baptized in holy river water , grown in soil made from compassion and leadership / how goodness feels inside skeleton , how it aches against red organs . he used to be innocent , he supposes , with wide eyes and curious questions forming with childlike wonder . prince in womb , king in flesh , he is always titled , as if he would disappear without one . regal and graceful with white bones , warm bloodstream , honeyed guilt / they are sweeter now , these faults of his . they cling to teeth like cavities , they are syrupy along the edges of his spine . he is brown sugar !! melting away with each added monsoon upon his shoulders . he - atlas , a warrior that screams in agony only during night terrors . there is a leaking severity that oozes out from him * i remember the death , the dying , the dead . helplessness binds me and i feel myself becoming undone , unraveling like a noose after an execution . i was born for something , but made for nothing . let hot sunlight scald me , let the heat purify me . steam rising up into the air like ghostly phalanges * . he studies you carefully , panther eyeing black widow spider , calculating movements with an automatic flair of uneasiness . there is no foe here , yet he recalls himself shielding his genuine expression from you / he sinks into himself , facade of nobility replacing raw character . he shifts , arm against chest and his free hand placed at his chin . he doesn’t move towards you in any way , yet he blooms almost physically , body language more open , more vulnerable . he hopes his invitation will go smoothly , an unsettled plethora of nerves causing him to clear his throat before continuing their conversation / boyish smile , brows raising with mild amusement .
« the world is filled with choices , nat — to close yourself off to them would be detrimental . would you care to join me for dinner ? unless , you have other commitments . i would understand . »
THE ROSES BLOOMING BENEATH MONSTROUS PROVIDENCE, she buries her sins in the cold blue ocean, watches the plummet into abyss. she lives in that chasm, the void that welcomes her. she is home. unsettled in the luminescence, warmth spread across suffused porcelain, but she looks like she belongs. she always does. the spy, the widow; acquainted are you with masquerade! what mask do you wear today? do you hide your sharpened teeth? do you dress them with a silken smile and a veil of smoke rising just above your emerald gaze? they’ve taught her well, far too well. the intricate dance, the tangle of crimson string, step into the widow’s web. no man can resist her much less survive her. but they never taught her how to endure the voices, how to wipe the blood from her name. and in her own becoming, maybe she will never learn.
his boyish charm, a slickened tongue of bewitchment, the perilous curiosity blossoming underneath studying gaze. she is no stranger to the pursuit; she was built to be adored, carved from marble and satin, to be adored but never to be touched. she will burn you with her damnation. she sees his heart, the one made of gold. he is good. and she is not. and if he knew better he’d run the other way but something tells her his interest in playing with fire has piqued.
natalia offers a smile far gentler than the widow would, a brow expertly arches. her gaze gives nothing away, the effulgence of green. ❝ dinner. ❞ she repeats, a forfeit of interest. ❝ depends on what that would entail, your highness. ❞ a coy smile paints itself onto red. step into the widow’s web.
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
