He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
He rushes to her, holding his hands out, and she quietly steps into his arms.
I have been a fool. I am...
He falters here and she tenses as he places his head in the nook of her shoulder.
I am so sorry. I don't know what... I have been so horrid to you. I was so angry and— I just...
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His irises are deep, intricate webs, weaving in and out in a sinuous shape, chasms of pooling red glittering in the candlelight. They are soft; a silent kiss, like the petals of a rose, caressing in a luxurious manner too heated to—A finger brushes against her lip? The act—the intimacy of it—is foreign to her.
"Who are you?" the pale lips whisper, left partially open as the last syllable hisses out, a trembling dash of red against white. There is something about him... She feels flashes of that same pull, that same raw need she feels from the Rat King tug in him. But no madman is alike: uniqueness is what spawns them, what shapes them. She has not yet discovered the darkness in Boidae; she has not yet found that insanity.
Speaktome. Speak to me. Eyes plead and mouth trembles, lips fashioning the words but voice failing, letting the desire flow from the brush of his fingertips along her throat. They skate up and slither down to just taste the purity of her.
Speak to me.
A skim of a thumb against a jaw.
Speak to me.
The rush of air, passing in a sharp bite from his mouth to her cheek.
Speak to me.
The allure of a dark gaze.
Speak.
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There is a terrible tragedy to the choice made, the spell woven, the bond tightened. It cannot be broken, once said. And in that iron grip she cannot even imagine what waits, the festering pus and running blood that will pour like the crashing waves of a floor along the tile and crust over her paling flesh with a rusty memory of the terrors that await her. The beating organs will lie by her legs and shrivel in the cold air, crumple and scab over as they shake with the remnants of life. And she will scream, the back of her head grating against those tiles as the bones slowly change and life fails.
