open this door; Rodolphus/Bellatrix/Rabastan
He's probably going to die
Upon the deep well
He's probably going to fly
Where the river moves the night
You know, he's October's best
Mama's little broken tryst
White as a wound on the wrist
Red as autumn.
You're seething to open wide
Where the sun fell
All your ribbons of holy light
You cut your teeth on blood and iron
Your lips are bruised with October's smile
Brooding twelves on a ticking dial
Black as the punishment-room in the dark
Yellow as good-bye.
The light crawls through the faintest crack in his holocaust-black curtains at three in the afternoon. He feels like mercury poisoning. His fingernails slice through the air as his hand rises, pushing the sweat-slick auburn hair from his face. So turn it turn it turn it turn turn turn turn over- Somewhere downstairs the tinny notes of the radio playing a violin waltz, peccavi peccatum tacituritatis.
He's still stretched and ill and his head pounds. These headaches leave his mouth tasting of blood; they leave him destitute of reason and full of a need to bury his teeth in strength. So come to me, Judas, my betrayer-brother. Come to me, lamb of the pointless void. Come to me and drink deep of my sickness until you fucking choke.
His throat is sore. It comes of having Rabastan's cock trying to climb inside him, like he's a special place an immortal womb a don't touch, don't taste, don't speak to me all I need is this to storm your body and wreck your bed.
And sometimes Rodolphus' mind is a knife, and sometimes he's just thick with it. Will she come back to bed? he wonders. Or are they together, dancing fast and rough, knocking things over, biting and scratching and licking and punching on the carpet? Are they spilling their salt fluids all over everything? Leaving the room stinking of hate and desire. Yes, of course they are.
Oblivion, a note drawn out beyond the human ear's ability to hear it. The pain sleeps behind Rodolphus' eyes; it makes him sick of everything. So who would visit him at his bed, balancing all the swollen luxury of this house against the slicing smile of a razor as if that thin body was a scales? His Libra, dead and rotting under a coat of morbid brown grass. And he'd have him there just to suck his tongue as moody infinity spirals.
Why does he always flip himself in a twisted head-over-heels for stupid boys, stupid girls?
Sick this sick feeling and my skin's like lace. Swallow it.
Upon the deep well
He's probably going to fly
Where the river moves the night
You know, he's October's best
Mama's little broken tryst
White as a wound on the wrist
Red as autumn.
You're seething to open wide
Where the sun fell
All your ribbons of holy light
You cut your teeth on blood and iron
Your lips are bruised with October's smile
Brooding twelves on a ticking dial
Black as the punishment-room in the dark
Yellow as good-bye.
The light crawls through the faintest crack in his holocaust-black curtains at three in the afternoon. He feels like mercury poisoning. His fingernails slice through the air as his hand rises, pushing the sweat-slick auburn hair from his face. So turn it turn it turn it turn turn turn turn over- Somewhere downstairs the tinny notes of the radio playing a violin waltz, peccavi peccatum tacituritatis.
He's still stretched and ill and his head pounds. These headaches leave his mouth tasting of blood; they leave him destitute of reason and full of a need to bury his teeth in strength. So come to me, Judas, my betrayer-brother. Come to me, lamb of the pointless void. Come to me and drink deep of my sickness until you fucking choke.
His throat is sore. It comes of having Rabastan's cock trying to climb inside him, like he's a special place an immortal womb a don't touch, don't taste, don't speak to me all I need is this to storm your body and wreck your bed.
And sometimes Rodolphus' mind is a knife, and sometimes he's just thick with it. Will she come back to bed? he wonders. Or are they together, dancing fast and rough, knocking things over, biting and scratching and licking and punching on the carpet? Are they spilling their salt fluids all over everything? Leaving the room stinking of hate and desire. Yes, of course they are.
Oblivion, a note drawn out beyond the human ear's ability to hear it. The pain sleeps behind Rodolphus' eyes; it makes him sick of everything. So who would visit him at his bed, balancing all the swollen luxury of this house against the slicing smile of a razor as if that thin body was a scales? His Libra, dead and rotting under a coat of morbid brown grass. And he'd have him there just to suck his tongue as moody infinity spirals.
Why does he always flip himself in a twisted head-over-heels for stupid boys, stupid girls?
Sick this sick feeling and my skin's like lace. Swallow it.