Pure White

By Chesiere Cat

Other

Artificial

"Never use pure white; it doesn't exist in nature." - Aldro T. Hibbard

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Pure White:

Artificial

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Lust; carnal desire, a prime instinct known to the race of men. It is too easy to let oneself succumb to the embrace of lust, forgetting everything else in those moments of fleeting passion. Lascivious temptation prompts men to fall prey to their own desire. And for all the means of fleshly satisfaction desire foments, lust then becomes the prey's master no matter how much control he believes he very well has.

Still, is it possible for one's desire to be artificial?

"Ah…"

A moan, so soft like wisp of whisper fades almost unnoticed under the sound of sweet music. But sweeter is the fact that nothing - even the faintest of faint whisper - can escape the heightened sense of hearing as unblinking eyes fixate on the ever-so mysterious creature that seem now very bare and vulnerable underneath him. Gazing at the exposed paleness, he feels youth. Experiencing the control he has over such an enigma, he feels power.

.

Joy, bright spark of divinity,

Daughter of Elysium,

Fire-inspired we tread

Thy sanctuary.

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His fingers trace the flawless skin as his tired brain tries to mesmerize the smoothness. His artificial flesh cold and unforgiving as his temperature sensor yearns to feel the wonderful heat inside.

"Makishima, you are so beautiful…"

He thrusts in deep. Once. Twice. Wanting to hear that enjoyable sound of moaning more.

"Let me hear you. Let me hear you."

It has easily become an obsession.

For his tongue to lick upon that soft skin, leaving trails of artificial lubricant so close to saliva secretion. For his fingers to keep touching and caressing and grabbing and squeezing until that lithe body writhes and thrashes and becomes pliant from his ministration. So that he can hear again those lovely moans that make him feel…

Alive.

.

All creatures drink of joy

At nature's breast.

Just and unjust

Alike taste of her gift;

Is it possible for one's desire to be artificial?

Makishima Shogo knows it is. For he smiles every time he knows it will please and lies as much as he can lead a soul delusional. As long as it fits his purpose. As long as he can test the capacity of desire. When a man faces fear, his soul is tested. What he was born to seek; what he was born to achieve, his true nature will become clear. But what of when a man faces temptation?

Strangely, he can still taste a man's fear in his desire. For the man craves so strongly - so voracious the desire has manifested - for the thing that he fears to lose.

To cling onto one's life so desperately. To still want to feel the thing he no longer feels because of the exchange he made to live longer. No one lives forever, and yet humans still dream of achieving immortality while it is obvious what the truth is.

What can truly be immortal is a man's legacy. A name; a history, the deeds he has left behind, glorified as if it has achieved eternity which is actually an allegory in the lifespan of humanity's eyes.

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Gladly, like the heavenly bodies

Which He set on their courses

Through the splendor of the firmament;

Thus, brothers, you should run your race,

As a hero going to conquest.

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"Ah…" He moans softly. If he were a compassionate man, he would feel for the cyborg pity. Still, he feels nothing. He does not feel love as his body arches and squirms beneath the man's touch. He does not feel genuine sex even from the man's ardent lust.

"Senguji…" And he only calls the man's name just to boost his supposed satisfaction.

For he cannot stop a smirk and a laughter as he finally comes and the bed is stained with nothing but his own semens. The same way the only thing that oozes from his wounded aperture is nothing but the redness of his own blood.

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Do you fall in worship, you millions?

World, do you know your creator?

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His own lust is fake as he feels nothing. Nothing but the physical satisfaction of flesh as he hears his own sound of laughter.

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Seek him in the heavens;

Above the stars must He dwell.

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He will need a new toy soon.

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A/N: The lyric in italic is from Beethoven's Symphony no.9, Ode to Joy.

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