SHE IS SOMETHING SEPULCHRAL. a grave of a girl, a skeletal sacrifice for sharp edges & malicious malison. buried beneath her skin ONLY landmines can fill the gallows of her ribs, carnage fills what scientists calls a heart. a day of love, A DAY OF BLOOD, inhume her in bruises from fists forged of violent delights, a lethal kiss with a bruteful fist. creatures nidorous, vowed together UNTIL DEATH DO THEM PART, the promise echoes ! echoes ! echoes ! in the pit in her chest as FURIOUSLY as families pray in cathedrals for their loved ones to come home from war, to be protected from the likes of them. he speaks, the air shrivels with threat, he speaks, her spine is seduced with scuffle. lips sever ; snarling teeth baring its razor sharpness, ❛ how very Shakespearean tragic of you. ❜
she is his battlefield ; he is her soldier. there is no need for one without the other. fingers flinched in a fist caging the tape beneath ivory talons, feet planted should width apart, rooting into the floor : unmoved. free hand found the nape of Illya’s neck to ( drag, drag, drag ) husband down, battlefield meeting soldier’s march, in a short, sharp welcoming kiss. ❛ but I am more inclined to see you fall before myself. ❜ the jeer, the competitive sneer, sparks from gasoline doused tongue. hand f e l l from neck to chest, sapphire ring rising & falling with the palpitation of husband’s chest. a natural contradiction to words just said.
HE IS A NECROPOLIS. a boneyard born of brumal boy, a malicious monster made from madness & venatic violence. buried between his bones only rot and ruin reign, a paradox of ice and fire war eternal in peristinal cavity pumping aberrant amalgam through body perfusing him with perilous poison until that which should have killed him makes him that much more deadly. a loving kiss, A BLOODY FIST, riddled in rouge a mix of enamored embrace and eloquent extirpation. when is a monster not a monster ?? never let them be monsters together and lay waste to the world. kill them !! kill them !! kill them !! the corpses cry from the catacombs carved into their cruces and the creatures consecrate their carnage.
hand that knocks him back drags him forward, and shoulders that bend for no other bow if only to meet her passion with his own. in her he finds no kindness, no softness, no weakness. when is a monster not a monster ?? never. talons dig into flesh of neck, a threat and a promise all at once and he knows this woman will never become less lethal than she was the very first day he met her. let love make fools of all the rest, let them become fat and complacent and weak devotion doth develop deadliness.
fingers calloused to wield, to choke, to break, to kill encircle her own, metal hitting metal in clash that makes blood sing. the other slips around waist to pull her close, feeling the strength in her frame rise to meet his own. enigmatic expression downturns lips and brightens eyes.
❛ I am no Shakespeare ❜ he purrs, drawing joined hands upward to press tender kiss to battered flesh. ❛ my woman would never be so weak ❜
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