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
It’s near impossible composing himself; it always has been a struggle. The fire inside him is volatile, set ablaze by plans gone awry. Sochi’s emotional distance is enough of a trigger, but he inwardly battles himself from the havoc of which he is well capable. She has always been safe from him, from his wrath. Has she ever seen him in his other body where his instincts are primal and his hunger fierce? Has she ever seen him lose control?
Castile’s brow furrows and his eyes smolder.
Successfully – rudely – he provokes her, extracting emotion from her knowing well that she is hardly threatened. ”Good,” he snips, ”then why ask if I was with anyone?” He pauses, clenching his jaws as the words spill, an undammed body of water. Black smoke billows from his nostrils. ”Don’t answer that.” It was more or less rhetorical, and yet he still adds to that, as though afraid to hear her answer.
(Nothing can stop us)
(Destroy everything – anyone – in our way)
It speaks to him, that primal hiss in his mind, but rather than act on it, Castile’s muscles flinch with the struggling effort. If there is one woman that he wants to preserve from his blinded fury, it’s Sochi. Slowly, thoughtfully, Castile slides his tongue across his teeth, quietly confirming their bluntness before casting his eyes back to her and reading the deepened lines of her face. ”Then why—“ he nearly asks for reasons to her space, almost presses her for the details he has assumed correctly since the beginning, almost.
She is not threatened, but he can attest their possessive nature. Underneath the rippling of her anger, her ferocity could nearly be mistaken for that of a dragon. Their eyes flash similarly, their snarls meeting each other.
he creature inside him rattles the bars of its cage, screaming for release, and yet Castile begins to melt in front of her, just slightly. Slowly, tension dissipates from his body, but there remains his hooded expression combating hers. I’m certainly not giving up, she jadedly says, suppressing her anger enough to still speak. ”Don’t ever give up on me,” he strains through his teeth, the ridges of his face still sharp, ”On us.” The others had, except for one, but they were fire and gasoline together – they needed to end. But this? Them? As angry and frustrated as he outwardly is, Castile’s heart gropes for the relationship they’ve forged, the memories they’ve created. He wants to keep it, to cherish it, but he has admittedly made a mistake. Only one, he tells himself as though it doesn’t matter. ”Ever.” He adds, rolling his shoulders as he watches her lips.
When she says pieces, he thinks only of one thing. Suddenly, his body is lax and his head inclines slightly as though in confusion. ”My heart is entirely yours,” he pauses, unable to fathom an ability to roam that far from her embrace, ”It always has been.” It’s too late to apologize for gas lighting her and flipping it onto her. The threat of it chokes him, forming a lump in his throat as their eyes meet. Still, he does not confess that he is sorry, or even that Oceane may be expecting. He isn’t perfect; he never will be. Impulsive, brash, and primal – a recipe for frequent disasters. His life. So rather than fight her again or throw polished knives at her with his words, Castile falls quiet.
Castile’s brow furrows and his eyes smolder.
Successfully – rudely – he provokes her, extracting emotion from her knowing well that she is hardly threatened. ”Good,” he snips, ”then why ask if I was with anyone?” He pauses, clenching his jaws as the words spill, an undammed body of water. Black smoke billows from his nostrils. ”Don’t answer that.” It was more or less rhetorical, and yet he still adds to that, as though afraid to hear her answer.
(Nothing can stop us)
(Destroy everything – anyone – in our way)
It speaks to him, that primal hiss in his mind, but rather than act on it, Castile’s muscles flinch with the struggling effort. If there is one woman that he wants to preserve from his blinded fury, it’s Sochi. Slowly, thoughtfully, Castile slides his tongue across his teeth, quietly confirming their bluntness before casting his eyes back to her and reading the deepened lines of her face. ”Then why—“ he nearly asks for reasons to her space, almost presses her for the details he has assumed correctly since the beginning, almost.
She is not threatened, but he can attest their possessive nature. Underneath the rippling of her anger, her ferocity could nearly be mistaken for that of a dragon. Their eyes flash similarly, their snarls meeting each other.
he creature inside him rattles the bars of its cage, screaming for release, and yet Castile begins to melt in front of her, just slightly. Slowly, tension dissipates from his body, but there remains his hooded expression combating hers. I’m certainly not giving up, she jadedly says, suppressing her anger enough to still speak. ”Don’t ever give up on me,” he strains through his teeth, the ridges of his face still sharp, ”On us.” The others had, except for one, but they were fire and gasoline together – they needed to end. But this? Them? As angry and frustrated as he outwardly is, Castile’s heart gropes for the relationship they’ve forged, the memories they’ve created. He wants to keep it, to cherish it, but he has admittedly made a mistake. Only one, he tells himself as though it doesn’t matter. ”Ever.” He adds, rolling his shoulders as he watches her lips.
When she says pieces, he thinks only of one thing. Suddenly, his body is lax and his head inclines slightly as though in confusion. ”My heart is entirely yours,” he pauses, unable to fathom an ability to roam that far from her embrace, ”It always has been.” It’s too late to apologize for gas lighting her and flipping it onto her. The threat of it chokes him, forming a lump in his throat as their eyes meet. Still, he does not confess that he is sorry, or even that Oceane may be expecting. He isn’t perfect; he never will be. Impulsive, brash, and primal – a recipe for frequent disasters. His life. So rather than fight her again or throw polished knives at her with his words, Castile falls quiet.
castile
@[sochi]