A/N: This drabble was inspired by 'Coming Down' by Halsey. GO LISTEN TO IT NOW.
She's not a romantic.
She doesn't believe in soulmates or prince charming; likens it all to fairytales and fairy dust. This world has jaded her, blinded her to everything but the atrocities of men and the lies they tell. She knew that no one man would ever be enough for her to open her body and heart to.
She never reckoned it would take two.
Separately they are fractured, incomplete models of men. Illya, with his quiet stoicism, hands cold and reverent on her fevered skin. His eyes never failing to convey what his tongue never will. Napoleon, with his carefully crafted bravado, lips soft and expertly pressed against hers. His slick tongue lashing her in more ways than one. Both chafe against the collars around their necks, unwittingly fighting themselves as they fight each other.
She is the neutral ground they agree to kneel upon. Her men, because they are hers, sink into the hollows of her body, filling her to the brim until she shatters.
She believes in God above and the Devil below. They slip into her bed at night, warily circling each other before engulfing her body and soul. The evidence lies in the blazing marks against her skin, in the fire lit between her thighs.
It's not built to last, this uneasy truce between heaven and hell. She knew that from the very beginning.
But for now, as Napoleon claws rapture into her chest and Illya prays devotion at her feet, it's enough…and she closes her eyes against the coming sun.