06-29-2017, 07:22 PM
god make me pay,
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
She tilts her head at him, just a few miniscule degrees, but it was enough to be noticeable. He brings his muzzle from her, the gleaming hunger in his eyes diminishing as he watches her carefully analyze him and study him. The pale of his lips twitch, threatening to turn into an unflattering snarl as her eyes search into the depths of his, but he keeps himself expressionless for the time being – save for the constant crease of his hooded brow.
They all look at him this way, eventually.
A look of curiosity, a look of slight wonder as their eyes narrow just so, trying to understand why.
Why must they have to know? Why must they have to understand?
Truth be told, there was probably just something that had gone wrong during his mother’s pregnancy; the neurons didn’t connect properly and thus fire inadequately, his brain didn’t fully develop its frontal lobe – whatever the case, here he is. He didn’t care that it made no sense to others (it doesn’t even make sense to him, but he has long since given up on trying to understand himself and his thought processes), and sure as hell didn’t care that he is an orphan, forgotten about and most likely hidden away out of sheer shame and fear.
She sighs, and he does not refrain from sneering at her to show his distaste in the (most likely involuntary) action, a sharp snort leaving his nostrils. He did not come here for pity or sympathy, which is what she seems to somehow be caught up in as she stands before him, silver skin shimmering in the autumnal sunlight and reflecting, smooth and shining like a pearl.
Maugie.
His teeth grind together, his jaw muscles jumping beneath his evergreen and pearlescent skin on his face. “Careful, Deathwish. Pity doesn’t suit you, even if it’s just for your own flattery.” His voice is rough and unpleasant as it gurgles in his throat, hissing through his teeth with venom laced on its words. Maugie. He couldn’t even believe it.
She tosses her head like the sweet little angel she pretends to be, flawless and faultless yet deadly as a viper. Is this how all women are? “If you are so much better,” he begins icily, his thoughts briefly turning to the stagnant water behind them that he could so easily throw her into again, “why are you still here?”
Maugrim tilts his head, mirroring her same very gesture that she had only done moments before.
“Death is power. Unfortunately, it’s all wrapped up in a pretty porcelain doll, hell-bent on making me play nicely.” As she presses into him, he reaches out with open lips, teeth bared, imagining her supple skin breaking beneath his tight grip and tasting the metallic of her blood on his tongue. He is not keen on becoming a pile of rotting flesh, so he does not make contact. But the intention hangs heavily in the air.
They all look at him this way, eventually.
A look of curiosity, a look of slight wonder as their eyes narrow just so, trying to understand why.
Why must they have to know? Why must they have to understand?
Truth be told, there was probably just something that had gone wrong during his mother’s pregnancy; the neurons didn’t connect properly and thus fire inadequately, his brain didn’t fully develop its frontal lobe – whatever the case, here he is. He didn’t care that it made no sense to others (it doesn’t even make sense to him, but he has long since given up on trying to understand himself and his thought processes), and sure as hell didn’t care that he is an orphan, forgotten about and most likely hidden away out of sheer shame and fear.
She sighs, and he does not refrain from sneering at her to show his distaste in the (most likely involuntary) action, a sharp snort leaving his nostrils. He did not come here for pity or sympathy, which is what she seems to somehow be caught up in as she stands before him, silver skin shimmering in the autumnal sunlight and reflecting, smooth and shining like a pearl.
Maugie.
His teeth grind together, his jaw muscles jumping beneath his evergreen and pearlescent skin on his face. “Careful, Deathwish. Pity doesn’t suit you, even if it’s just for your own flattery.” His voice is rough and unpleasant as it gurgles in his throat, hissing through his teeth with venom laced on its words. Maugie. He couldn’t even believe it.
She tosses her head like the sweet little angel she pretends to be, flawless and faultless yet deadly as a viper. Is this how all women are? “If you are so much better,” he begins icily, his thoughts briefly turning to the stagnant water behind them that he could so easily throw her into again, “why are you still here?”
Maugrim tilts his head, mirroring her same very gesture that she had only done moments before.
“Death is power. Unfortunately, it’s all wrapped up in a pretty porcelain doll, hell-bent on making me play nicely.” As she presses into him, he reaches out with open lips, teeth bared, imagining her supple skin breaking beneath his tight grip and tasting the metallic of her blood on his tongue. He is not keen on becoming a pile of rotting flesh, so he does not make contact. But the intention hangs heavily in the air.
m a u g r i m.
@[Deathwish]