ashanchiq
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Shadow Milk thought angels either lectured you to death or lopped your head clean off on the spot.
Pure Vanilla thought demons were rude, threw punches first, and hurled curses at every opportunity.
Both of them were right.
And, at the same time, deeply wrong. -
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He is light. Entire. I gaze, squinting, yet can't look away. I steal his warmth with a glance, for I can't yet beg it with hands. A fire burns in my belly; a weight presses my chest; a lump lodges my throat. I wish to squeeze him until the crunch, until the snap, until the very moment he ceases to breathe. To crumble him to the void. For this light does not belong to me. Yet I shall take it anyway. Even so.
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Shadow Milk is good at a lot of things: sarcasm, cracking jokes, pretending he couldn't care less. But there's one skill he just can't seem to master - telling the truth about how he feels. Flowers? No reason. Cookies? They were just there. A kiss? His aim was off. He's been brushing it off for so long, he's almost convinced himself it means nothing. But this Friday, he's done lying. Because lying to someone who sees right through you is a losing game.