TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
He saw the horns move first. Pale curves in a dim atmosphere. Rising above even paler hair, alabaster skin. Movements fluid, a panther creeping down a game trail, silent footfalls. Dangerous, something untamed about those eyes that captured him.
And the first thing he wanted to do was to rip her horns off.
Not for anything SHE had done, no. In factm it had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with anyone or anything, really, it was all there in Michael’s busted up, fucked up head. That just to imagine, even for a moment, what it would feel like if someone hurt as much as he did. If someone could understand what it was like to slog through life, purpose diminished until it was but a pale ember. Crumbled charcoal unable to breathe life into flame.
Aaaand then it was gone. Passed so swiftly he wouldn’t remember it later.
Her approach set his spine alight, flickered paranoia stirring the hairs there. Goosebumps of warning over biceps and forearms, though numb at the site of his injury. Pupils expanded of their own volition, but he didn’t move. A mind trained almost exclusively for survival, not only as a soldier but also as a nomad in the vast expanse of Hak Etme. A nobody who had no one to take care of himself except for himself. To flee in the presence of a predator he had no chance of escaping would be suicide, and as much as he would love the kind of peace such a fate would offer him in the end, his body wouldn’t let him. His mind wouldn’t let him.
A concoction of raw instinct and self-loathing, the belief that he was such a failure as to not deserve the quiet of death yearned for so completely, kept his ass on the bench and his feet on the ground.
”good”
Good?
He liked her already.
“Are you sure you can provide?” An instant challenge, his words coming a little easier. Still slow but not as discombobulated. Clarity gradual in its return. The agitated throb of a freshly cleaned injury adding another level of s n a r l to his baritone.
Michael always had been an unclassy blend of IDGAF and try me, but this was another stride beyond that. Because WHO the god damn fuck had knocked him out, dragged him here, cleaned him up, and left him in a temple?
Hollow azure met eyes of her own, held them firm. Recognized something, the kind of tired he could relate to. He looked away first, had nothing to prove. Those days were long over and would never come again.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
And the first thing he wanted to do was to rip her horns off.
Not for anything SHE had done, no. In factm it had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with anyone or anything, really, it was all there in Michael’s busted up, fucked up head. That just to imagine, even for a moment, what it would feel like if someone hurt as much as he did. If someone could understand what it was like to slog through life, purpose diminished until it was but a pale ember. Crumbled charcoal unable to breathe life into flame.
Aaaand then it was gone. Passed so swiftly he wouldn’t remember it later.
Her approach set his spine alight, flickered paranoia stirring the hairs there. Goosebumps of warning over biceps and forearms, though numb at the site of his injury. Pupils expanded of their own volition, but he didn’t move. A mind trained almost exclusively for survival, not only as a soldier but also as a nomad in the vast expanse of Hak Etme. A nobody who had no one to take care of himself except for himself. To flee in the presence of a predator he had no chance of escaping would be suicide, and as much as he would love the kind of peace such a fate would offer him in the end, his body wouldn’t let him. His mind wouldn’t let him.
A concoction of raw instinct and self-loathing, the belief that he was such a failure as to not deserve the quiet of death yearned for so completely, kept his ass on the bench and his feet on the ground.
”good”
Good?
He liked her already.
“Are you sure you can provide?” An instant challenge, his words coming a little easier. Still slow but not as discombobulated. Clarity gradual in its return. The agitated throb of a freshly cleaned injury adding another level of s n a r l to his baritone.
Michael always had been an unclassy blend of IDGAF and try me, but this was another stride beyond that. Because WHO the god damn fuck had knocked him out, dragged him here, cleaned him up, and left him in a temple?
Hollow azure met eyes of her own, held them firm. Recognized something, the kind of tired he could relate to. He looked away first, had nothing to prove. Those days were long over and would never come again.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
