Disclaimer: Bleach is Kubo Tite's work. Borrowing.
Fugue
April 19 / strangers in the dark
It is amidst choking vines and putrefying leaves, golden-eyed predators and fat fingers of blood-lusting leeches; their secret tryst is deep in the jungle. It is the call of the wild, fodder to their monsters, easily attributable to the layered complexity of the mind and its warring corners, to its ids and egos and superegos, to its million facets.
It is in the dark, explanations unnecessary. He is wild, sleek with brook water and sweat, browned by the now gone sun and etched with mystic symbols, a ripped, fanged devil. She is the misplaced, riven by sheer passion, picturesque and dramatic with her torn clothes, formerly civilized, formerly made. They are blood and bile, ire and bitterness. They dance to the beat of hell's drums—
Boom. Ka-boom. Boom. Ka-boom.
—and writhe with the rhythm of the pulsating earth.
Dig deeper and harder, Deeper and harder, deeper and harder, deeperandharderཀ
It is when the sky cracks open and their sinuous entwining bodies are dappled by the silvers of the canopy-sieved moon and pain-painted scars, are illuminated for the glib eyes of voyeuristic gods. Their joining is fierce and raw and sublimely intoxicating, a stolen few moments of primal abandon where only flesh matters and the thinking brain is battered black by pinpoints of sensations cresting to coalesce into a maddening deluge of pleasure,
a fury,
Dynamite.
It is done. He stumbles to his feet and walks away, half-asleep and sated, leaving behind telltale proof of solitary sin. She stays to luxuriate atop the cold hardness of the tiled laboratory, to savor the rare throes of being herself and for herself, to watch in half bemusement as the wicked-looking runes on the incubus's body fade from her vision.
Then:
(He is Renji again.)
(She is Nemu again.)
They forget.
It is bliss.
1600