SHREDS OF A frown fray to his cheeks. bitter, brushed with watercolor bruises. his jaw DIGS, grinding like a pestle over his molars.
responsibility ( or is it GUILT ? ) pools, lactic, in the bottom rungs of his shoulders a weight that will never fit quite right between them. fatigue ropes around his muscles, heavy. he drops an arching brow that snaps his impulse & before he can STOP IT, ❛ okay. it’s wrong to say. but I can’t wait to kill zarkon. ❜
@valorcode ( ♥‘d )












