#holiday queue.

“I’m looking for the owner, would that be you?” the original asked with a honeyed tone and a casual grin, door making a delicate jingle as he entered. Many shops and homes within the supernatural community still did that, placed bells around the entrance to keep any unwanted energies out. Although as time went on, Casper wasn’t sure how true that actually was. “I heard it might be something I would be interested,” his feet stopped him at the counter before his porcelain fingers began to unbutton his jacket.

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. 

❛   you again ?   ❜    his suspire, that of a funeral pyre. this, the long ire of an induratised soul, every calyx offered in oblation, a wroxing world contained ‘twixt the knosps of necation.    ❛   can’t you save the sighing for someone else ?   ❜