impatience and a painted bust, i kept you close to me, close to my ear

“I’m fucking leaving.” He said, his chin tilted back.

He watched.

He stared.

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 He did appreciate the consideration of a gruff goodbye.

 Madmortigan rose, stopping with a foot between them, the length of that fox’s spine.

 “I want you to stay.”

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”I don’t give a shit.”

If he really wanted him to fucking stay, he would’ve fucking chosen him over a litter of useless fucking fox kits.

He wouldn’t have fucking strung him along for fucking months.

---

He could have just said he wasn’t fucking interested in the first place.

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 Madmortigan looked at him sadly. “Are you going to make an old man beg?”

 The Harbinger pressed, daring to close the distance, to run his tongue along felt-tipped ears. “Please. I made a mistake.”

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“Fuck you.” He snarled. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

He didn’t fucking get to fucking touching him after the shit he had fucking pulled.

He didn’t fucking deserve to breathe the same fucking air as him after the shit he had fucking pulled.

“Get on your fucking back and fucking beg for me to not go and tell everyone about what a sad, disgusting, pathetic, fucking freak you really fucking are.”

He breathed.

“I’m not fucking stupid.”

He wasn’t.

He really, really fucking wasn’t.

He was just desperate and foolish enough to believe the old man might have really fucking liked him back.

“You did that shit on fucking purpose. You knew where that fucking fox den was. You knew what the fuck you were fucking doing.” He had fucking planned that. He had fucking planned all of it, didn’t he? That entire fucking night. He would kill a den of baby foxes and he was supposed to hurry up and fucking trip over himself to get his fucking dick up his ass.

“You don’t decapitate and rip out a fucking fox’s spine by fucking mistake.” He accused.

“You fucking liked that.” He continued. “You fucking liked ripping out that fucking fox’s spine. Being on top of me wasn't fucking enough for you. You thought I would fucking like it, too.”

What else had he fucking killed?

“You’re fucking sick.”

Who else had he fucking killed?

“You’re fucking insane.”

He stared at him.

“Hurry up and fucking kill yourself.”

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 He drank the vitriol spewed slick and black like bitter honey.

 “You misunderstand.” The Harbinger began, violet eyes alighting on tawny shoulders he still wanted to touch, to drape himself across like the blanket they both needed. “My mistake was thinking you were ready.”

 Daighre asked him to kill himself. Madmortigan smiled against the blasphemy, showing all his teeth. “No wolf will die at my hand. Myself included. That you wish to ignore your own divinity in favor of vile, unworthy beasts is a burden I can erase if you let me.”

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“Fuck off with your stupid fucking pretentious fucking bullshit!” He snarled.

He wasn’t fucking stupid.

He wasn’t fucking crazy.

He didn’t fucking misunderstand fucking shit.

He was fucking sick and fucking tired of everyone trying to fucking convince him that his entire existence was fucking wrong. He was fucking sick and fucking tired of everyone telling him what to fucking do and it never being fucking enough no matter how fucking hard he fucking tried to fit into the shitty fucking mold they fucking made for him.

He was fucking sick and fucking tired of every single one of his fucking boundaries being pushed over and ignored because everyone fucking thought they were so much smarter and so much fucking better than him.

He wasn’t a fucking puppy.

He was a grown-ass fucking adult.

And if his existence was so fucking divine, he fucking hoped the old man thought his suicide was the definition and an act of God itself and he fucking followed suite.

“I hope you get fucking rabies from the next stupid fucking thing you fucking kill just to get your fucking dick hard or whatever the fuck you think your stupid fucking divine fucking duty is. I hope you kill your entire fucking shitty family and shitty fucking pack when it fucking happens.”

He was fucking done.

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

He turned.

And left.

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