01-13-2020, 02:54 PM
you are sacred because i have made you sacred.
Beelzebub
Glassheart had always been gentle with him but she never showed him how to be the same way. Every movement is, for him, a micro aggression all building toward some inevitable end. Either he will die or she will. But he doesn’t like to guess which one will be able to walk away from their fairy tale – he likes surprises.
His eyes almost dance with delight as the freshly bloomed happiness wilts across Brigade’s face, replaced by a sort of gray indifference. Why does he choke the smile from his own lips? Beelzebub can’t help the little laugh that dribbles from his lungs when the plaything echoes his words. He thinks of setting those wings on fire and devouring the charred remains while the stranger wails in agony. With a blink, the fantasy is gone and his attention is drawn to Brunhilde.
Bub loves the way she almost flinches when he touches her throat and another laugh rasps from him at her question. She bends and warps herself around him until she loses her fire, until she is replaced with a fearful ember.
“A friend you never bothered to mention. He must mean so little,” he says, his voice lifting into restrained rage that plays at being humor. “Look him in the eyes and tell him he’s nothing, little sunset. It’s so important that we’re honest with our friends.”
And when he smiles, the expression is all teeth stretching the full width of his face. Beelzebub is too eager to hear her speak but he remains still as he watches her, bright eyes glimmering joyfully. Slowly, he turns his head to look at Brigade to gage his reaction. Does anger rise up in his throat or does he let his sorrow consume him? Does he show anything at all? Beelzebub’s tongue absent mindedly runs across the pointed edge of his teeth as he observes for a while longer.
“And what about you? Is the feeling mutual? Does Brunhilde mean anything to you at all, plaything?”
His eyes almost dance with delight as the freshly bloomed happiness wilts across Brigade’s face, replaced by a sort of gray indifference. Why does he choke the smile from his own lips? Beelzebub can’t help the little laugh that dribbles from his lungs when the plaything echoes his words. He thinks of setting those wings on fire and devouring the charred remains while the stranger wails in agony. With a blink, the fantasy is gone and his attention is drawn to Brunhilde.
Bub loves the way she almost flinches when he touches her throat and another laugh rasps from him at her question. She bends and warps herself around him until she loses her fire, until she is replaced with a fearful ember.
“A friend you never bothered to mention. He must mean so little,” he says, his voice lifting into restrained rage that plays at being humor. “Look him in the eyes and tell him he’s nothing, little sunset. It’s so important that we’re honest with our friends.”
And when he smiles, the expression is all teeth stretching the full width of his face. Beelzebub is too eager to hear her speak but he remains still as he watches her, bright eyes glimmering joyfully. Slowly, he turns his head to look at Brigade to gage his reaction. Does anger rise up in his throat or does he let his sorrow consume him? Does he show anything at all? Beelzebub’s tongue absent mindedly runs across the pointed edge of his teeth as he observes for a while longer.
“And what about you? Is the feeling mutual? Does Brunhilde mean anything to you at all, plaything?”
there is no burning that i did not create.
@[brunhilde] @[brigade]