Work Text:
maybe there were strings, when we first met, flimsy little things stretching from the roofs of your mouths and the tips of your fingers to the very core of me. singular things, fluttering where they sat, out in the open. prone to breaking, and only visible at the right angle. in the right light.
maybe, when we first spoke, the red of your blood seeped into what was once invisible, maybe there was the tiniest of tears, and then; blood on my hands. claws in my chest. the double-thumping of a terrified heart.
forgive me, then, if I wove something stronger. some grace, if you may, for the things i have spun from junk and dust and the sunlight caught on your skin. i cannot wait to take only what you give willingly.
if i do not reach inside of you, with both hands, with greedy mouth and greedier mind, the strings will break, and nothing good will ever come of that.
fate has nothing to do with it. aren't you mine? am I not yours? we are, the three of us, one thing, tangled and complementary, made of scrap bone and tender flesh.
like this, you cannot leave. you cannot go where i don't follow. you wouldn't dare.
you've been sharing your locations for months. it is necessary, and it is right. how else am I meant to find you?