01-29-2020, 11:58 AM
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
Slipping.
The sense of it rises and ebbs like the tide. There are moments of clarity, but more often of obscurity – fleeting realization.
Awaken, the voice hisses each dawn. Hunt. Soar. It isn’t breeding season otherwise his thoughts would teem with the need to procreate.
His consciousness – the true Castile – is tethered while predatory instincts crawl over him like an army of fire ants, biting him and awakening what terror has always lied beneath his surface. It has always been suppressed, even if the world thought himself volatile and dangerous then. It was nothing compared to what looms like a storm overhead.
But not even he realizes the perilous situation he thrusted himself into when he confronted the faerie. For now, Castile embraces the power thrumming in his veins and takes hardly any notice to how his routine has changed or how his thoughts skew and race down darker corridors. Somehow, he doesn’t even consider how he so easily finds Sochi whilst his stomach groans for more or why there’s an urge to hunt when he glimpses her tigress body.
It’s what we used to do together… hunt.
(…)
It doesn’t respond, that malicious voice, because it knows the origins and the reasons for this change. It slips to the back, smug, waiting for this darkness to entirely swallow its host.
”Always,” his lips pull back in a toothy grin as Sochi comments the dramatics whilst her own body shifts. Castile watches her, recalls each night they curled into one another, how perfectly they fit against each other. Glancing back at his own immense size, he reminds himself what events have transpired and why Sochi has not returned to him since that fateful day. It hurts and his skin is frigid where she once folded into him, but rather than beg forgiveness or apologize, the heat rises inside him. She did not come home to be with him, to mend things.
Her words are salt in his wounds, reminders of his impulsiveness.
The muscles in his jaws clench.
(Break her)
(Rip her)
Yet only his wings twitch in reaction to her, his reptilian face impassive while restraining himself from lunging forward and erasing her from memory.
Why is that even crossing my mind?
(…)
Rocking his weight back, Castile sits and arches his neck. He stares down at Sochi as he wars with himself. ”Congratulations on your find,” sharply edged, clipped, ”let’s hope she doesn’t lose track of the child like you did.” Nikolaus, he remembers, but that was resolved so long ago, and yet the quip billows from him like the black smoke as though it happened only yesterday. That isn’t what he wanted to say, and yet the rage builds inside him and refuses to reveal even an ounce of kindness or understanding. Inwardly, he wants to apologize, and the softness glimmers in his eyes for a single heartbeat, but then the ropes and chains of his counterpart pull him back into the abyss.
”You left,” he knows why and yet the tone is accusatory and angry, unrestrained, ”Where have you been?” Possessive. Territorial. Volatile. The pieces are fitting together, obscuring the one thing that Castile embraces in his other form: empathy.
The sense of it rises and ebbs like the tide. There are moments of clarity, but more often of obscurity – fleeting realization.
Awaken, the voice hisses each dawn. Hunt. Soar. It isn’t breeding season otherwise his thoughts would teem with the need to procreate.
His consciousness – the true Castile – is tethered while predatory instincts crawl over him like an army of fire ants, biting him and awakening what terror has always lied beneath his surface. It has always been suppressed, even if the world thought himself volatile and dangerous then. It was nothing compared to what looms like a storm overhead.
But not even he realizes the perilous situation he thrusted himself into when he confronted the faerie. For now, Castile embraces the power thrumming in his veins and takes hardly any notice to how his routine has changed or how his thoughts skew and race down darker corridors. Somehow, he doesn’t even consider how he so easily finds Sochi whilst his stomach groans for more or why there’s an urge to hunt when he glimpses her tigress body.
It’s what we used to do together… hunt.
(…)
It doesn’t respond, that malicious voice, because it knows the origins and the reasons for this change. It slips to the back, smug, waiting for this darkness to entirely swallow its host.
”Always,” his lips pull back in a toothy grin as Sochi comments the dramatics whilst her own body shifts. Castile watches her, recalls each night they curled into one another, how perfectly they fit against each other. Glancing back at his own immense size, he reminds himself what events have transpired and why Sochi has not returned to him since that fateful day. It hurts and his skin is frigid where she once folded into him, but rather than beg forgiveness or apologize, the heat rises inside him. She did not come home to be with him, to mend things.
Her words are salt in his wounds, reminders of his impulsiveness.
The muscles in his jaws clench.
(Break her)
(Rip her)
Yet only his wings twitch in reaction to her, his reptilian face impassive while restraining himself from lunging forward and erasing her from memory.
Why is that even crossing my mind?
(…)
Rocking his weight back, Castile sits and arches his neck. He stares down at Sochi as he wars with himself. ”Congratulations on your find,” sharply edged, clipped, ”let’s hope she doesn’t lose track of the child like you did.” Nikolaus, he remembers, but that was resolved so long ago, and yet the quip billows from him like the black smoke as though it happened only yesterday. That isn’t what he wanted to say, and yet the rage builds inside him and refuses to reveal even an ounce of kindness or understanding. Inwardly, he wants to apologize, and the softness glimmers in his eyes for a single heartbeat, but then the ropes and chains of his counterpart pull him back into the abyss.
”You left,” he knows why and yet the tone is accusatory and angry, unrestrained, ”Where have you been?” Possessive. Territorial. Volatile. The pieces are fitting together, obscuring the one thing that Castile embraces in his other form: empathy.
castile
@[sochi]