08-10-2015, 10:24 PM
| they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone but for what we've become, we just feel more alone She fails him, and he feels himself breaking (splintering) from his very core. She is disappointed, and the agony is both sweet and vicious, but she does not hate him; she does not run like he has begged her to in his mind. Instead, she plants an indecisive kiss against his neck and he cannot stop the groan that wells in his throat--mirroring the blood from where her wings scraped his flesh. “You shouldn’t trust me,” he finally spits out with as much venom as he can muster, turning the blade he had been burying into his chest against her in a last ditch attempt. “You were stupid to ever trust me,” he backs away and feels his cells sing with the parting, the knowing that he couldn’t cradle her close as he so desperately wanted to. “Stupid, stupid girl.” The words are heavy on his tongue, but he wills his eyes flat and pulls his lips into a sneer. Shaking his sculpted, royal head, he sends the tangled, heavy matt of his forelock flying—his ears flattening slightly. Another step backward and Makai can feel the muscles of his haunches roping in anticipating of the flee; but not yet, not yet. He needed to sell this—and he could. “Do you know where I was?” his voice is softer now and it takes everything within him to not crack. His neck snakes forward lightly and there is malice in the way that the corners of his mouth begin to curl, “Of course you don’t.” A soft laugh. “She was beautiful though—and she says the same thing about our children. ‘Looks so much like you.’” He hates himself more viciously than he knew possible, the idea of touching another curdling in his stomach, but he knew this was the only way. She deserved better. She deserved a life and not waiting for him to die and then bring himself back to life; she deserved to not live through his tantrums and self-exile. She deserved someone sweet and stable and wonderful—not him. Not this poisonous love. There is doubt in her veins, and he intends to take advantage. He plants seeds desperately and plays the part. His smile is arrogant and lazy and a perfect imitation of the father he hated—but it masked the pounding of his pulse in his head and the bile on the back of his tongue. “You should go see to the children, love,” he says softly and the word does not taste as sweet as it has before. “And pray that Striar only takes after me in looks.” M A K A I — vagabond son of atrox and twinge always weigh what I've lost against what I left so progress report: I am missing you to death |