01-08-2020, 02:53 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Many would flinch from her, shy away from the snarls that simmer beneath the surface. Her mercurial eyes swirl with a hooded darkness that Castile takes duly note of when he flickers his gaze across her face. He doesn’t lean away from her or take a step back; they are both unafraid, bold. It actually poses a challenge, seeing her so rigid against his touch and unwilling to lose herself in him as she has hundreds of times before.
Their eyes lock, and he caresses her with a stern, marbled face. ”Yes, I had diplomats,” a short pause, ”Nimue Isolde.” It would be easy to lie, but he doesn’t. The woman accompanied him to Pangea, but there is more to Sochi’s question. Like an iceberg, Castile sees only the tip and not the perilous dangers lurking beneath the waves. That isn’t to say he is oblivious or dumb; there’s a shift in her that he carefully regards.
She looks away toward the distant horizon; Castile hesitates before turning his head to follow. Their thoughts trail apart in different directions, tendrils that get whisked with the soft breeze as it tousles their locks. Slowly, admiringly, he looks at her again even if it isn’t met. Quietly, in the lull of conversation, he waits until the stoicism of her face stares back. No smile, no adoration.
Just, stillness.
Pressing forward, Castile pushes through the wall she builds. ”Sochi,” her name is gruff, firm, as he stop mere inches from her, their noses nearly touching as he searches her for something, anything. The words come like a tsunami, relentlessly beating and sloshing through his mind without order, and so he hesitates all while holding her gaze and resisting the temptation to pull her back into his embrace because he knows she will not happily accept it.
A slow, calculated breath sighs from his lungs.
”I love you. There is only you,” his voice is strained by the raw emotion clawing his throat as he navigates his musings to piece it all together for her. ”You are the only one that I have said that to, no one else.” Not Ciri, not Solace, and not even Sabra. The words never reached his tongue or clouded his judgment until Sochi stepped into his feverish, crumbling life.
But he sinfully wants. There is a possessive lust for Oceane, a need to have her near and to display her to the world, but it strikes him now that she wants the same. But she also has political goals that he can help her achieve. They are tools to one another, useful tools.
Alas, want isn’t the same as love. It is sinful whereas his adoration for Sochi is pure and admirable. It hangs in question, he sees, and his jaws clench uncomfortably for a fleeting moment although he still does not elude the knives sinking into his flesh when she looks at him. ”When I said – say – I love you, I mean it.”
Their eyes lock, and he caresses her with a stern, marbled face. ”Yes, I had diplomats,” a short pause, ”Nimue Isolde.” It would be easy to lie, but he doesn’t. The woman accompanied him to Pangea, but there is more to Sochi’s question. Like an iceberg, Castile sees only the tip and not the perilous dangers lurking beneath the waves. That isn’t to say he is oblivious or dumb; there’s a shift in her that he carefully regards.
She looks away toward the distant horizon; Castile hesitates before turning his head to follow. Their thoughts trail apart in different directions, tendrils that get whisked with the soft breeze as it tousles their locks. Slowly, admiringly, he looks at her again even if it isn’t met. Quietly, in the lull of conversation, he waits until the stoicism of her face stares back. No smile, no adoration.
Just, stillness.
Pressing forward, Castile pushes through the wall she builds. ”Sochi,” her name is gruff, firm, as he stop mere inches from her, their noses nearly touching as he searches her for something, anything. The words come like a tsunami, relentlessly beating and sloshing through his mind without order, and so he hesitates all while holding her gaze and resisting the temptation to pull her back into his embrace because he knows she will not happily accept it.
A slow, calculated breath sighs from his lungs.
”I love you. There is only you,” his voice is strained by the raw emotion clawing his throat as he navigates his musings to piece it all together for her. ”You are the only one that I have said that to, no one else.” Not Ciri, not Solace, and not even Sabra. The words never reached his tongue or clouded his judgment until Sochi stepped into his feverish, crumbling life.
But he sinfully wants. There is a possessive lust for Oceane, a need to have her near and to display her to the world, but it strikes him now that she wants the same. But she also has political goals that he can help her achieve. They are tools to one another, useful tools.
Alas, want isn’t the same as love. It is sinful whereas his adoration for Sochi is pure and admirable. It hangs in question, he sees, and his jaws clench uncomfortably for a fleeting moment although he still does not elude the knives sinking into his flesh when she looks at him. ”When I said – say – I love you, I mean it.”
castile
@[sochi]