ransom notes keep falling out your mouth, mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs
speak no fear, no i don't believe you. you don't care a bit. you don't care a little bit.
speak no fear, no i don't believe you. you don't care a bit. you don't care a little bit.
Her voice is nearly as quiet as his is, though it’s the intention of it that’s different. She’s quiet and controlled and he’s quiet because the second he isn’t anymore, the more his throat gets torn. But she goes on and it causes him to lash out more, torn between wanting to scream and lash out at the fact that everyone — everyone — kept twisting his words on him, to shutting down just to avoid it in its entirety.
“I never implied that. You asked me to divulge and now you claim I’m making it about myself.” And as for his shit mood? it’s directly responsible for it, for how nobody seemed to just listen, how everyone had an opinion and felt the need to share it, uncaring of the fact that he’s reacting so horribly to it because he can’t trust himself let alone anyone else.
He had spent the better part of a season and a half having visions and losing his memories, that the second someone second guesses his thoughts on the matter, the Flood goes full offense.
“I know it isn’t just me, Maeve.” He tries to urge from his side of the fire, his voice breaking and cracking, more blood pooling from the back of his mouth. She stands and there’s tears that glimmer down her cheeks that reflect the firelight and all he can do is simmer and storm, swell and burn.
But then she’s reminding him that he doesn’t get to choose who cares about him and it grinds and it chafes and he’s feeling like he’s collapsing in on himself again and again. “Then you picked wrong.” He utters, surprisingly quiet, incredibly hoarse, but as honest as he can make it out to be. When would people learn that to side with him, to choose to care about him, would mean they’re betting on the losing horse?
He draws silent after his outburst of his father, a trembling pillar as his wings fold and move to wrap around him, as if he can close himself off from everything and everyone around him. He’s learned a long time ago that he doesn’t get to have nice things, that he doesn’t get what he wants. He should have known better when the first things he got to put in his room were badges of honor to decorate the white walls of his childhood room. He should have known better when those badges were covered in blood he’d spilled.
“Maybe he was.” It’s a weak protest from a voice that’s thick with emotion and pain, head dipping a fraction. “I relate more to him now than I ever have before.” He doesn’t even know nor care if he can be heard over the fire that crackles the logs. He doesn’t know if he wants to be heard.
“I never implied that. You asked me to divulge and now you claim I’m making it about myself.” And as for his shit mood? it’s directly responsible for it, for how nobody seemed to just listen, how everyone had an opinion and felt the need to share it, uncaring of the fact that he’s reacting so horribly to it because he can’t trust himself let alone anyone else.
He had spent the better part of a season and a half having visions and losing his memories, that the second someone second guesses his thoughts on the matter, the Flood goes full offense.
“I know it isn’t just me, Maeve.” He tries to urge from his side of the fire, his voice breaking and cracking, more blood pooling from the back of his mouth. She stands and there’s tears that glimmer down her cheeks that reflect the firelight and all he can do is simmer and storm, swell and burn.
But then she’s reminding him that he doesn’t get to choose who cares about him and it grinds and it chafes and he’s feeling like he’s collapsing in on himself again and again. “Then you picked wrong.” He utters, surprisingly quiet, incredibly hoarse, but as honest as he can make it out to be. When would people learn that to side with him, to choose to care about him, would mean they’re betting on the losing horse?
He draws silent after his outburst of his father, a trembling pillar as his wings fold and move to wrap around him, as if he can close himself off from everything and everyone around him. He’s learned a long time ago that he doesn’t get to have nice things, that he doesn’t get what he wants. He should have known better when the first things he got to put in his room were badges of honor to decorate the white walls of his childhood room. He should have known better when those badges were covered in blood he’d spilled.
“Maybe he was.” It’s a weak protest from a voice that’s thick with emotion and pain, head dipping a fraction. “I relate more to him now than I ever have before.” He doesn’t even know nor care if he can be heard over the fire that crackles the logs. He doesn’t know if he wants to be heard.
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.
