wracked in silk and sadness; krys pony

[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 Rapt is practically made for the taking, the gold boy with big eyes and desperation sizzling under his skin, and it should be no surprise that it cries out like a siren song to the wolves and the vultures. He is made to be beheld, reshaped, molded in their own awful likenesses. And the thing is, he loves it – craves it, even. He much prefers to belong to monsters rather than to himself. And this is why he has drifted, lost. For the monster that once struck fear and something else – something he doesn’t have a name for – in his heart has left him. And so he drifts, aimless, gold as sunlight in the meadow. He feels the man’s gaze like a weight and turns slowly to look at him. Some unconscious part of his recognizes the wickedness in the grullo’s smile, and his body responds, tightening with nerves and, yes, anticipation. He smiles, too, a nervous little twitch of the lips. He can’t quite meet his eyes even though he moves closer to the man. He admires the wings, folded tight against his back. His father used to have wings, but they had been torn off when he abandoned his kingdom, had left gaping, weeping holes that never seemed to close. “Hello,” he says, that small little smile still there. He nods a little - yes, you’re right, I am troubled - and then says, “I’m missing someone. He left me here, alone.” He is a thing made for breaking. A thing practically begging for it. rapt caius x else

undy is DEF the perfect fit yay