Numbness, intoxicating warmth. Feelings unknown to the pale rider for centuries. Hardships that slowly begin to melt into the heat that Genevieve's feather soft lips diffuse deep into his maskless skin. A hypnotizing clash with the cold, parched lips of the Kinslayer's that brings him to constrict her tighter. His mind fades further into the emptiness of the inebriating feel. Though, it fails consume him as he expected it to. Or really, how he wished it. For something holds him back from the embrace to bring him further down into engaging ecstasy.
"Traitor. . ." The voices emulate hatefully from the enchanted shrapnel between them. How he despises the whispers. A constant recall taken form on his own body and of his own fault. Bearing the voices not nearly as long as the Crowfather had and it already shoulders the toll of madness onto his usually patient skull. How Death desires to drown the voices of his fallen brethren. If there were only a noise that could blur his senses more to keep him on the moment at hand. Then, before he could catch the time to keep his control, he bit down on the beauty's trusting flesh of her lower lip. Her breath hitching to the rider's subconscious delight.
Genevieve gasped not for the sudden shock of pleasure that should have seized her body. It was the bite of foreign teeth that caught her off guard. They are sharp, a full front row of canines, digging into her skin and grazing back into a soft pull, loosely stretching her lip until his teeth almost reluctantly slip it out of their grasp. The horseman's breathing influenced with hunger chills Genevieve's fresh indent of his taste. Slowly, she opens her eyes, blind by darkness only lit by the two orange slits before her. She searches for something, anything inside of them. To find something that she had not found in any man she had belonged to. Something unknown to her for years. She searches for any scrap of care or even false admiration in those foreign, glowing eyes. And to her sub—conscience's expectation, she was denied it. For his florescent pupils gaze down, staring at those lips and not daring to capture the look of searching in Genevieve look. As his mark on her is fading before his eyes and he impatiently drives to relive that print again. To make it nearly permanent with a stronger bite.
"I. . ." The woman faintly attempts to object. Death hushes her by pressing his lips into her's once more. Guiding her in from the warmth of the sunlight and into the blinds of the chamber to join him. He lays her light body atop his chest, numb to the slightly objecting tug away. Her faltering hesitancy shown on her face unseen within the shade.
She expected herself to be grinning into his mouth as they do this. To forget the troubles and to only retain her attention on the creature that showed her the smallest scraps of kindness to a soul so pitifully starved of veneration. For that same reason guides to why she remains haunted. Keeping her from letting go of what happened in her tormented life.
No, she persuades herself, slowly clenching the Grim Reaper's cowl in a taut fist, accidently bringing the tips of their tongues to greet and shyly grow familiar with each other. That man is dead, they all are. No longer can they harm her scorned body anymore as it wishes desperately to welcome him instead. Though, her mind just will not let go and neither does he. She attempts to distance herself and return to the forges' rays for that. Before she can, five free, long fingers bare of their gauntlets ghost up each bump in her spine. Dragging the soiled cloth of her sweater underneath their nails. Counting each of Genevieve's vertebral knots. His claws sensing the soft squirms as they strum her skin, it pleasingly shaking under his whim.
"A bane among warriors. . ." The voices of the fallen quietly raged on in the Nephilim's ears, as the growls grow bolder, more venomous. Death desirously clawed for the cure of such plights smoothed onto her dappled skin. To drink it from her moist lips and to drown it within her silken sighs. For even if his fading reason wants to deny it, is that he thirsts for a woman like her.
By all of Creation, is it so much profounder than he pretends it to be. This craving inside of the rider drastically changing his thoughts. How this human revived this once unkindlable spark inside. The spark of wanting, of distraction. A momentary high from the pain of loss, regret and loneliness. His kisses change course as he presses one into the corner of her parted, damp lips. Towards her jawline, trailing the wet embraces to her neck. Making her jugular familiar with his dentition once more with another abrading bite. His tongue feels the beat in the major vein stutter. How it stretches as a whole as sharp air fills her lungs in a high-pitched and nervous sigh.
She does not move. In a way, going against him at this moment petrifies her. Being of such vulnerability, a nakedness of sorts that she should have grown accustomed to at this point. This situation however is different. So far from what her norm was once. For the real change is that this is a person that showed her kind, more innocent affections unknown to her since she was a mere child.
But if she said no. To deny the most feared creatures of the three realms for something as simple as a moment of pleasure. What would become of her?
That thought freezes into her mind as the tattered cloth seamlessly rises over her head. As her trousers are pulled off her body with an alike ease. Her undergarments are the final item of clothing to leave her body as claws hook them at the sides and guide them down her thighs. She regards his pause as his glazed and glowing look remain in place above her. His more acute eyesight browsing her front exposed for him solely to admire.
She feels an open, calloused hand clasp down unto one of her breasts. Her body tenses as a response from the sudden touch. Closing her eyes firm in the darkness as his hand kneads in a revolving flow. A bead of sweat buds out of her brow from the concoction of nervousness and arousal in her core. Only reopening them as the nephilim's free hand pinches her chin, bringing them to look upward. Locking with the eyes that she so doubtfully beseeched. The look she perceives has faltered in their thick layer as the lust in his eyes has thinned. Just enough for the small remainder of his thought to peek through and silently tell her muscles to relax. Cautiously, she reacts with softening her shoulders and detaching his fingers from her chin. With both of her hands, she cups his. Small digits loosely tangling within the large gaps in his claws. She leans in, closing her anxious eyes more softly and presses a short kiss on his mouth, allowing him to forge onward. On that signal, he ended the glare and favorably obliged.
Genevieve felt the world spin about her and stop abruptly as the sheets collided with her back. Her limbs still gripping Death's are unfolded above her. Her thigh gap stretches openly and chaps, free of armor, urge themselves in between. She blinks at something familiar to her yet foreign beginning to grind against her entrance. It is heavy and exceptionally long, with pulses strong enough for her to even sense through the thick leather. His length almost alarms her when she feels it still growing!
Her mind snapped out of the worry when the pressure ceases and Death's free hand ventures elsewhere. Trailing his nails down her midriff, dipping into her belly button as it grazes down her steaming stomach. His hand trapped within a cage of human fingers squeezes reassuringly to try to relax her a bit further. She would have looked up to the touch but another at the bottom of her body pulls her eyes with a greater force. Watching him press into her sweltering quim, making the smallest hitch from up above for only his ears to taste. He strokes her only a few times after and her audible breathing continues. Surprising himself on how drunk the small sighs bring him to be.
It is not nearly enough. He demands noise from the voices. And by gods, those small, simple mewls will not nearly suffice.
His craving forces his finger plunge inside of her. In that slow moment, Genevieve feels as her company does. The fog. The thriving haziness that brings her body to scream in the fire. Their thoughts becoming one within the darkness of ignorant bliss. To finally fall with him as he does, as his body crumbles on top of her. Releasing his grip from both her hand above and her core down beneath. For his temptation to hold him tight enough to nearly mark his colored skin. To spiral downward together and finally feel everything and nothing in the void of pleasure as he raises her waist bracing her against his eager length. For them to finally feel the same.
She saw lightening behind her lids when sharp pain pushes inside her and crashes her hard down into reality. Something tearing her insides as something naught of her body but gruelingly known to it. Something for love yet used against her again and again as punishment, payment and every corruption in between.
"Death!" she gasped painfully, "Wa-wait just a— " The wind is knocked painfully out of her again with another thrust. She cries out to him but she sees it in his vanished eyes closed in the deafness he craves. Now that he is finally graced with it. It seems that nothing would stop him now.
Though this very same being ignores of her refusals, continuing to be marked in ways and places she's now sure she does not wish to be. So if the bond they share stands strong in her mind, why does this still feel that she was being treated like dirt?
She falsely knows why, she has become nothing more than a stiff yet poseable doll. It is all that she has become, a plaything. Something to meddle with for the raw entertainment until she grows tiresome or breaks. To be then thrown into the void to be but a fond, nameless memory of what it felt like to hold and ravage her. To hear her sounds but not dare listen to her words.
Something inanimate that was to have been thrown in with the rest of the scum of the earth. She is indoctrined that she doesn't know love or honor in her name. Even as the tears she fights back and the teeth gritting to nearly the point of cracking into dust. She knows she does not deserve a single scrap that dares to dignify her. Not with the past that she was cursed with. All the pain humanity brought down unto her with that one painstaking message.
She does not deserve the touch of a single soul.
"Stop!" She shrieks brittly yet clearly enough for to break down the cerebral blockage in his ears. He raises his head to face her. His eyes alight, immediately seeing her painwrenched face.
She pushes the surprised rider off and pulls out of his stiffened lap. She shuffles sloppily away toward the center of the bed. Returning to the window so the sunbeams may hold her in his place. She scrapes her now closer amulet from the stone ridge and hastily addresses back around her hickeyed neck.
"P-please go. . ." She stammers, hurriedly wrapping herself around and around with thick blankets, ". . . Leave me alone." Death pauses, his eyes formerly coated of the carnal haze is wiped clean and now confused lids ponder on what he had just done.
"What's wrong. . ?" He eases delicately, daring himself to inch closer. Reaching his glistening fingers out to the cotton barriers that shield her shaking skin. "I didn't mean to cause you harm—"
"LEAVE!" She screeches as her hand shot out from the layers. Slashing across the air, faded fiery light following within the darkness. Her heated nails clash across Death's sunken cheek and part roughly at the corner of his lips. The unexpected blow tossing his head sharply to the side. His apologetic hand retreats from the rays to tend to himself, feeling the fresh scabs of seared skin grated into his exposed face. He holds himself there for an agonizing moment. Eyes vacantly boring into her between his fingers. Genevieve's head hangs down, her eyesight growing blurry as her hot tears fight to be released. The sight causes his face suddenly feel cold, therefore he stands his back straightly again to recollect his bearings. He reaches for the bone mask and drags it into the dark. Redressing his regrets back onto his expression.
Death leaves to the edge of the bed and drops down to the dusty cobblestone below. Small puffs of light dirt expand about his feet. His stomps stronger as he parts from the room, his physical hands swinging the humongous door open and slams it hard enough to quake the entire valley. The broken woman shudders hard and the tears break loose from her flushed waterline. More begin to fall as she tensely opened the sheets with the help of her tense thighs to gaze down at the damage.
A small, sorrowed drop of blood leaks from her infringed hymen. The fluids mixing to a more clear hue of previous pleasures. Already drying to the skin as it trailed down her thigh and seeping into the once white sheets in small, reddish pink blossoms. More tears fall into the ravaged crevice, as if to serve as a saddened wash to cleanse off the sin. She hides herself again into the covers and stiffly stands up on the bed. She grunts at the sting of moving her sore muscles, but still strives to reach the large wooden blinds and pulls one back toward the room to close. With another grunt, she reaches for the other blind equipped with the hook to latch the wood shut. A noise triggers her arm to loosely freeze midway.
Righteous neighs from a fallen horse echo across the forge like distant thunder before a heinous storm. Genevieve didn't wish to gaze into the distance to see them. It was their time to depart after all. With a dull creek, the other blind closes, her fingers turn the rusted red latch onto the nail into a surprisingly tight seal. Her hand collapses and the rest of her sore body follows. Laying down to her side in a ball of sheets in the darkness, her head sinks into them until only her hair is present to sprawl onto the bed. Knowing deep in her sobs that she will not have any rest this night.
For she knows as Despair galloped into the stormy green forests. There was a realization now burned into Death's heart as Genevieve's claw marks burn deep into his hidden expressions. The message that he has changed his mind. This mask is back where it belongs.
Ugh. . . My god I am so tired. The amount of stress in my life has compressed me into something that is not of this earth anymore. My legs. . . I seriously stand so many hours during the day that I will try to get out of bed the next morning and ragdoll onto the floor. I wish that that would be funny, but it's quite painful. But I have found the time bring this to you anyway since my noodle arms are still alive and able to type. So I will have the next update by Halloween.
I stink of old coffee and pumpkin spice. . . I hate pumpkin spice.