written for 'the bunker: forge" over on querencia.

prompt:

Imperial Gold: write about Octavian's obsession with something

wc: 347

a/n: i got really lazy and i didn't want to use prose and type out a large bit of what would probably be crap so — here you go, equally crappy but less wordy poetry. then i realized i had to meet the wc so i added a small snippet of vague prose at the bottom.

i feel like octavian obsessing over a lady isn't too hard to believe, and i feel like he'd do it in a toxic, misogynistic way, that's my personal interpretation of this so — possible harassment tw.

. . .

when i feel

i feel good.

please don't reel

away; i know you would.

. . .

my darling little flower

don't you dare glower

it ruins the way i find

you in the eye of my mind.

. . .

smile,

cry,

style,

die.

. . .

and sometimes

i think

of dropping crimes

in your drink.

. . .

[it's not bad if it feels good, isn't it?]

. . .

because, my darling,

there is a monster

under my hide, daring

to get you if it has to be a trickster

. . .

i will stop at nothing

to find you

and until i have everything

there isn't anything i won't do.

. . .

admit

to it once.

you like me a little bit,

and, you know, i'm not a dunce.

. . .

[it's there, the love. you love me. i know.]

. . .

just look

into my eyes

and you'll find an arm hooked

on you, despite your cries.

. . .

i am that kind of man

the one who knows

when he dreams, he can

have anything. all it takes is a dose.

. . .

[my monster calls me and tells me about you.]

. . .

try,

fail,

sly,

prevail.

. . .

Octavian looks around until he finds her, and with all the memorizing and visualizing of her he does in his mind, it's not hard. He has already taken to heart every single feature and every single flaw and each line and each curve and each freckle. Octavian is obsessed, and he likes it, because he is freely a monster, and he likes it.

And he finds her hair in the crowd; its signature style, done up in a severe-looking bun, and that's the kind of charming thing about her: she looks austere, yet her heart is anything but. Octavian watches, but he will not wait, because he's waited for her long enough and there is his monster calling, calling, calling, saying Take what you want and telling him to Claim what is yours.

So that is what he does: he brandishes the little concoction he has and he walks over to the object of his obsessions and he talks — and he pours — until there is nothing left to say.