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
When you live twenty-six years doing exactly that, yeah it is hard to stop. He doesn’t know how to just not do it, because it’s all he’s ever done. He was a fractured, broken child, stitched together into a man with tape and paper clips. Still just as much of a wreck, but a put together appearance. And he hates it. He hates the tone in her voice when she tells him to stop doing it. He doesn’t know how to. This is all he’s known.
Instead, his fingers curl slightly further and he shakes his head lightly, eyes shut tight as he bites down on his lower lip, worrying away at it until it’s almost raw. And that’s when Phoebe stands, and it breaks through enough with the shift on the couch for him to sit up, black veined eyes following as she returns, trembling hands flexing and relaxing as he tries to calm his racing heartbeat.
And she returns with the medicine, one he hated because it made him feel different, better, when all he wanted was to suffer like this. She tells him to take it, to ward off a full blown panic attack and he wonders if that stems from the anxiety she had mentioned forever ago, and he eyes it warily with his shadowed, haunted gaze and raw lips — until he reaches out and takes it from her, hoping it doesn’t mess with the alcohol within him. He’d much rather be black out drunk than in the state he’s in, but he tells himself he deserves it after everything.
So against the blight and the frustrations eating him away, he drinks the whole cup, and shakily sets it on the table after before pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes shut tight. “Thanks.” It’s soft, quiet, broken with his accent, strong like the night she had brought Lusea back. And he trembles from the weight of it all.
Instead, his fingers curl slightly further and he shakes his head lightly, eyes shut tight as he bites down on his lower lip, worrying away at it until it’s almost raw. And that’s when Phoebe stands, and it breaks through enough with the shift on the couch for him to sit up, black veined eyes following as she returns, trembling hands flexing and relaxing as he tries to calm his racing heartbeat.
And she returns with the medicine, one he hated because it made him feel different, better, when all he wanted was to suffer like this. She tells him to take it, to ward off a full blown panic attack and he wonders if that stems from the anxiety she had mentioned forever ago, and he eyes it warily with his shadowed, haunted gaze and raw lips — until he reaches out and takes it from her, hoping it doesn’t mess with the alcohol within him. He’d much rather be black out drunk than in the state he’s in, but he tells himself he deserves it after everything.
So against the blight and the frustrations eating him away, he drinks the whole cup, and shakily sets it on the table after before pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes shut tight. “Thanks.” It’s soft, quiet, broken with his accent, strong like the night she had brought Lusea back. And he trembles from the weight of it all.
does it look like he's still under your control?
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.
