≡ if i beg if i plead

now dance, fucker, dance

man, he never had a chance


The lingering dusk brought about a beast to prowl, craving the waxing shadows that clung to his voluptuous figure at each twist and turn, a monster of the night, craving the cover of darkness and the very essense of a cold, vapid exterior. It was the fire that drove him, the narcissistic cravig ofthe very things that granted him idle pleasure and stirred the monster that lingered behind a mask of indifference and tepid despite - an innate annoyance in vehement retaliation to the air he breathes, the despical need to feed, drink, filling his gullet and emptying it, never sustained, never satisfied. Meat did not fill him, blood did not calm him; he was insatiable, impossible to please, harder still to even mildly amuse. He craved something more carnal, something to give him life, to fuel the dying emotions of his charcoal heart, his blackened soul, and it was with his swaying stride that he sought solution to his deprivation of even minute pleasure, hunting ruthlessly for anything that might distract him - might console his dying sense of compassion. But he knew - oh, how he knew - that the next morning would not bring him peace, and his wanton violence would only leave him wanting more, craving the virgin flesh of victims crying for reprieve, anything to make him stop. They knew, even when they whimpered and begged, that they would not find sympathy in those eyes, hardened to life's cruelties and prone to deliver them himself. Driven by vehement apathy, he trundles onwards, persistent only in the manners of his compulsion to harm, slowed only by the silhouette in the distance, catching his eye and holding his stare, tempting absent fascination and bringing his progression to a halt. Hungrily - a predator sizing up his prey - he watches her, drinking in every inch of her ample curves and soft golden curls. She is perfection incarnate, and in that very instant, he loathes her. He loathes her beauty, her simple ability to catch and hold his attention simply by being, and in his silent stillness, he is disgusted with himself, disgusted by the mere fact of his arousal simply because he is male and thus cannot help his woeful urge to sate his loins. Folds of fleshy skin pull back against his narrow muzzle, his annoyance written across an unwelcoming facade as he continues to watch her, unable to turn away now that she has appeared and serves only as an apparition to taunt and rile his nerves, poking and prodding at the meager resolve he has thrown around himself.