if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes
i know you wanna go to heaven
Well, he lives for another day, in a way as Pim seems content and Phoebe continues her banshee screams. And for a moment he thinks his memory has worked, as she stills and he pants slightly – hands moving to press her shoulders into the snow as he leans back just enough, narrowed eyes watching as his words digest. But he’s not prepared for the next part, not prepared for the venom that shoots back. He should have expected it, should have realized bringing up a past comment that would have never happened, would have backfired. But he can’t take the words back now.
She hisses at him, and he takes the initial insults like a dartboard, letting them reach him and stay, to be removed later when the air is more sober. But she doesn’t stop past her grit teeth, and the words strike harder, and for a moment he feels like he’s seventeen years old again, the night he couldn’t sleep before the day his life took a darker turn for the worst. When he had lost all hope, and hoped his soft heart and mind got him killed. Had Phoebe made him whole? Or had she made him that trembling, depressed child he had once been?
Had he changed, reverted back into the young naïve version of himself, or had he been the boy to hold the pistol to the others clamoring for his head. Gods, how he wanted to give it to them. Instead, he grinds his teeth while she speaks of Lusea, of the woman who incites his bad habits, into he version of himself that didn’t want to jump off the roof that stormy night – to only want to jump off the roof with her by his side. He doesn’t know what hurts worse, the information he knows he’s given her, or the maniacal laughter she has while she says it.
To be loved? He is, was, had been loved. First by his mother, where he could do no wrong, and yet he still wanted to destroy it. He wanted to destroy himself, it’s all he’s ever wanted, but she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that he’d rather be devoured whole than become his soft self again. His grip tightens on her shoulders instead, the darts turning to daggers, souring his heart and his mood, and he feels as though he’s back in Korofi again, laughing before his father.
The only thing he can do is bark a laugh back at her, dark and deep and ignited from the insanity she sparks. He leans down toward her with a raised brow, the blackness of the blight streaking down from his cheek as the blood on his neck begins to clot. “You never loved me, Phoebe. You loved what I could give you.” His voice is coated with the accent of home. “You loved the idea of us, of changing me to fit you better, to be the proper man that could give you children and a happy stable life.” He leans down toward her now, taking her strikes along his face as he pushes her down further. “But that is not me. That version of myself died when I was seventeen years old, and it’s been a long decade since then.” He growls, baring his teeth back at her.
She hisses at him, and he takes the initial insults like a dartboard, letting them reach him and stay, to be removed later when the air is more sober. But she doesn’t stop past her grit teeth, and the words strike harder, and for a moment he feels like he’s seventeen years old again, the night he couldn’t sleep before the day his life took a darker turn for the worst. When he had lost all hope, and hoped his soft heart and mind got him killed. Had Phoebe made him whole? Or had she made him that trembling, depressed child he had once been?
Had he changed, reverted back into the young naïve version of himself, or had he been the boy to hold the pistol to the others clamoring for his head. Gods, how he wanted to give it to them. Instead, he grinds his teeth while she speaks of Lusea, of the woman who incites his bad habits, into he version of himself that didn’t want to jump off the roof that stormy night – to only want to jump off the roof with her by his side. He doesn’t know what hurts worse, the information he knows he’s given her, or the maniacal laughter she has while she says it.
To be loved? He is, was, had been loved. First by his mother, where he could do no wrong, and yet he still wanted to destroy it. He wanted to destroy himself, it’s all he’s ever wanted, but she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that he’d rather be devoured whole than become his soft self again. His grip tightens on her shoulders instead, the darts turning to daggers, souring his heart and his mood, and he feels as though he’s back in Korofi again, laughing before his father.
The only thing he can do is bark a laugh back at her, dark and deep and ignited from the insanity she sparks. He leans down toward her with a raised brow, the blackness of the blight streaking down from his cheek as the blood on his neck begins to clot. “You never loved me, Phoebe. You loved what I could give you.” His voice is coated with the accent of home. “You loved the idea of us, of changing me to fit you better, to be the proper man that could give you children and a happy stable life.” He leans down toward her now, taking her strikes along his face as he pushes her down further. “But that is not me. That version of myself died when I was seventeen years old, and it’s been a long decade since then.” He growls, baring his teeth back at her.
but you're human tonight
SUNJATA
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
