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Author’s Note: Blah, blah, blah. I’ve written so much of this drivel, and yet you’re still reading. Good for you, I guess. Random response to the Pretender100 challenge of death. Again. This might be expanded upon later. Possibly in an entirely different fandom. Oh well. Concrit is lovely, dear reader.
Summary: Death became him, he decided.
Death became him, he decided, staring at his form in the regal, full-length mirror. To him, the most becoming part of his entire appearance was the deep red stains that sullied his hands and clothing. The kind of deep red stains that can only be caused by blood.
His eyes floated to the image that he wished could remain burned into the mirror. She was in a tangle of sheets, her dark hair lying perfectly around her face; still strong, yet terrified, even in death.
He could feel her blood soaking into his skin and he relished it. This was his moment of perfection.
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