Caelan can’t help it. Can’t help the sharp, toothed thing bubbling out of their throat like gurgling blood. Not quite a laugh no, not with that grit to it, that sudden undertone of another thing’s interest, clawing at the cage so hard the hinges keep shaking loose.
“Humans have never fucking liked things like us,” they say, a bite to their words (but with no heat, like it’s just a fact. A guarantee). “Doesn’t take something greater than - what was it – a horror movie monster hack to get their blood rushing cold.”
And, yeah, maybe that stings a little. That the fucking Song was compared to some b-movie haha let’s laugh about it shit. That – compared to the source of all this weight hanging heavy in the air, they’re just... what. A rabbit? Something to be scared and chased and made to piss themselves? Something that can’t fucking kill a thing that just fucking sits there and waits?
Shit - they can feel more teeth forming in their mouth, that familiar uncomfortable stretch of it, the Song just grazing against their senses enough to pinch at their muscles. Can’t even feel irritation without the force that’s apparently lesser rearing its ugly head.
Fuck whatever it is that Hugh said, they hold onto the next hot pipe long enough to melt their fingers off.
(And come away from it with a beating, steady pulse instead of a wilder thing meant for a crowd.
They don’t apologize for the burning smell. Don’t apologize for doing what they have to to keep themselves together.)
When the fingers finally reform (blooming, bloodied meat, followed by too-tight skin), they flex their hand. Shove it into their pocket. Don’t bother making eye contact (if you’ve seen one man squeamish, you’ve seen them fucking all) as the worry-squirm smell hits their nose.
“M’fine, Cas.” He knows they’ve had worse. Will have worse still. “Just thinking about if this thing tastes like chicken is all.”
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Caelan can’t help it. Can’t help the sharp, toothed thing bubbling out of their throat like gurgling blood. Not quite a laugh no, not with that grit to it, that sudden undertone of another thing’s interest, clawing at the cage so hard the hinges keep shaking loose.
“Humans have never fucking liked things like us,” they say, a bite to their words (but with no heat, like it’s just a fact. A guarantee). “Doesn’t take something greater than - what was it – a horror movie monster hack to get their blood rushing cold.”
And, yeah, maybe that stings a little. That the fucking Song was compared to some b-movie haha let’s laugh about it shit. That – compared to the source of all this weight hanging heavy in the air, they’re just... what. A rabbit? Something to be scared and chased and made to piss themselves? Something that can’t fucking kill a thing that just fucking sits there and waits?
Shit - they can feel more teeth forming in their mouth, that familiar uncomfortable stretch of it, the Song just grazing against their senses enough to pinch at their muscles. Can’t even feel irritation without the force that’s apparently lesser rearing its ugly head.
Fuck whatever it is that Hugh said, they hold onto the next hot pipe long enough to melt their fingers off.
(And come away from it with a beating, steady pulse instead of a wilder thing meant for a crowd.
They don’t apologize for the burning smell. Don’t apologize for doing what they have to to keep themselves together.)
When the fingers finally reform (blooming, bloodied meat, followed by too-tight skin), they flex their hand. Shove it into their pocket. Don’t bother making eye contact (if you’ve seen one man squeamish, you’ve seen them fucking all) as the worry-squirm smell hits their nose.
“M’fine, Cas.” He knows they’ve had worse. Will have worse still. “Just thinking about if this thing tastes like chicken is all.”
(It sounds like a lie, even to them.)