#mammon.

nobody judge me for my crappy taste in fictional men.

mammon is a chill up her spine, they’re the sudden stiffness of her fingers, and the anticipation that beats against her lungs like a second heart. they’re a ghastly vision sewn into her mind with permanence, and no matter how hard she tugs, she can never unravel them from her thoughts.

it’s insidious. a yearning that carves her down like chisel to stone until she’s merely some thing.

with them, she feels much less real, and yet, in the same breath, entirely alive.

revna turns to them, expectations met as they beam at her and the pitiful flowers gathered in her arms. hell, she fits the part too, doesn’t she? revna is anything but docile, anything but obedient. she resists like she was born for war, as if she clawed out of her mother’s womb, greedy for a taste of the world, the sweet tang of the air. it doesn’t seem like they see that though. or they do and they disregard it.

it’s a feeling she despises.

behind them, the sun dips towards the ground. a hint of dusk spilling into the sky in shades of orange and yellow. the entire aesthetic is off.

“i’m surprised you would come to one of these events,” she mutters. she despises this too: being the first one to speak, words spilling from her mouth as if they’re desperate to be heard. it feels too much like yielding, but then again, many things with mammon make her feel small. as if she was in their submission long before she could claim a lick of independence.

“but maybe i shouldn’t be. funerals, i suppose, are befitting for a demon like you.”

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse.