{ A/N: bluh bluh one of many interpretations of melodia. though you've gotta love how, no matter what, she's still batshit in some capacity. (8 }

. . .

She hates him.

Her hand are in his, and she envisions those hands gripping her hips, her shoulders, her hair wildly as she puts her mouth to his throat and sinks her teeth into his skin and tears it away and sucks out his bitter, filthy lifeblood like an animal. She imagines mauling his back, digging deep furrows into him with her nails and listening to his pathetic pleas for mercy. She thinks about biting off one of his fingers or ears or taking a nice, juicy chunk out of his chest and watching him stare up at her in horror and bewilderment, before reaching up and ripping his squishy, beady little eyes right out of his head.

She loves him.

She likes to sit beside him and listen to him speak and breathe in his smoky scent and curl her fingers into his big, warm hands. She wants to lay her head on his shoulder, on his chest, and listen to him breathe. She dreams of sitting there in his lap and letting her treacherous hands slither beneath his robes and -

- oh dear.

She detests him for making her feel this way, so she just adores making him pay - and in her mind, she will never fall short of ways to hatefully ardently viciously tenderly tear him to shreds.