Blighted Bars

they made a mockery of him once 'look at the walking tragedy' now they whisper when he passes

he's a demon, with a crown of blood

He knows how conception works, and he knows he doesn’t need a lecture on it. But he keeps his mouth tightly shut, letting her tell him about it while he contemplates telling her to stop. The blight in him would much rather her stop, tearing up at the further comments she makes. Especially when he tells her that he would make a good father. A quiet scoff, a hum of laughter. He doubts it immensely. He shakes his head to her, fingers tightening around the bars of the jail cell. No, he’d be a terrible father. He’d become like his own, a machine of a man who bleeds oil when cut.

He grits his teeth then. “I wouldn’t. But I’m flattered you think so.” He tells her, eyes drifting away from her to the cell she’s in. They only drift back to her when she speaks next, uncertain how to even respond to it. So he gnaws on his lip lightly, knowing deep down that being vulnerable was his biggest flaw, and he tried to stay away from it as much as possible. He could at least tell her that.

But he opens his mouth to respond before she cuts him off, and questions it all. And he just stares at her, a fine line forming on his mouth as he shakes his head and steps away from the bars. He wouldn’t answer it, because he doesn’t know. On one hand, he loves Lusea to death, she had died for him. She was his flame, the fire to his flood and waters. And yet, Phoebe was soft to his hardened edges. And he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

And so he lets his gaze harden on her as his trembling hands find their way, folded along his chest. “Do you want out of this cell or not?” He asks flatly. Ignoring the question entirely.

does it look like he's still under your control?

SUNJATA