[ εїз *drives by before going back to cases* :D ]
red drops, liquid rubies, life’s blood, heart’s blood. death after death, blood sacrifices on the altar of a monstrous god. worship is not a verb, worship is an imperative and love is its weaker cousin.he traces his finger through wounds and tastes the blood while it’s still warm, bottles it in vials. they are so lucky to be able to bottle joy.
he brings him the pale blue blood of the ice witch and watches it paint his lips with frost, kisses that cold mouth until it warms and sharp teeth tear his lips open.
one day, he lies on his back and lets vladimir cut through his chest, exposing his still-beating heart to the air. he swallows when vladimir smiles, shark-like and hungry, but moans when vladimir’s teeth close in his heart and pain like no other tears through him.
his heart hurts now but oh, how different it is. he would have let vladimir swallow his heart whole that day if he’d known it would one day ache so ceaselessly.
monsters love monstrously but it is love all the same. vladimir needs to kill. talon needs money. their needs are different but the end result is a line of corpses, a yellow brick road that leads to the green city of noxus.ionia prides itself on being green, all living things in accord, but talon will always think of poison when he thinks of green and the damage that green eyes did to him. killing cleanses him. he spills poison through the conduit of another’s blood, thinks of a man who says ‘i need to kill’ with the same desperation another would say ‘i need to breathe.’one day, talon promises himself, he will make vladimir say in that same tone, ‘i need you.’
to his dying day, he will deny that his eyes ever did something as common as leak salt water. he would dig his tear ducts out of his own face before he ever allowed himself to cry.
crying is not an action. crying is a response. if something hurts him, he will destroy it, not dehydrate himself.he will pretend he did not wake, night after night, trapped in nightmares that soaked his cheeks in tears as he scrambled for a knife. he will pretend he is not intimately familiar with the beat of vladimir’s heart and how protective his arms are when he holds talon close and reminds talon he is in noxus, he is safe.he never cries but if he did, if he does, he will remember how silk stains with salt water and how vladimir never pushed him away for it.
starving, ribs a xylophone jut through bruised skin, stomach rumbling at the scent of soup. vladimir cooking for him, making him meals so rich and nutritious that talon is nearly sick the first time. he cooks as poorly as he shows affection, boiling everything and eating it with no concern for taste.what vladimir gives him is better. what vladimir gives him is something talon cannot duplicate on his own no matter how many cookbooks he stares at.noxian love is not a spice sold in shops or harvested in fields. it is gunpowder ashes and the taste of death on another’s lips. it is the thorns of a rose, it is the death of the lilies and the blood of the poppy. it is not romance but destruction and talon searches for the taste of poison in each bite he devours.
pristine and clean but a monster underneath. the snow covers noxus and her corpses. winter flu has taken many. starvation and the cold has taken more.
but everything is white and beautiful and talon thinks of teeth like sharpened icicles, of frozen milk, of bloodstains on bedding and how vladimir’s smile will never be as lovely as his eyes.his blood never feels as clean as when vladimir guides it through his body.
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
areudirty
