{ A/N: this is going to be an A/N full of apologies! so, let me first apologize for the fact that i am not entirely familiar with the duniverse as of yet. let me also apologize for the fact that this is very much an experiment with stream of consciousness-y type narrative, which i know some people loathe, but i happen to be just a little enamored with. (haters gonna hate!) and lastly, let me apologize for this: i feel the need to admit that all i can think about whenever i hear beyoncé is piter de vries. i have ... no real idea of why this is. i am so sorry lkdsfjlsk ;_; }

. . .

Broken bodies and powdered bones, sticky, still-warm blood - this is what he sees when he closes his eyes, his insane eyes, his blue upon blue upon blue eyes.

A tiny, icy sigh slips from between sapho stained lips as he envisions the pain he can inflict, thinks of the power in his wiry, unassuming body, fantasizes about the crushing of delicate wrists, the deft shattering of weak ankles, the cracking of ribs, the gouging of eyes. This is what he does, has been trained to do, will always do - and oh, it is just so very excellent, so very stimulating, so very right. He aches for it, the boiling blood on his fingers, in his hair, on his skin, and it truly is in his nature to thrive to wallow to flourish in it, to rise from the lakes of congealing redness like a splendid, murderous phoenix. Without it he feels almost like a husk, a shallow flimsy impotent ineffectual form despite the raging powerhouse that is his mind. But as explicit as they seem, it is not of his nature to be terribly overt as he goes about these duties of his - partaking quite literally in the gory details, as he does - for he is not a brawler (he is no thickheaded Beast, certainly not); his power lies in his tortuous subtlety and its noisome fumes, and he relishes in this as he prepares his poisons, steeping himself in his own delicate death-tinged colognes.