11-01-2021, 10:21 PM
YOU'RE WALKING IN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FEAR AND YOU'RE HEADED
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
“Depends on what you’re trying to escape,” he answers her evenly, trying to not notice the way her guilt floods across his tongue. This was the part of himself that he hated the most, he thinks; the part that detects all their sorrows and negativity and instead of wanting to help them he thinks only about how he will siphon it away.
But the way they always seem to find him is the real wonder.
Rarely does he cross paths with anyone who is happy. Rarely has he ever had to invoke the negativity in them to get what he wants, because they come to him already broken in some way. And every time he feeds off their fragmented pieces he hates himself just a little bit more.
“In my experience, no. There is no escape.” Because if there were he wouldn't be like this.
He feels it again, the way she tries to pull at his shadows. They don’t listen, but they understand her—she speaks their language, but they are too bound to him to be swayed by anyone else. They billow and lift in response to her tugging before recoiling away from her, seeming to wrap tighter around him and sharpening his hazy edges. He laughs, then, the sound more a low, rumbling kind of humming that never leaves his chest than an actual laugh. “It didn’t work,” and he pauses, before adding pointedly with an amused tilt of his head. “Again.”
The space between them is entirely closed now, and he stands with his mouth hovering just above her golden neck, close enough that she would feel the ghost of his breath on her skin when he asks, “What would you do if you could control my shadows?” Most of his voice is swallowed by the dark around them as he glances down the curve of her neck, and that knot of want tightens in his gut. Carefully, he lowers his head just enough that the shadows of his mouth brush against her, the long tendrils of his mane rippling with the movement and skimming just over the surface of her skin. He isn’t sure if she has ever felt shadows besides her own, isn’t sure if his will feel cold and strange because they are not hers, and slowly he pulls himself away, once more widening the distance between the two of them. “You always try, but I can’t quite figure out what your intent is.”
There is another half-turn of his lips, and his tone is nearly taunting, teasing, when he asks, “Does it bother you that they don’t listen to you?”
But the way they always seem to find him is the real wonder.
Rarely does he cross paths with anyone who is happy. Rarely has he ever had to invoke the negativity in them to get what he wants, because they come to him already broken in some way. And every time he feeds off their fragmented pieces he hates himself just a little bit more.
“In my experience, no. There is no escape.” Because if there were he wouldn't be like this.
He feels it again, the way she tries to pull at his shadows. They don’t listen, but they understand her—she speaks their language, but they are too bound to him to be swayed by anyone else. They billow and lift in response to her tugging before recoiling away from her, seeming to wrap tighter around him and sharpening his hazy edges. He laughs, then, the sound more a low, rumbling kind of humming that never leaves his chest than an actual laugh. “It didn’t work,” and he pauses, before adding pointedly with an amused tilt of his head. “Again.”
The space between them is entirely closed now, and he stands with his mouth hovering just above her golden neck, close enough that she would feel the ghost of his breath on her skin when he asks, “What would you do if you could control my shadows?” Most of his voice is swallowed by the dark around them as he glances down the curve of her neck, and that knot of want tightens in his gut. Carefully, he lowers his head just enough that the shadows of his mouth brush against her, the long tendrils of his mane rippling with the movement and skimming just over the surface of her skin. He isn’t sure if she has ever felt shadows besides her own, isn’t sure if his will feel cold and strange because they are not hers, and slowly he pulls himself away, once more widening the distance between the two of them. “You always try, but I can’t quite figure out what your intent is.”
There is another half-turn of his lips, and his tone is nearly taunting, teasing, when he asks, “Does it bother you that they don’t listen to you?”
T O R R Y N
@Beryl