❝ i can awaken things inside you that have been sleeping all your life. ❞
TVD BOOK SENTENCES / NOT ACCEPTING.
ah, but this maiden — this minx. she who walks with amphisbaenae unflinching, CARMINE & DRIPPING WITH CRUOR. how easily the others name the cardinal curves of her mere claret — how much malacissation she bears at their hands. but he— he has never looked at her & seen anything less than ACELDAMA. he has never heard her ariose articulation & not thought of war-horns. how could he ? she, concupiscence incarnate, a creature that hungers in his very bones. consuming, conenose. has he ever known anything but the wrox ? has he ever known anything but the fox ? & indeed, ‘neath all of that beauty, she is all beast, a vulpine teratism limned in an hundred shades of muliebrity, & he— oh, by all of the gods, by all of his fathers & mothers, he adores her for it.
but pravity yet remains his purview. is this not the right of ravaging ? are not war rooms the penetralia of the perverse ? there is naught within him that remains somnolescent, not now. he is hunger, he is horror. HE IS THE PORTENT ESPOUSED BY EVERY WARNER. & she, oh— she is the tephrosis he will walk into gladly, madly. —— her halitus ghosts over a cheekbone of rimose marble, lips close but not close enough, never close enough. he, a naufrage still burning. she, the rush of deluge o'er a lethe-limned lazaret. this is a pathology in starvation, always, fissicostated & florisugent in their devouring. how does the man become monster, you ask ? how does the god become glutton ? like this, i say. like this. here, a mythos most maudlin ; a tale strewn ‘twixt sparsile souls, empyrean & eternal. AH, THIS MURDER MOST FOUL. AH, THIS LUPINE, LONGING HOWL. ‘neath his grip, he makes of her hips rosariums ; this is the only nurturement he knows, the only naissance to be bred from his weltering digits, from a sepulchre yet to be stitched.
❛ oh, can you now ? ❜ ridence, romance ; is that what thee would name this ? A LOVE AFFAIR LIMNED LANIARY ? / metacarpals creep southward, to the vernal velvet of her backside, where his digits maculate as they do nothing else. ❛ you know, i think i’d quite like to see that. ❜
