[open] I don't wanna hear what's impossible; any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

Stitched, he had thought at the time, when he first laid eyes on her, the impossible thing that had grown inside him. Both of us, sewn together.
How in love he had been. With her, with Isakov, with the world. How odd it had been to see what things could be like when they worked out.

He sees her and for a moment it floods back, the peace of their small family, her first wobbling steps, the impossible milk that flowed for her and only her. He’d always wondered what she had become, what she might look like full-grown, and here she is, beautiful, and Isakov haunts the structure of her, and the ache he feels is wonderful and terrible both.
He makes a noise, a sob knotting in his throat, and he takes a step before her, and she flickers in his vision and the realization strikes him, as fast and deadly as a viper’s strike.
Of course it isn’t her. Whatever faerie or demon is pulling the strings of this barren land, this other world has dipped into his memories and hand-picked the things most beloved to come and test him.
“Sigrid,” he croaks.
He stares at her, taking in her, all the while wondering, what will I have to do to her?

Sleaze