you made hell feel like home; any

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever   He is a creature built to worship, and what is such a thing to do when the item of his worship forsakes him? He has seen nothing of Pollock in months, maybe years. He has searched, in his desperate, wanting way – he is a good boy, a loyal boy – but to no avail. And thus he is left, spinning and adrift, a boy who loves monsters, but to whom the monsters do not love.   He is in the forest because he likes the shadows, the foreboding sort of darkness they promise. It’s the kind of place where monsters lurk. He’s full-grown, now, a champagne color that speaks of sunlight. He’s not particularly tall, but there’s a thickness to his bones, the heritage of Percherons and other drafts, through well bred with other things. He’s not even a boy, not really, more like a man in the prime of his life – but inside, he is a boy. Inside, he’s a lost boy standing before a monster with a feeling in his chest, a bursting heart, like the worst kind of falling in love.   He’s not looking for anything, not consciously. (He’s always looking, though – for those curled horns, that smile. That monster.) He’s simply moving through the forest, enjoying the cool shade of shadows dappling on golden skin. Just a lost boy.   rapt caius x else