur of silver and ice, crimson and fire, bound together irrevocably in the age-old dance of passion. Molten blood flows in veins formed from inhuman ideologies, running like liquid fire in beat with the frantic leaps of entwined hearts.
The sharp steel of gleaming swords made for war is exchanged for the burnished iron of intricate bedposts, grips on hilts now digging into heated skin as if afraid of being washed away in rapture. Controlled cries of victory and conquest now tear wildly from throats arched upwards, torn from the very core of souls lost to one another.
Smoothly toned muscles honed to become the driving force of fighting machines ripple under sweat-soaked skin, shivering from caresses so desperately needed, craved for. The dance quickens its addictive pace, invading instincts against all reason, discretion, rules.
"Fuck the rules," is the counter-argument, breathed in a cinnamon-scented sigh against as-of-then untouched lips. Let go, give in, fall away to the uncontrollable, raging passion screaming through your body, is the unspoken temptation, the last feather-light touch to the boulder that tips it over the edge. And so eloquently spoken.
Nails dig into pale skin that cannot be broken except for by a select few; pearly white teeth fasten onto a marble-like shoulder, flawless before but now marred by the crimson bite mark. No injury is noticed by its receiver, so intent and trapped in the escalating ecstasy fuelled by other caresses. Elegant fingers stroke and then slip inside, evoking yet another cry from swollen lips, soon smothered with demanding ones so usually set into a frown.
Emotionless masks are impossible to wear here, stripped away by necessity with the rest of the clothes scattered on the floor. Rapture scours all bare, like cleansing sand over cold rock unused to physical touch; it is welcomed, embraced, entered into willingly and with no regrets.
Again the tempo quickens, building with increasingly strong, smooth thrusts that unerringly strike every time. Breath shortens to compensate, heaving chests complimenting the rock of hips, each almost agonised pant inevitably accompanied with primal cries of lust, as a release for the surmounting pleasure that could never be contained in even such enhanced bodies as theirs in silence.
And then, the incontrovertible capture when silver and scarlet are bound together irretrievably, giving and taking all that can be shared in the climax of desire. The air shatters under the weight of shared cries and then folds like a welcoming blanket over trembling bodies collapsing under its ephemeral weight. Now is the only time in their entire lives that they can be vulnerable, lost as they are only in each other, exhausted as they are from the intoxicating, sinful release.
The dance has finished now, winding down like a music box, yet the ghostly memories remain and haunt silver halls with imagined glimpses of that fleeting, perfect crimson.
