#he is in heaven feeding ducklings i don't care

[heinrichmey]

L has some new friends

[sunlessea]

“If rescuing you is a sin, I’ll gladly become a sinner.” // illran @ summer

interaction prompt / @galaxiasus.

everything about him is a sin. it's weaved into his very being, in the heart that lies dormant, unbeating in his chest : it does not stop with protecting a monster who feeds on the succor of other humans. he is an anomaly, something that should not exist. his head is so far into the clouds that he has lost him. born wrong, living wrong, he can't even die correctly. summer himself doesn't look down at it, of course, at the wound he holds pressure to against illran's chest, because he can feel his blood cascading over his own knuckles and it makes him want to vomit. but that's the last thing they need right now ... and he's not even sure if kindred can puke. but what a disgusting, malformed irony it must be, to claim willingness to sin at the knees of a demon, whilst the gods above likely watch in ire. he wants to tell him that he shouldn't say that, but who is he, madman, godless creature, to warn him of the heavens?

"you should care more for yourself." a stake through the heart would kill anyone, but especially a kindred. he'd taken it lower than, thankfully in part to their difference in height when he'd knock them away, but he'd rather him not taken it at all. his own trembling hands can only do so much and he knows, he knows that he will have to wash the wound, and bandage it, and gods forbid, stitch it. he is steadying himself, preparing for something that makes his chest ache, but more than his fear of blood, the fear someone would ever be willing to die for him. "i didn't want you to rescue me." his voice shakes, emotion leagues beyond even his own understanding buried in it. there are voices screaming at him, wishing death upon this man who would not let them die. it makes their head fuzzy, unclear, but they fight to hold his gaze, however shaky. "i wanted to die. i wanted that. i-"

didn't he?

"-i prayed to die." for all the good praying has ever done him, or them. they feel as if they are bristling, knocking against their own head, but it's just burning and pricking and tears. they're at their lashes, and they feel mad, madder than usual, like an absolute lunatic. they swallow, hard, and they know that dismissing his feelings does little to soothe his own. he is sorry, but he isn't. he is the sinner, and illran, by all accounts, so painfully human, and so painfully kind, is the saint. "don't dirty yourself for me! don't get hurt on my behalf! that's not what i— it's not what i want, duckling—"

the voices scream : they call him everything, a vile little girl, a desperate boy, a monster, selfish, but there is one that soothes him, calms his shaking hands, tells him to take a breath, to swallow his fear and look at the wound, to help him.

"you are human. you deserve more than the heartless cruelties the world of darkness, that monsters like me, offers. do not throw your soul away so easily!"