Poet of the call-girl storm - Kingslay.

[Aurane]

The sky ruptures again—the clouds are a thin layer of skin, peeling off to reveal the bright, voltaic vascular network below. But just for a second. And then the blood runs out of them, hemorrhaging into the dark sky. And it is dead. All of it. Everything above and around and below, cast back into grey darkness. Bloodless, impotent and damp. It holds her for a moment in warm, sticky embrace. But the further away it oozes from those electric veins, the colder it becomes.
Until she is shivering. Until she is soaked to the flesh,
deeper still. To the marrow.

That deluge bites into her, cooling the air in that wooded chamber. (We deserve this.) She blinks rainwater from her eyes. And then she hears that voice. That death rattle. Or that phantom whine in her head. In the space between the white noise of rain-patter, in that strange and empty non-silence, it feels singular. Pressing against the cup of her ear. The only thing, with her, in the world. She does not turn to find its source, only closes her dark eyes and surrenders.
The reaper. The gift-giver. (...Everything catches up.)

But it is not her name he calls. And so she exhales all that she has trapped in her lungs, her breath a wisp of white in the stormy air. (But we could try... for a little longer.) She turns her black-brown eyes, through the grey-green air. Peeking past the watery quality of her vision. What have we... Her heart pounds in her rib cage—excitation! Fear. The raw joy of discovery.
He is alike and dislike Death and Dying. Where one man lacks warmth in place of utter autumnal cold, this one smolders. But they are both unnaturally formed. Orange. Where she is a like an errant ember, red and growing redder; he is a wild blaze. An odd, infernal body. And when she blinks (the rain douses him... or so it tries. But his internal heat source rages against the ebbing of that wetness. He flickers, wanes, but burns on. Never burning out. Never melting. Just burning, inside. Shedding off delicate, white ashes... And when she touches him...) But she does not. She slinks forward, until her chest meets the heated air near his shoulder. Those dull, wily eyes inspecting the hot fissures in his black coat. The hiss of steam as the rain meets the impossibility of his skin.

“How deep does it burn?” She murmurs near his haunch, curling around him. Never touching him. Resisting it, though barely. Desiring it deeply, but that's why it is fun. “Would it hurt?” She wonders to herself, aloud. She is all alone, writhing around some improbable but arousing find—a scavenger at a carcass, or a magpie to a red diamond. She covets his flesh, feverishly considers how she can blister against him. Take some from him.
(You'd burn out. You are not like him. Stop thinking these unholy things are yours to collect, silly girl. They just want to see you break at their feet.)

She runs her nose close to his side, inhaling the unique scent of his fire and meat; the steaming turn of his shoulder, the smoke of his mane. Then Aurane meets his eyes, her own reflecting the orange and yellow and red. “Aurane, Kingslay.” In the quiver of titillation is fear. And it feeds her, fills her. Drives her to extend her neck to him, in the backwards way she so foolishly consents to misplacing her instincts.
She does not touch.
Above the gods laugh.
And for a millisecond, they reveal them in cold, naked light.

Hey you, out there on your own
sitting naked by the phone, would you touch me?