She was painted in it, she practically dripped it. Her low throaty laughter reminded him of apples and cherries and mulberries and dark wine, of bloody flesh only just seared in orange-crimson flames. He would twine his fingers in her crimson hair and expect to be burnt and expect to feel his fingers draw away sticky and cloying. Her slender fingers touched at his lips and he kissed them with worship. She would push her lithe, powerful body against his until his skin turned red for the desire of her. He would feel like the only man in the world in her eyes that glowed like the sunset.
He knew she was special, different, just like him, and yet, far more. She came to his isle as, not a conqueror but as a warrior, a harbinger. Whooping and shrieking and ululating her violent, joyful cries that paralyzed and thrilled, she baptized him in blood and brought him glory. Her hand guided the shield of the turtle and her arm helped raise up the battle banner of her priestess and avatar (who better than one who had her hair?).
She would not always stay but he knew of her presence, everywhere. Even in the grimmest of fields and the dullest of days, he would remember her burning hot touch and her sweet-bitter breath and her red, red lips. She would never bless him (for she was never on any one side) but he loved her for her impartiality and wicked licentiousness. In youth, he tumbled with the scarlet giantess in a bed of furs while she gave him his first wounds of a different battlefield. He swore he loved her as she rode him like a stallion, screaming and gasping until their completion. Her smile seared him and he gazed at her with both fear and worship.
When he grew older, she came to him just as overwhelmingly but by that time, he knew something more of a woman’s touch. She came with him on his battles on the sea and even the massive expanses of endless water did not daunt her. For soon, her color spread on sapphire waters like ephemeral flowers on blue ground. She was even more glorious as a sailor, her wild hair barely tamed with a scarf only a shade darker than her curls, her firelight eyes blazing as her lovely, powerful body seemed uncontained in her massive ruby coat and her immense crimson boots. Gold glimmered on her fingers and on her garments but she reserved her greatest avarice for the cutlass she bore, the silver blushed pink like a shy maiden’s blush. He feared that sword for he wondered how many lives she could have taken for the steel to have taken that color.
They rutted shamelessly in the floating pyres of the Armada, before the broken, humiliated form of Spain, whose bowed head could see the further indignity leaking from his body in white and red. Clad only in her coat and boots, milky white body cast in gilt by the light of burning ships, she screamed and purred as he thrust desperately into her, his hands kneading at her breasts, suckling at them as hungrily as an infant and licking off the drops of the swarthy-skinned nation’s blood from her flesh. He told her against her skin that she could never leave him, for he loved her and desired her. She only laughed and slipped from his fingers for another spell in which peace would come to his green land.
In every age, every campaign, the men feared and worshiped her. They murmured to themselves of this odd, odd woman perpetually with such a powerful man. His own rulers sometimes had qualms about her and some even hated her. But he would never send her away; she would leave him instead, always. As the ages passed, no longer did the end of fighting, a desolate battlefield, drive her from his arms. Soon, it was quills and ink and scrawled names that spelled her departure. And his blazing desire for her started to cool.
Nonetheless, if she but beckoned to him, he knew he would go to her, a dog at the end of her leash. He would wag his tail and place his head on her lap, just hovering for her regard, her touch. She came to him at the beginning of a new century, when he was grim and sick and frustrated. He wanted her away, weary of squabbles and a world that now was mapped and sorted and plotted.
But she came to him on soft, silken feet and caressed his face with her milky-white hands. He drowned in her sunset eyes and he devoured her smiling lips desperately as she pressed her soft, heavy breasts to him. Losing all control, all propriety, he remembered the days of bearskin beds and firelight, of gilt buttons and bright red boots. He could more easily remember her eyes on him, glowing on her blood streaked face, as he humiliated Spain. Her fingers undid his clothing with enraging deftness (for how long had she had been doing this? With whom else?). He cursed her and himself and everything he could think of in a stream of sewage as he had her on his desk, over the damned missives and papers and telegrams. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she embraced him twice. He did not sing to her or quote poetry and they danced obscenely to the tasteless though ancient rhythm of his thrusts and her shoves.
“You will be the death of me,” he whispered to her, lost in her smell and warmth and embrace.
She laughed at him and kissed his cheek, chastely. Her lips burned like acid and he tasted blood.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Red Rider
(Anonymous) 2009-03-19 02:10 am (UTC)(link)She was painted in it, she practically dripped it. Her low throaty laughter reminded him of apples and cherries and mulberries and dark wine, of bloody flesh only just seared in orange-crimson flames. He would twine his fingers in her crimson hair and expect to be burnt and expect to feel his fingers draw away sticky and cloying. Her slender fingers touched at his lips and he kissed them with worship. She would push her lithe, powerful body against his until his skin turned red for the desire of her. He would feel like the only man in the world in her eyes that glowed like the sunset.
He knew she was special, different, just like him, and yet, far more. She came to his isle as, not a conqueror but as a warrior, a harbinger. Whooping and shrieking and ululating her violent, joyful cries that paralyzed and thrilled, she baptized him in blood and brought him glory. Her hand guided the shield of the turtle and her arm helped raise up the battle banner of her priestess and avatar (who better than one who had her hair?).
She would not always stay but he knew of her presence, everywhere. Even in the grimmest of fields and the dullest of days, he would remember her burning hot touch and her sweet-bitter breath and her red, red lips. She would never bless him (for she was never on any one side) but he loved her for her impartiality and wicked licentiousness. In youth, he tumbled with the scarlet giantess in a bed of furs while she gave him his first wounds of a different battlefield. He swore he loved her as she rode him like a stallion, screaming and gasping until their completion. Her smile seared him and he gazed at her with both fear and worship.
When he grew older, she came to him just as overwhelmingly but by that time, he knew something more of a woman’s touch. She came with him on his battles on the sea and even the massive expanses of endless water did not daunt her. For soon, her color spread on sapphire waters like ephemeral flowers on blue ground. She was even more glorious as a sailor, her wild hair barely tamed with a scarf only a shade darker than her curls, her firelight eyes blazing as her lovely, powerful body seemed uncontained in her massive ruby coat and her immense crimson boots. Gold glimmered on her fingers and on her garments but she reserved her greatest avarice for the cutlass she bore, the silver blushed pink like a shy maiden’s blush. He feared that sword for he wondered how many lives she could have taken for the steel to have taken that color.
Re: Red Rider
(Anonymous) 2009-03-19 02:15 am (UTC)(link)In every age, every campaign, the men feared and worshiped her. They murmured to themselves of this odd, odd woman perpetually with such a powerful man. His own rulers sometimes had qualms about her and some even hated her. But he would never send her away; she would leave him instead, always. As the ages passed, no longer did the end of fighting, a desolate battlefield, drive her from his arms. Soon, it was quills and ink and scrawled names that spelled her departure. And his blazing desire for her started to cool.
Nonetheless, if she but beckoned to him, he knew he would go to her, a dog at the end of her leash. He would wag his tail and place his head on her lap, just hovering for her regard, her touch. She came to him at the beginning of a new century, when he was grim and sick and frustrated. He wanted her away, weary of squabbles and a world that now was mapped and sorted and plotted.
But she came to him on soft, silken feet and caressed his face with her milky-white hands. He drowned in her sunset eyes and he devoured her smiling lips desperately as she pressed her soft, heavy breasts to him. Losing all control, all propriety, he remembered the days of bearskin beds and firelight, of gilt buttons and bright red boots. He could more easily remember her eyes on him, glowing on her blood streaked face, as he humiliated Spain. Her fingers undid his clothing with enraging deftness (for how long had she had been doing this? With whom else?). He cursed her and himself and everything he could think of in a stream of sewage as he had her on his desk, over the damned missives and papers and telegrams. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she embraced him twice. He did not sing to her or quote poetry and they danced obscenely to the tasteless though ancient rhythm of his thrusts and her shoves.
“You will be the death of me,” he whispered to her, lost in her smell and warmth and embrace.
She laughed at him and kissed his cheek, chastely. Her lips burned like acid and he tasted blood.
Re: Red Rider
(Anonymous) 2009-03-19 07:34 pm (UTC)(link)