TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
She’d been so eager earlier. Stalking him, muscles taut. Seamlessly rippling, supple, ready to be coiled and then RELEASED. He’d been convinced, maybe a little bit, that she might kill him. Might tear free his heart or devour his flesh. Drink his blood or rip him to pieces, do whatever the HUNGER within her was said to do. Not that he knew everything, no, but he’d heard enough tales in his travels to know, at the very least, what she was.
Some less accurate than others, sure, but no less entertaining. Michael wasn’t really a man of truth, seeing as he ran so vigorously from his OWN, preferred to lie to himself about how badly he wanted the numb to stop.
What was it like to feel? To care about the laughter that might spill from his lips, the tears that might touch his cheeks and dribble off his chin? To care about his fate, to feel as thoughnhe had a place in this world?
Once upon a time, in a fairytale with an ugly ending, he’d known.
Not anymore.
She crouched before him. Close enough that she filled most of his vision. Her form frail, he could note bone protruding beneath clothes. The slow sway of her tail, the scent of blood. Scabbing over skin, knew weakness when he saw it. Not because he felt it himself but because it was a matter of living for longer than a few hours out there in the wilds.
Their eyes met again, and his gaze, this time, didn’t sway from hers. Held there stubbornly, edges crinkling in a narrowed stare.
“I don’t know.” Not a lie, shockingly. “They were farmers?” Dehydrated lips tilted into a frown, gruff bristle over jaw and cheek shifting with the motion. He smelled of sweat and trail mix, of dried meat and blood. “I don’t know why anyone would bother to help me. Did they bring you here, too?”
Sudden interest. It would be easier to simply not care, but paranoia demanded that he ask questions. And a sliver of hope that somebody out there might give a shit about him more than he did. “You look like you were slapped around and fucked up a lot longer than me. They don’t feed you around here?”
The thought of food ignited the question. His stomach rumbled, an aching reminder of how long it had been since he’d last had a meal.
"Or..." His head canted to one side. A small, tired smirk. "Am I the meal?"
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
no
sport
sport
She’d been so eager earlier. Stalking him, muscles taut. Seamlessly rippling, supple, ready to be coiled and then RELEASED. He’d been convinced, maybe a little bit, that she might kill him. Might tear free his heart or devour his flesh. Drink his blood or rip him to pieces, do whatever the HUNGER within her was said to do. Not that he knew everything, no, but he’d heard enough tales in his travels to know, at the very least, what she was.
Some less accurate than others, sure, but no less entertaining. Michael wasn’t really a man of truth, seeing as he ran so vigorously from his OWN, preferred to lie to himself about how badly he wanted the numb to stop.
What was it like to feel? To care about the laughter that might spill from his lips, the tears that might touch his cheeks and dribble off his chin? To care about his fate, to feel as thoughnhe had a place in this world?
Once upon a time, in a fairytale with an ugly ending, he’d known.
Not anymore.
She crouched before him. Close enough that she filled most of his vision. Her form frail, he could note bone protruding beneath clothes. The slow sway of her tail, the scent of blood. Scabbing over skin, knew weakness when he saw it. Not because he felt it himself but because it was a matter of living for longer than a few hours out there in the wilds.
Their eyes met again, and his gaze, this time, didn’t sway from hers. Held there stubbornly, edges crinkling in a narrowed stare.
“I don’t know.” Not a lie, shockingly. “They were farmers?” Dehydrated lips tilted into a frown, gruff bristle over jaw and cheek shifting with the motion. He smelled of sweat and trail mix, of dried meat and blood. “I don’t know why anyone would bother to help me. Did they bring you here, too?”
Sudden interest. It would be easier to simply not care, but paranoia demanded that he ask questions. And a sliver of hope that somebody out there might give a shit about him more than he did. “You look like you were slapped around and fucked up a lot longer than me. They don’t feed you around here?”
The thought of food ignited the question. His stomach rumbled, an aching reminder of how long it had been since he’d last had a meal.
"Or..." His head canted to one side. A small, tired smirk. "Am I the meal?"
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
