Demigods are worshipped with flowers and spirits.

Gods and goddesses are to be worshipped with blood spill.

That's what I do for her.

She is my shrine, my religion.

I lay my life on the line for the Angel of Death herself.

Every day I gain a fresh scar proving my loyalty.

I am patchwork in her hands.

No other will I allow to caress these jagged lines under silk smooth palms

and no other scent will arouse my senses

than the heavenly aroma of vanilla and green tea.

I will it so,

and she knows.

"You're amazing," I say.

Her smiles are made of sunbeams and powdered sugar.

"Bookish nerd," I tease.

The forehead pains are more than excruciating,

though I secretly relish in the attention from her roughhousing.

"You're beautiful."

That's the ticket.

She cowers under my gaze at this stated fact.

Her Insecurity spikes like ice and pierces through my soul,

leaving a nauseating throbbing in its wake.

The thought that she couldn't realize

how she could cut down a demon's resolve by mere existence

and force mortal men on their knees wordlessly

enrages me.

I growl uncontrollably when this happens.

That's when she realizes exactly what she does to me.

Feather light touches kiss my skin,

calm the beast,

and stills the black blood coursing through my veins.

I am a ravenous monster.

I am no God.

Yet she welcomes me into her sanctuary as one

and I take pride in being the only man

able to gaze into her pools of glittering olivine

and quench my thirst from her freshwater rivers,

endless in their content of purity,

without being torn asunder.

I taint her waters with ruby-hued passion.

She allows for this,

for us to make sweet unbridled love in the overlapping waves.

The resonance is so powerful,

it sends us both spiraling into madness and unadulterated bliss.

Our breathy cries peak in harmony, and the music dies down soon after,

continuing as a soft hum in our ears.

And I'm left with my Goddess, entangled beneath shimmering gold sheets,

cradling her in my arms while her chest heaves in tandem against my own,

her breath ghosting over where my soul laid dormant and pulsing.

With each slowing heartbeat,

I stroke her wildfire cheeks gingerly with the pad of my thumb,

whispering words of affection against her skin as she drifts further and further away from earth.

Some call them "sweet nothings."

I call her my "sweet everything."

"Maka."

"...hmm?"

"I love you."

"...mmm…"

"Hmm-Hmm."

"..."

"Goodnight, my angel."