For a Song Pt. 01

I say nothing. I am busy.

"The only thing that comes to mind is horses. They're the only things that can give you a run for your money."

I twitch. I am a simple creature, amenable to praise in all forms. And it does feel good to be free. The crush on my skull kept me from thinking about the crush on my length. It needs to breathe. Her breath tickles me through the thin cotton holding me in place. Cold, just as cold as the rest of her. If anything, that inspires more dogged resistance to keep me hard. I am aching for freedom.

She takes on of her palms, and the shape I make still overflows. She moans a slight shake that carries all through her, down to my task at hand. It shivers over my lips and that makes her moan again as it finds new patterns she likes. It's odd to work in reverse, but I manage to bring similar sounds from her. She rips the hem again and I full free.

"Fucking bastard," she hisses, "Why do you keep this from me?"

"Because I have other things you pay me to do," I say, finally giving her a moments respite from my work.

"Is that all? I have money. Just keep you at the foot of my bed all day. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Depends. What exactly are you going to do when you get back?"

She chuckles a bit and it rumbles through me. That is nice. All of her body is on me, cold and heat intermingling. Her impatience final gets the better of her and more things rip until I am free. Her breath finally hits my skin, the heat of my desire against the chill of hers. I don't get a moment to prepare as she dives and takes me down the base in sane swift motion. No tease, no more preamble. I am here to take, and any resistance is to be battered aside with no care. Cold, wonderfully cold, her tongue testing against me. She holds me down, holds me in her deepest part until she knows, she knows I know. I moan for her and that means I like it. She moans over me as I go back to my beautiful art. A call and response, strings vibrating against my fingers, my tongue, that in turn strum me I the same manner. Instruments mashed together in songs with no conductor. It all plays down from no sheet music. It feels good, plain and simple.

Her technique is simple. I am inside of her, and she is on me, moving her tongue in a simple dance of up and down. A little bit of sideways every so often. But it's all I need. Her mouth is warming, churning over me, playing with the shape and making my own work sloppy. She likes sloppy, though. It does the job and gets her own work even more messy. Mindless flailing, making the both of us slip up and fall into mindless action. I am in her, folding and unfolding and spreading with tongue and fingers, pulling her moans over me in a heavy shroud.

And to my surprise, I am almost there. It's the closeness, the pressure, the reminder that there are other bodies out there that relish in the misery black of pain. She wears her wounds with unabashed pride, the marks of others etched into her being. She is a tapestry of violence, woven with iron needles sharp enough to decapitate horses. And she is solely devoted to proving that she is better at sex than me. And she is good.

I am almost there at the edge of the abyss, and I go into it willingly. My own actions have developed to the simplest of caresses. Just enough to give her sparks that spin into a slight bow. It is not enough to bring crashing and moaning and doing all the things she wants to do. Bu I am there, unable to say anything through the body crushing me, the scent filling my mind, the endless rapturous agony of my release. She knows. I can feel the satisfaction turn her lips into a savage grin. There's just a hint of her teeth grazing me. It feels wonderful.

It's in pulses. It's in waves. My entire convulses through heavy clenches. It's in my stomach, my whole body in the act. I am down in her throat, filling her shot after shot after shot of my heavy seed pent up from our long absence. We only had an hour at most to play together this morning. We could have had more, but she wanted the edge to it. Said it made her feel everything a bit more if she wasn't satisfied with her scythe in her hand. I grip her thighs and gasp for breath, pressing everything I have deeper into her. I am nothing save for the instinct of more. She is the channel to lead me there, an endless plane devoid of anything. I am destined to flood and paint with heavy seed, paint in all, bury it in torrents and rapids until the entirety is filled. I keep pulsing in her. My stomach hurts. My arms hurt. MY body slowly reaps itself apart to sate our mutual hunger and it is failing spectacularly.

My body runs terribly dry as her lips slowly pull back. I am left with nothing at all. Vacant thoughts about my name, where I am, what I was doing. None of that matters. I was in someone's throat, buried in that same someone's thighs, letting everything out with no thought of the future. My length runs cold when it is free. That is the first thing I notice about my body. And from that one little sensation, the rest comes back in little sparks and tingles. I kiss Eliza's thigh, the hard muscle twitching under my lips. I smile. Even like this, I can make her body move without conscious effort. I chuckle, mostly to myself.

"Again," I sigh. The calm even tone of abyss slowly ekes out to the raw bestial need. She is not the only one who can fill and crush and smother with weight. She makes some vague noise that means she heard me.

"Are you sure?" she says, "You just- "

"I know what I said. So why aren't we going again?"

"Just wanted to- "

I move her a bit more out of the way, slowly crawling up. I move and spread her. And she desperately tries to stop me, just to keep the dynamic where it was. I do not allow it. She is tired and she is slow. I am where I need to be in a moment's time. There is her. There is the entirety of her, laid out on the ground, hips raised, shoulders in the dirt.

"Slippery little bastard," she mutters.

"Little?" I hum. I lay myself a cross her, along her ass, reaching up to the bass of her spine. She moves and sways, grinding into me.

"On the whole, kind of. Scrawny thing like you needs some more meat on your bones."

I lift myself up and let it drop back down. I think that is plenty of meat and all of her talk really doesn't hold the weight she thinks it does. It's hard to be teasing and coy when she's almost mashing her crotch against mine, smearing her excitement up my legs. I take another pleasure from her as I shed my shirt. It's cold, delightfully cold in her tent. The candle flame is pale and dim, barely enough to let me see what I want. I know it is there.

I line us up, feel the art, the excitement, the raw hungry need of the night against the pain. There is something to take and I need it now. She moves a bit more, letting the dark align us a bit more. I grab hold of her hips, feeling the thrum of her power still move and twitch and shift within her as I take a breath. Clear head, empty mind, a body that simply goes into the act with utter abandon.

I enter her and everything is glorious.

I tap into the vein of color. There is no more black death coursing in her veins. She is a starlight with the savage joy of the primordial union. Slow, painful for both of us as we have the act laid out before us. And I am taking it slow in some act of mutual torture. It's slow, the enveloping tightness of her body, tapping into that warmth that runs through her depths. The chill of the world cannot reach us in the moment. I am taking it slow, letting her grow frustrated and angry, raging at the world that would make me like this.

She is the one to break the torture, slamming back into me, almost sending me sprawling against the cold her. I am upright against the avalanche of her body. And I am inside her fully, hitting and spreading and filling into the warm body twitching around me. I have another moment of stillness to relish. I am inside someone else fully. There is movement and angles and spots to explore, but not right now. If Eliza cannot enjoy and savor the feeling of fullness, then there is something we need to talk about. It takes a moment for her body to recognize this as not. It is not what she wants, exactly, but it hits her in the deep moan where nothing else matters. It's all she is. Fullness and filling and the expanse of warmth we both share against the chill encroaching up into our bodies. I lean over her back, feeling er muscles move and clench and try to keep the satisfaction from collapsing us both. We have the moment to share and that is long, stretching with the dancing flame. The candle creeps low, sputtering as the wax pools and laps at the wick. The flame gives one last hopeful dance, but a whisp of smoke trails off to the ether. Dark, everything is so terribly, wonderfully dark.

And I do not hold back from the urge. I am in her and then I am out. I thrust, simply, letting the instinct carry through any lack of technique. I lay into her, moving my hips so that she can find a pace to match. And she does. All of that power goes back into me, threatening that same tumble and fall. I remain steadfast. Matching the motions and angles as she gives them. There is a new path to explore, and I take it. She matches the new motion. I go a bit faster, and she matches the new pace. I stay in her, deep and filling and she holds me there, pouring the black out into the world. She is clear, empty of everything expect the mind that says nothing at all. I am clear. The world collapses and I keep moving.

No words from either of us. I have the motion and it is a matter of endurance. She makes deep moans of bestial howls and I grunt like a war mount. There is no civility. There is no treaty. Our strengths colliding in mutual assured ecstasy while steel clashes outside. I am thinking of nothing at all. The body moves on its own, nothing civilized or proper to keep it in check. I grip tighter, whitening my knuckles and marking her skin with my fingerprints. She is digging in the earth, scrambling for purchase to go even harder. The rug is bunched and crumpled beneath us, sodden and spotty. My legs are slick with our combined excitement. I keep going. I don't care about anything at all, other than the next instance of our dance.

She howls and laughs at the sensation with no name. I do the same. We are alive, through the forge of pain, laughing at the very notion of unpleasantness. Blood and steel and rage fall to the simple reckless act of fucking one another into the dirt. We are untouchable in the station, I stretch her open and she simply takes it because it feels good. I crush her insides and she crushes me back because it is what we are made to do. Outside of fucking, it is all meaningless distractions. I slap her ass, leaving more and more imprints in her. If some bastard with a lance or a spear or whatever could lead to such paltry wounds, I better leave her something as well.

I growl and roar as my end wells and surges within me. She is there with me, mashing our bodies together, threatening to crack the earth because it is in the way of more. I slow, just a bit, making sure that every stroke, every motion takes the entirety of my body into account. I am at the precipice. I am at the core. Each instant is the opposite extreme. I slam forward and collapse as Eliza moves her legs and screams my name to the world that she has found something unconquerable and still lashed it to her being.

I pull out as her legs give free. I am still pulsing through the white void of being. Long, heavy streaks across her back, across her as, up her neck. I paint her with pools and lines, flowing through the lines in her back. It ripples over her sides, hitting the carpet, making puddles, lakes oceans of my heavy, thick seed. I am still huffing it out with hissing breathes. I am coating her heavy, forcing her deeper and deeper and deeper into the earth to drown in my heat.

It ends. It has to end. It ends with me sinking to my knees, the flow slowing to a steady drip. Eliza moans in rapturous awe at the mutual defeat. IT is dark. It is dark and I can't see anything other than the vague shapes looming in the shadows. A vast beast coils and turns before coming eye to eye. Her gaze catches the scant light and shines with delightful sinister glee.

No words for a long moment, before she darts forward and kisses me again, finally sending me over. Despite the force she has, it is still gentle. It is calm, sated, seeking warm soft things to nestle into and lie between. I am currently trapped under her chest and that is a very warm, very soft thing to lie between.

"Fucker," she whispers, "I'm going to have to go to the horses to get this kind of treatment."

"What did you do before I came along?" I sigh. I pull the rest of it out, pooling under her thighs.

"Thought about some things with the boys, but I don't want to lose a whole legion to exhaustion. So, I guess it's back to taking care of myself while cursing the world. I do that a lot too."

She kisses me again, just a small moment of connection. Her head is on my chest. I feel a question coming up her throat, but it never quite forms into something salient. It just dies and slithers back down. A snore comes up instead. She gets a kiss on the crown of her head. She murmurs something.

Cout's half right. I am eager for more, almost raging for the simple continuation of more rutting, more sex, more endless fucking against another. I have an entire army to tear through, fit able bodies tired and aching for something to make them feel alive. But I don't. Eliza gets nightmares if she sleeps alone.

---

I have to move, but Eliza is making a very good argument against that. Mainly by crushing my chest and holding em still. I can wriggle a bit, like a humble worm. She whimpers a bit and holds me a bit tighter. I enjoy being held tight. It's nice. But I'm hungry. And I can't eat Eliza. At least, not in a way that will actually make me less hungry. I kiss her massive forearm. There is a scar under my lips that feels tight. She murmurs and shifts a bit. I'm thankful she's not a snorer. That would be deafening. Her massive chest is resonant and sonorous, her deep breath sounding like a vacant canyon.

I kiss her again and that gets another fun little wriggle out of her. My plan is working. I have more space to slip out, watching my horn so as not to mar either of us anymore that we already were.

It's cold, in the dim morning light. Not great, and it does a great job of pushing me back into my lover's grasp. She is under many blankets instilling heat and comfort into her body. But I do not. The cooks are already up, stoking fires and stirring pots. Most of all, that was my contract. I had my tasks all covered and the extra work I received I handled with aplomb.

"Bastard," Eliza yawns, "Going to just leave like that?"

"Not quite my plan," I say, "I was going to get us breakfast. And then I was going to just leave like that."

"That's a little better I guess."

She yawns again, rising upright, hips down still under everything warm. Her chest is free and it calls me to throw myself into her forever and ever. Slumber in the cold embrace of death and the dying until I took join them for an eternal rest.

"You're really leaving, aren't you?" she murmurs. Sleep slowly seeps from her face as deep longing comes to fill the gap.

"Yeah," I say, "Yeah. Contract's up. Time to mosey on. See who else needs me."

"I need you."

I move towards her, setting myself down next to her. I turn and hug her tight. She hugs back before breaking away. Her head is on my shoulder.

"You could stay," she says, almost a whisper, "We can get another contract. Maybe something with less hands-on work. You could train the healers. We could use a jester. War council is a sack of wet rocks."

"Will I get a funny hat and jingly shoes?"

"We could get you a pair."

I kiss her forehead and she pushes against my lips, pushing into me. I almost topple one last time.

"You're not going to stay, are you?"

"No. I'm not. Had my turn playing at war and now I'm done. I'll go play fisherman, or poet, or humble little beggar."

"You'll be a terrible fisherman."

"That is a lie. I'll be a great fisherman. Angle the whole world, catch sea monsters, eat like a king every night. It'll be great."

She chuckles and that means she isn't mad. Melancholy, sure, depressed and disheartened, absolutely.

"Fine, you'll be a great fisherman. I'll miss you."

"And I'll miss you. But you're a warrior. Go fight and conquer. Break the world over your knee. Hold the kings and queens to your blade. Let their blood fill the rivers and stain the earth. Your banner will be held high, your throne hewn from will and flesh. The world will forever tremble from your footsteps on the battlefield."

She sighs and squirms and plants a heavy kiss on my cheek.

"That silver tongue will get you in trouble, my little bastard."

Her words drip honey and sugar and heavy raindrops. A tear hits my cheek. Hers, not mine. My eyes are burning and there is that odd pit in my throat. It is deep, the sorrow I fill in my core. But that dept resonates in an odd way, fulfilling and complete and enthralling.

We have our moment together as the sun slips over the horizon. It is still dark in her tent, but pale and blue. I have her to see and to hold and the moment to stretch as long as we are able. I hear the footsteps walk up the hill. I huff out a laugh. Despite my intentions, I will not be the one pulled away.

"You have a minion coming," I whisper. She groans but finally comes to stand, dressing quickly while I remain mostly nude.

"A moment if you please," she says to the poking head. I wave. They do not wave back.

Back in her full regalia, a splendid form of black with glancing light, she gestures to me once more.

"I will see you again," she murmurs in my ear. Half an order, half a question.

"Of course," I say, "I am but a thought, a note on the march. Think of a song and you will think of me. Pluck a string and you will hear my voice. Watch the horns sound and I will be there, dancing in the golden reflection of brass."

"Silver tongue. It's only good when you're between my thighs."

"And I am damn good at that. Goodbye Eliza."

"Goodbye Dumile."

We embrace one last time, chaste distant, trying to put up walls. Mostly for the man outside. Hard to have a general lovesick and soft, gushing over roses and candlelight and honeyed words. They need to be steeled and hard and brutal. I watch her ass sway as the tent closes, thinking to myself that I could stay one more night. But then I'd have this entire turmoil again. And again. And again.

I dress and gather my scant things, collect my payment and feel it hang heavy on my hips. There is always something so satisfying with metal. The noise, the weight, the feel. I think I'm heading west. Pretty sure. The front lines are east, and I am going away from all that, so it must be west. There are a lot of good things out west, if my memory serves. I walk for a handful of hours before the silent trail bores me. I pull my guitar and begin to play. The scent of fresh grass and clear skies fill the air. I sing with a chest full of clean air.

"I wonder if this rain will stop one day.

Someone's been crying all along.

No worries, there's only one road so I can't get lost.

All I have to do is walk."