Sweven

Winchesters
With new moon eyes, scarlet grins, relentless sins, Winchesters run rabid. Finally, feet refuse to flee. Stand. Wait. Brace my soul for unholy fate. But they two tremble like a mirage. "You aren't even real," I dare. Send them off in a dust-devil dance. Now stride off to seek survivors.

Hungering
Insatiably she hungers for his touch, embrace, and taste. When he is away she licks, nibbles, and suckles on what rigid shapes she finds. It is both comical and concerning. "I'm not a nympho," she asserts, "Or maybe I am but only for him." She wishes it were otherwise. She wants back her unwedded world. He returns and her exclusive wants become unfurled.