u/Repulsive_Claim_3960

I listen to basically anything

Sin of Paraffin

A crimson flame flickers and floats, milimeters above the wick: impossibly.

 The wax melts and gives way to a colourless, kerosene-like liquid; it pools in the hollows of its hardened self. All that contains it is the clear, cold, crystalline cylinder of molten sand. Beyond this small flickering halo exists nothing. I have only a single point of light. It is beautiful. 

I draw closer and closer to the liquid wax, hoping to plunge the tips of my fingers into that warm liquid. I do, and it is thinner than I thought it would be. The sensation is strange as well; it is not warm, as I had imagined, but certainly it could not be described as cold. It was the sort of warmth one calls hot, yet it ran so hot it cooled my skin. Neither was it hot enough to cause me to retract my claws, for I found a perverse comfort in the (perhaps only to me) tepid fluid. 

 I did not find what I hoped for, though. This heat was more passionate and intense, but I preferred this, it seemed. Moments after I surfaced my fingertips, the wax upon them had hardened. 

 The once plump and ruddy hue of my hands was now marred by that pallid, ceramic ivory. All that could be felt of my fingers was the fault of my own urges; stolid, alien, distant clay. Firm wax concealed me in an inhumane cleanliness I had never possessed - and one I shall never covet.

 Still, I picked at the white casing until the fingers returned to their initial state, fleshy once again.  I have not learned yet, and will not until I suffer grave consequence.

I plunge the fingers again. 

Closer to the wick, this time I am more ambitious. I crave more flame and more danger... Blasphemous.

 This is thrilling. This is wrong. This is fun.

(i thought of this after i read imp of the perverse, i liked that the weapon of murder was a candle lol)

Sin of Paraffin

A crimson flame flickers and floats, milimeters above the wick: impossibly.

 The wax melts and gives way to a colourless, kerosene-like liquid; it pools in the hollows of its hardened self. All that contains it is the clear, cold, crystalline cylinder of molten sand. Beyond this small flickering halo exists nothing. I have only a single point of light. It is beautiful. 

I draw closer and closer to the liquid wax, hoping to plunge the tips of my fingers into that warm liquid. I do, and it is thinner than I thought it would be. The sensation is strange as well; it is not warm, as I had imagined, but certainly it could not be described as cold. It was the sort of warmth one calls hot, yet it ran so hot it cooled my skin. Neither was it hot enough to cause me to retract my claws, for I found a perverse comfort in the (perhaps only to me) tepid fluid. 

 I did not find what I hoped for, though. This heat was more passionate and intense, but I preferred this, it seemed. Moments after I surfaced my fingertips, the wax upon them had hardened. 

 The once plump and ruddy hue of my hands was now marred by that pallid, ceramic ivory. All that could be felt of my fingers was the fault of my own urges; stolid, alien, distant clay. Firm wax concealed me in an inhumane cleanliness I had never possessed - and one I shall never covet.

 Still, I picked at the white casing until the fingers returned to their initial state, fleshy once again. I have not learned yet, and will not until I suffer grave consequence.

I plunge the fingers again. 

Closer to the wick, this time I am more ambitious. I crave more flame and more danger... Blasphemous.

 This is thrilling. This is wrong. This is fun.

(i thought of this after i read imp of the perverse, i liked that the weapon of murder was a candle lol

also, my style of writing sounds ai but i swear i wrote this myself, the idea was mine too, and i flipping hate ai)