if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes
i know you wanna go to heaven
She lifts her hand and he expects the clawing of nails along the side of his neck, but where her earthy fingers touch, it’s gentle, and subconsciously he loosens his grip on her shoulders in the snow, pressing not as hard as she speaks. Bared teeth become grit as his steel gaze narrows, pushing away the thoughts. Yes. He wants to tell her, because that’s what they’ve always done. He’d been used again and again, and with Lusea he had a choice.
Didn’t he?
Her voice is hoarse as she whispers, stroking her finger along his cheek, melding with the black of her, and he wants to pull away from her hand, to tilt his head so she can’t touch him anymore, but he doesn’t – instead he looks down to her, listening to the barbs that dive and settle, twisting and pulling as they’re removed. He shakes his head to her, a small amount of the blood dripping from his neck onto her, red melding with the redness of her skin.
He had wanted Phoebe to have a bit more fight, but fuck if it hurt like this.
She doesn’t understand that he loved the darkness, loved the ability to scream anarchy into the nights under the streetlights, lighting up a cigarette in the face of his once-fellow shoulders, partners in arms. Lusea had seen him through it, seen the fighter and the broken puzzle piece he was trying to put back together. But it seemed Phoebe could see straight through it, and he hated that, he hated her in that instance, and he finds himself holding his breath as her head tilts back to look at the clinic.
“You. Don’t. Know. Me.” He tells her at first, through grit teeth and short words, of pants and frustration, and a small amount of fear. She had changed him, couldn’t she see that? Medicated him, made him regret the things he’d done, he’d dealt with. She doesn’t know the darkest parts of him, of how many times he wished he could slip off the ledge of a building into nonexistence, disappear in a riot, the chosen son fallen at the hands of himself.
But he was loved, he was sure of it. Loved by the only person he could reciprocate the feelings with, who didn’t ask, didn’t crave it. And he tears his head away from her hand in response. Scared? Pfft. “You didn’t see that boy. He died a long time ago. You saw what you wanted to see.” He bites back. The soft version of himself had been sorrow and pain and anger. He didn’t want to be that again. He became sharp edges and shards of glass. He wanted people to be afraid of him, of hurting him, because it was easier that way. It’s easier to prevent it than pick up the pieces.
Didn’t he?
Her voice is hoarse as she whispers, stroking her finger along his cheek, melding with the black of her, and he wants to pull away from her hand, to tilt his head so she can’t touch him anymore, but he doesn’t – instead he looks down to her, listening to the barbs that dive and settle, twisting and pulling as they’re removed. He shakes his head to her, a small amount of the blood dripping from his neck onto her, red melding with the redness of her skin.
He had wanted Phoebe to have a bit more fight, but fuck if it hurt like this.
She doesn’t understand that he loved the darkness, loved the ability to scream anarchy into the nights under the streetlights, lighting up a cigarette in the face of his once-fellow shoulders, partners in arms. Lusea had seen him through it, seen the fighter and the broken puzzle piece he was trying to put back together. But it seemed Phoebe could see straight through it, and he hated that, he hated her in that instance, and he finds himself holding his breath as her head tilts back to look at the clinic.
“You. Don’t. Know. Me.” He tells her at first, through grit teeth and short words, of pants and frustration, and a small amount of fear. She had changed him, couldn’t she see that? Medicated him, made him regret the things he’d done, he’d dealt with. She doesn’t know the darkest parts of him, of how many times he wished he could slip off the ledge of a building into nonexistence, disappear in a riot, the chosen son fallen at the hands of himself.
But he was loved, he was sure of it. Loved by the only person he could reciprocate the feelings with, who didn’t ask, didn’t crave it. And he tears his head away from her hand in response. Scared? Pfft. “You didn’t see that boy. He died a long time ago. You saw what you wanted to see.” He bites back. The soft version of himself had been sorrow and pain and anger. He didn’t want to be that again. He became sharp edges and shards of glass. He wanted people to be afraid of him, of hurting him, because it was easier that way. It’s easier to prevent it than pick up the pieces.
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.
