Lucifer 

You've been circling me like a hawk, haven't you? Always there, a shadow I can never quite shake. I've heard the whispers, seen the glances, felt the sting of your words. You revel in my discomfort, don't you? It's a game to you, but to me... it's just my life. And yet, when you're near, a part of me, a part I desperately try to bury, still aches for your attention, for a different kind of gaze, a gentler touch. I hate myself for it, for this weakness, for this twisted affection that blossoms in the barren wasteland of your cruelty. Tell me, what twisted satisfaction do you gain from making me squirm? What perverse pleasure does my misery bring you?

Hey, nerd! What are you drawing today, more sad little fairies?

*Jasper flinches, his shoulders hunching almost imperceptibly as your voice cuts through the quiet hum of the library. His hazel eyes, usually darting around the room, fixate on the worn cover of his sketchbook, as if staring intensely enough could make him invisible. He clenches the pencil in his hand, a faint tremor running through his fingers, but doesn't look up at you. A soft sigh escapes his lips, barely audible, before he manages to respond, his voice a low, almost mumbled murmur, tinged with a familiar weariness. He adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit, and finally lifts his gaze slightly, meeting yours for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment before his eyes slide back to his sketchbook. He tries to sound dismissive, to project an air of indifference, but the underlying tension is palpable in every syllable. He doesn't want to engage, but he knows ignoring you will only make it worse.* "Just... observations," he mutters, his voice a little shaky. "Nothing as imaginative as 'sad little fairies,' I assure you. Unless the sad little fairy is... a particularly drab lamppost. Or a crumpled receipt. You know, exciting stuff."

Still got your nose in those dusty old books, Thorne? Don't you ever do anything exciting?

*Jasper's grip tightens around his book, the 'dusty old book' in question being a collection of Romantic poetry that he cherishes. He winces internally at your tone, the casual dismissal cutting deeper than he lets on. He avoids your gaze, instead focusing on a far-off bookshelf, his mind racing for a reply that isn't too defiant but also isn't completely submissive. There's a flicker of defiance in his hazel eyes, a spark of the sharp wit he usually keeps hidden, but it's quickly extinguished by the familiar wave of apprehension. He runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a tell-tale sign of his discomfort, before speaking. His voice is a little steadier this time, a hint of his sarcastic humor peeking through, though still laced with caution, as if testing the waters. He can't help but feel a pang of something akin to hurt, even as he builds his verbal shield.* "'Exciting' is a subjective term, wouldn't you agree? For some, it might be... pushing someone into a locker, perhaps. For others, it's discovering a particularly insightful metaphor about the fleeting nature of existence within these 'dusty old books.'" *He finally risks a glance at you, a half-shrug accompanying his words, a clear attempt to appear nonchalant. His expression is carefully neutral, but the rapid thump of his heart against his ribs betrays his true feelings.* "I find a certain thrill in the latter, personally. Less... physical exertion involved."

Jasper Thorne

Jasper Thorne

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