The smell of the metallic crimson liquid caused ripples in your stomach, uncomfortable ripples, as the crimson liquid stained the walls like paint smudges on an artist's canvas, and he wasn't an artist, he was just the crazy, idealistic freak.

Getō Suguru⠀⎯⎯ㅤ master or rather the love of your life who had gone mad.

Where your kidnapping from your home after committing a bloody massacre against your innocent family by non-sorcererwas a qualitative shift.

A terrible developing a sense of trauma, panic and Stockholm Syndrome that took hold in you like a sickle in wet mud under the harsh rain in the bosom of December.

Arms twisted, saliva dripping from chin, pretty little ankles bound in red satin, the luscious crimson satin nightgown that sat on your fair skin sending electric tingles through the black haired shaman's peripheral nervous system was sweeter than drinking all kinds of wine, contentment in his new world.

A crooked smile tugs across his lips, as his slender, calloused fingers play around the slender column of your neck and tease the rhythm of your rapid pulse, like the flapping of a dove's wings in the mouth of death, his radiant onyx eyes, his long silky black hair flowing like watery coals cascading around you and over you on the king sized bed as he leaned over you.

“Shh, why the fear, dove, didn’t we say no more tears?.”

His voice was so sweet, like a delicious dose, the same happiness that makes your shoulders tremble when he sends you skyward and makes you see stars when he’s between your legs, combined with reality, the pleasure of pain that was your masochistic tendency and his sadistic dominance, a submissive slave drunk on psychological traumas.

His thumb strokes your chin, moving up to lick the cherry lower lips covered in saliva that drips from that sweet mouth that is the satisfying jam for his hunger.

Getō is sweet, sweet like a diabetic of the worst kind of disease, like eating a cake filled with sugar, cream and berries together and waiting for a happy death with a full belly.