Work Text:
Twotime was an interesting person to say the least. They trembled like a small animal, with a gaze that almost glowed in photos you attempted to take. Not to mention said eyes were always fogged, clouded over, like they weren’t quite there. A paleness like the blind. How they’d be clutching a dagger like strangling someone’s throat, a quiet demeanor that you often found made you nervous to ask any questions. A blade would make anyone anxious.
Their mind was a labyrinth, you’d found. Trying to understand them was making constant turns, pacing, trying to find the center of the maze. Their speech needed to be deciphered like codes and inscriptions, garbled and caked in words that were coddled in religious terminology. Too eloquent for you. You may as well have kept a Rosetta Stone in your pocket, to constantly refer to, to try and grapple for some semblance of understanding.
Well, despite your…clear differences, the cultist had taken a liking to you. It was becoming an ordinary occurrence to listen to whispered prayers beside your ears each time cold, partially gloved hands tried to hold yours. The circle with points traced lightly into your palm with careful hands. The glint in their glassy eyes and a slim half-smile when you would tuck greasy, pale, speckled strands of hair that smelled like rust and pennies out of their face. The way their eyes squinted ever so slightly as a display of contentment. Long, sleepless nights spent in bed, the two of you hardly in close enough vicinity to touch; the room so warm with lit candles: red, black, white, purple. Smelling the gentle burn of the flames blowing out, the smoke lazily drifting into the air, filling your nose before your eyes shut and you began dreaming. In the mornings, kisses that seemed to linger a second too long as they trailed from the tips of your fingers to the crease of your elbow, hushed sweet nothings and gentle blows against your skin.
The sharp sounds of the letter “s”.
Was it gratitude? Compliments, calling you “so…so…so?” Admiration, not to you, but to The Spawn? Something, anything in between?
You couldn’t deny you enjoyed feeling so silently worshipped, a sickening sweetness that made your sternum and the soft flesh inside swell. Never had someone made you believe so vividly that you were a vision of the divine—an angel sent to grace them with beauty and gentleness. Not like Twotime had. How lovely it was to play the role, letting the cultist guide you onto plush surfaces, press love to your palms, your wrists, your throat. Whispers of gratitude thanking you for letting them. Telling you how beautiful you were. Murmuring about how holy this was. A priest before their altar.
It could have been considered heresy.