give my all just to watch you fall; any

[rapt]

rapt

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

Rapt hasn’t died – not yet – nor has he been particularly close to death, either in his own doings or in those around him. He wonders, at times, about his mother and father – surely, by now, they’re dead – but he never found any affirmation one way or another, so it is a mystery he will carry on with him for lord knows how long. This used to bother him, but time, as it does, has dulled that wound, and Rapt found himself distracted well enough, falling for a variety of monsters and bearing children his body was not meant to carry.
(He loved them, though. The monsters and the children.)

“Perhaps,” he says, but he has little time to speak more, for then she is close enough to him that for moment he is unsettled, and then she keeps moving, closer and then through him, as if he did not exist at all.
He shivers, though the sensation had not been much of anything. It was more the visual of it, her skin sinking into his, strange but intriguing. He is still slightly adrift in that strange transpiring when she speaks again, of hunting – of power.
Hunting is a pleasure, she says.
He pauses. What’s the word he wants? What she describes is not something he wants – anything resembling bloodlust in Rapt is twisted inward, his own desire to be hurt – but her description is something delicious all the same.
“It sounds fascinating,” is what he goes with, then admits, “I’ve had no experience with it, myself. Too soft, I suppose.”
Soft in some things, not so much in others. Everything’s relative.
“What else do you do,” he asks, “besides hunt?”

but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever

@[Titanya]