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Velvet, silk, and bloodied gauze. On the hills of ember, where nostalgic memories whispered along reddened skies, the daring daylight plunged to enlighten someplace else, a clouded world. The taller cannibal was his peculiar lover, confidante, and the only woman who could truly, gently harbor his soulless exuberance. She was not an expansion, no, she was not someone who ‘completed’ him, for that was not her assignment. She is his type of luxury. Dear Rosie embodied the finer ends of his everlastingness, she is the handmade veil that could lovingly shroud over him. She is love, love that was found in unforeseen niches. She is the love that blood cells carry, she is the love that entangles itself as the silver skin in raw meat, she is the love that exemplifies itself through inferential words, through nullified eyes. She is the love in dried roses, untimely and meant to last. She is the love in every carefully chosen sonnet and every sway to his favored psalms.
Even if he allows her to hold him, Rosie still cares for him like a deer, ironically, and marvels at his existence from a distance. No, she did not need to graze her hand over his face. No, she did not need to kiss him. Even when she can and is allowed to, even if Alastor will return the sweetness with a brilliant smile, or indifference or a charming joke, she chose to show love in forms that were pristine and elusive. Her love was like a pledge written in blood and rose water, it was not needed, but my, it certainly is a luxury.
Woman of feral appetite, avarice and malfeasance. Yet her actions to Alastor are akin to patient metaphysical kisses.
He recollects a grueling replication of what Hell considers ‘June’. He had invited her to dance with him, just like that, out of nowhere, a whimsical want. And she accepted the offer, with an impish nod,
But, the preparation for the dance did not go smoothly. Even if his beaming smile was reciprocated through his mirror, Alastor could not get his corset to tauten or be interlaced properly. A twitch in his glowing eyes, a pest and inconvenience arising before the planned dance at his purlieu appeared to aggravate him more than he thought initially. Dear Rosie saw the effort, of course, she did. Her gaze was like a feathery hand, whose knuckles grazed down his back, though her smile was ever so animated, because like a friend she had to take delight in Alastor’s blundering.
Yet, she was hesitant, like pearl cuffs around her wrists, not wanting to unsettle the deer. But Alastor needed assistance, truly, he turned his head with a sassy, raised brow, a tilt of the head signaling her that she was permitted to help. Rosie immediately got to work, like the dear she is.
Clacks of her leather heels resonated through the room, her clawed hands pulling her dress barely above the ground, so she could gracefully wander to her kindest memory. The red deer held onto a wooden pole, bracing himself for the cruelest pulling and tightening of his life, though necessary, not like he could die from this.
“You are awfully hesitant.” He snarked, shoulders lowering in imitative ennui. “You’d have quite the ego if you think that your mere touch could annihilate me.”
Rosie cackles in return.
”Who knows? Maybe it could.”
If the radio demon has to play it this way, then she will conform to the atmosphere. Her hands were found on the sides of his waist, before snatching the two silken ribbons, in refined fashion she bound them around her slender hands. She looked down at the crossed ribbons on Alastor's back, towering over him ever so slightly, yet the deer remained unconcerned. His ear twitched from the closeness; an innate, yet curious reaction to his tchotchke.
She yanked, like a merciless ophanim, like a miscreant who desired righteousness, but like a friend she consoled him, after retro sounds of grimace emitted from him as a reaction to the subtle discomfort.
“Now, now Alastor. It’s not that bad, can’t handle a little rib crushing?” The darling quips, tightening rigorously for one last time. Alastor groans in return, to be fashionable means to abide the pain, he knew this. “Well, excuse me for not having a hooker's waist.” One more pull as his breath got knocked out of him, but this time her knee nudged against his back to ensure that the corset remained tense, her leg simply resting along his spine. His head dropped down, slowly getting used to tightness. Masterfully she binds a sweet little ribbon, the act is done.
They are ready to dance.
The male huffed.
“Dangerous.”
Lady of pale blood smiled brightly in return.
“Too dangerous?”
She jokes, half, Rosie wanted to make sure that he is not uncomfortable.
Tug on his glove, and finally slowly turning to Rosie with an ever so soft, yet playful smile; he shakes his head. “Never too dangerous, to me at least.” A quiet chuckle. “Or is this all an elaborate act, are you going to feast on me?”
His hand reached out, and Rosie took it, they strolled to an open room, where they could dance to their heart's content.
“Of course, with a golden fork and knife. Marinated, fermented, perhaps even raw and alive, with gold foils decorating your bloodied skin. How unfortunate that my act has been unveiled.”
Her hand traveled back to his waist, while his hand lazily relaxed on her shoulder, she ushered him. He allowed her to control him like a meat puppet.
Alastor snorts, eyebrows raising in amusement. “A whole recipe, catered to my flesh? Should I be honored, or run away?”
“Both, continue to stay by my side and honor might turn to ashes.”
A nimble waltz, her dress swayed like summer winds, and his other hand held onto hers like a hopeless sinner. Head rested against her shoulder, by the collarbones, it was uncharacteristic. He was exploring, trying to familiarize himself with her. As if Rosie’s presence was a statue he wanted to hold, to have porcelain coldness pressed against his cheek. Touch and physicality weren’t like overwhelming, burning and overly consuming acts of deviousness, not when it comes to Rosie. No, this act was simple, it was sweet, it served as a hushed blessing and not like a superficial and fleeting moment of cheap pleasure. Rosie’s forehead rests atop of his, as if the two were gonna share more of their gossips. Though in their dance it seems that their unspoken adoration is a gossip. Let it remain a secret that only the skies could decipher, naming this purity is unnecessary. They knew that enjoying it, each other’s presence, is a true act of devotion.
“Now, what a friend you are. I knew your saccharine tongue was up to no good.” He kidded, and Rosie returned with icy wit. “Ah, what a woe. Almost like the entirety of Hell is out to get you.”
Like a friend, she laughed at his sarcastic ‘dismay’, but like a lover; she held him. Like a lover she weaved her declarations of sweetness through her utterances and acts, through endless eyes that continued to look at him in attraction.
It was not conventional romance, no. But it warmed his phantom heart.
She is an amenity, unneeded but appreciated.
He loves her too, really, sue him.