You’re the most beautiful when you bleed. When your flesh tears between teeth and you’re nothing bust a red stained mess. I could taste you over and over again and never get sick of it. Your blood, your flesh and one day your bones, maybe.
You taste good. Hunger is never quenched but satiated, at least.
-> tell my muse what your muse thinks of mine on anon! Anything goes!
like a love letter, in a way, isn't it?
to find such beauty in the mess that he is, the mess that he could be - a product of his own design. and they're right, he's never more beautiful than when he bleeds ; a deep, crimson red is such a vibrant colour when compared to him - a type of intensity that just makes his eyes pop, brings out the best of his features in his honest opinion.
the contrast between the splatters of blood upon his own skin are mesmerizing in their own way ; it is not a craving, an addiction, to be held in this certain type of light - for that would imply that he has the ability to fight the urge, it would imply that he does not indulge of his own free will, but because he has no other choice. it was his driving force, the one thing that kept him grounded, the one thing that made him who he was.
desperate and hungry was he, to bathe in that which was deemed impure, to bask in the unholiness of it all and call it divine. romance keeps his smile hidden behind a delicate hand, a hand that borders on pristine, perfect - in the most unnatural of ways. "you have impeccable taste, don't you?"
