#vitiae

Reserved for you!

She was lost, in a strange country. In a place that was not her home. She had traveled here over the water; it had taken weeks but Peach was eager to explore. She had received strange looks from the natives of this land but it didn’t entirely bother her. She would have stared at someone if they looked different from her too.

The forest was dense, twigs tore at her dress. She didn’t know where she was or where the nearest town was and she was beginning to feel frightened. A sound and alarm filled the princess.

❛ Is someone there ? ❜ Her Japanese was shaky at best but she was understandable.

[     NONVERBAL MEME     ]:     @vitiae.

                    fickle   is   how   her   attention   shifts.          something that dresses her skin up pretty,   a wide ranged whisper heard in breaths.     &     she’s not so much a terrible thing as she is a thing made by all else.     /     a creature crafted by the hands of nature     :     anything  but  unnatural.     a smile,   crossed vexation that becomes mischievous vibrancy.     &     under the fiery bile,   there is a too -- sweetness filling the back of her throat,   a bite of laughter that seems just as vague as her underlying purpose.     mother’s hands,   father’s guilt,   a brother’s responsibility     ---     one of these things   CANNOT   be the others,     &     what interrupts this discourse is the huffing of atmosphere that creates in her lungs.     it lingers in her breath,   a corpse hanging in the shade     :     what is she to the rest of the world     ?          (     but  a  feminine  mystery,   veiled  in  suspicion  that  comes  with  the  coated  giggles  gripping  at  her  tongue,   pulling  from  parted  lips     ;     it  becomes  her.     /     the  otherworldly -- ness.     ).          her hands reach,     &     they rest just before him before thumb presses to the tainted skin.          ❛     you’ve  made  your  face  dirty.     ❜

                    it   is   never   a   scold.          never has anything so firm formed from her lips     ---     it’d be more accurate to call her an essence that person          (     the  host  becomes  the  hosted     :     the  hosted  becomes  nothing     :     &     she     ?     she  becomes  all  else.     ).          her hands do not make quick work,   but they are quick enough.     tips of fair flesh but a flickering starlight,     &     she tsks in her own example,   rubbing the dirt that transfers from his skin onto hers     ;     &     she   is   making a fuss of nothing,   any would think.     for there is none of annoyance,   agitation unable crossing her face     ---     she’s   smiling     !     what of amusement caresses her flesh,   a mastery of fondness favorited biting at her expression.     &     SHE  IS  A  TERRIBLE  THING.     she means to be,   without purpose is the horribleness in the way she finds point of blankness,   an existence calling her.          ❛     do you do this to simply charm me     ?     ❜          kittenishly holding in breath in carried exaltation,   eyes just a thing not feral     &     not tamed.     her  hands  on  your  face  seem  like  a  dream     :     you,   stuck  frozen  under  her  touch,   an  entertainment.     her,   a  creature  made  to  entertain  herself.

                    ❛     because   even   i’m   not   quite   sure   if   it   works   well   enough.     ❜          this statement is implied enough to find laughter that doesn’t leave her.     a damped cloth,   her own hands,     &     she’s cleansing the dirt from another creature     ---     she  finds  her  own  goal.