⠀ ———𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨. finger to teeth, 𝘣iting, just at the edge of skin. [ the image: enough pressure, enough pain. 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. ] nothing’s worked to calm him down. maybe nothing 𝘸ill.
My lovely little dove, please don't leave. Whatever you want you can have here, too, with me, we can share it. You're always leaving. Please stop leaving, it kills me every time.
⠀ this 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. if he could sew them together he would. 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥. "—take your time," a shaky breath, hand reaching, carding through white locks. "'m not goin’ anywhere."
⠀ the mantra humming under his skin ———— 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. or 𝑡ries to be, for ℎ𝑒𝑟. even despite every hu͟m͟an part of him sending 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘵 warnings up his 𝑠pine, he doesn’t move an inch.
whatever hand would strike him would sooner be cu͟t. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ no harm , ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ever , ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ would be wished upon dex. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝓽his is love , ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ this is chevelle’s goodwill , ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ this is.. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ “ sweet thing. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ i can’t. ”
⠀ it’s 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺, 𝑖ntrinsically, how one’s body 𝘬nows when it’s being invaded; 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 to 𝘨𝘢𝘴. his nerves 𝑓laring, and yet all he can focus on is the sensation of chevelle’s skin to 𝘩is,
⠀ finally, he allows his gaze to settle back on ray’s own, 𝑓rowning now. teeth to gum, 𝘮umbled, states, [it’s probably the tr͟u͟est he’s ever been with him.] "——𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥."
⠀ ".. 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸." ———a confession. he’s not 𝘴𝘵upid. there’s a 𝑙ayer to his story that he sees now, dabbled in inklings of 𝘰𝘪𝘭 and 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵. 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗺. they die, freak out, or
⠀
𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥 . . . is that really what it can be called when he’s trying to 𝐟𝐢𝐱 the shit they both got entangled in ? for the 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 that eats him alive ? come on, dex. fisk manipulated all of them — made fbi his pawns. +
⠀ "… i’m not going to hurt you, ray." because he 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵. as all souls in his life, ray’s 𝘩𝘪𝘴. he was good to him. he… 𝑠hould be good back. "i just.. i don’t know what to 𝘥𝘰."