trashforaphrussia

[trashforaphrussia]

scorned by false prophets and kings

"I was there too, wasn't I?"

Shaky voices, only survivors of themselves, fingers twisted into hair.

"Yeah, you were," a sharp inhale, crippled in spirit, lost at heart. "I'm sorry."

Not joking, not masquerading, no false promises of empty godhood. Ieiri Shoko, somehow gets lost in spiraling birch forests and meets winter-kissed Gojo Satory, frost's beloved son, the emperor of all grievances, majesty of golden-brazen kings and sweet affliction of curses and men.

Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands, but what compared to the twisting disgust and empty contempt of a woman scorned, enough to make you believe you adore torment and wish hell was warm enough to make your home.

A greatest enemy, a man made of stitches and mockery, beckons forth the torn fibers of his soul, to which body replies but consciousness utterly dwindles.

If Geto Suguru was not the serpent, then he was most definitely the apple stuck in Adam's throat. Gojo Satoru, iron-fisted in nature, reprehensible in heart, in his longing and aching, saw a face full of the blackest crows and fell to his knees.

Ieiri Shoko, decomposing into her mattress, fills herself with smoke.

It could have been different.