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#doe still that muse who makes me re-check someone's rules for triggers to tag
mythvoiced · 1 year
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@astremourante​ | ' you want to cut yourself on me, don't you? you want to rip yourself open on every sharp edge i have.' for doe :)
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Reason number one why Doe is to be greeted by all and approached by none:
The last thing he wants is for you to think he’s alive.
Reason number two why Doe is to be greeted by all and approached by none:
He’s the guttural cry of a primordial beast maimed to near-death by a dozen deities and then left to rot, eternally healing and breaking, healing and breaking, healing and breaking, a tangle of bones and meat screeching to the heavens like Prometheus’ liver.
Amelia is walking a fine line here, one Doe takes the liberty of pointing at by slamming his champagne glass down on the ground.
Then stepping on it, for good measure.
It’s supposed to be a party for anyone but him. He’s just there because people apparently want him to be. He cares for the people who help him and the organisation he helped creating to the same lengths he cares about the people who are like he used to be - though he loathes his past versions of himself. He doesn’t care to have their care or their anything.
He shows up to be nice, to not appear arrogant.
Having Amelia there is kind of a formality too, really.
She should have fucking left already.
Part of him pretends to be foreign to the reasons she could potentially be haunting him for. Maybe it’s something about the glint in her eyes, something about the way she smiles, the way she’s always there, too far and too close, as if hoping, desperately for some type of bloodshed that could make this all infinitely worse, some type of divine punishment, some type of way to laugh through the blood staining her teeth.
Make it her own.
Every punch and kick can be hers if she earns it. And then what?
What’s the world got to hold against them?
The champagne glass is pathetically easy to shatter. Not quite a spray of water-like glass like a movie prop might create, one piece manages to fit just nicely into his palm when he picks it up.
He’s no assassin. He doesn’t have the training she possesses. If she wanted, she could easily overpower him. Part of him hopes she will. He doesn’t need her that close, if things would work out his way, she’d be at the other end of the room, neglecting his existence as he tried to neglect hers.
Alas.
But if she overpowered him, at least he could win. They could end the game in a step into violence rather than continued torture where he tried not to burst at the seams every time she showed, tried not to think about what lies beyond her invisible indent in the air of the rooms she stays in for a mere second only, even.
He extends the glass shard, slowly, transfixed by his own motions. Though there is still a good forearm of space between his hand and her face, it’s clear where he’s pointing it at.
His knuckles are paling and his palm is starting to stain there where his dissociative carelessness had made the skin of his fingers slip against the glass - suspiciously with enough force to cut through.
With too much force.
It’s so thin.
Makes it sharper.
“I want you to disappear out of my fucking life,” there’s air stuck in his throat, he can push it out as he may, it still feels as though there’s too much there for him to be able to breath.
So he points the glass shard at it instead, the edge a finger’s length away from his skin.
“But sure, let’s say I do. If it makes you so fucking happy to be right,” a lazy smile spreads across his lips, like a cat stretching in the sun, sunbathing beneath the mad glow in his eyes. “Go ahead and do your worst, Amelia. Why should I do all the work.”
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