There is no romance in their meeting. He, in shadows, is pondering a new victim. She, on the run, knocks him on his a**. Literally. From there, it is a spectrum of vivid red to inky black.It's gravity, migrations of masochism and sonnets of sadism. There are no rose petals or sweetness, just fierce bites and everlasting marks. And then, things take a turn; it's impossible to tell whether it's for better or for worse.He bites his tongue; she, nearly, bleeds him dry. Yet the conversation starts, lilts on dry chuckles and humming sighs, of little ones. Children like them who enjoy the dark and macabre of life. And if ever there was something of love between them, it shows in the content smile that settles on Brawl's crocodile mouth.
There's a flutter in his stomach. A shard of want that drives him towards sunlight.
It has been there for days; a red moth that lazes as if it is near lifeless. And yet, all attempts to shred it... It's more than a moth.
"You will grant them the privelege to be no one's victim." It is not a question; it doesn't matter that he's nothing to command this creature. He's never bowed before except to Brawl and she'd never choose to be such a flighty fragile beauty.
The moth twitches in reply, consents to the request.
