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joucearchived · 3 years

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The Hell In Your Eyes - 3

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of violence

Word Count: 4836

Previous Chapter

Loki is annoyed.

Loki has sat through thousands of years of political dinners, exchanging thinly veiled insults under a layer of diplomacy, all while smiling through his teeth. Loki has spewed sensical nonsense, charming naive, innocent maids and sweeping young stable boys off their feet. Loki has endured Odin’s wrath — in all its horrible glory — countless times, and never once had he shed a tear, nor had a single cry escaped his lips.

The whole of Asgard had coined him the Dark Prince — and who was Loki to disappoint?

He had long since learned people saw what they expected to see.

And so as the entire realm rejoiced in his demise, as Laufey left him to die, as Odin condemned him for eternity, as Thor abandoned him, as Frigga had sided with her husband again and again and again, Loki maintained his carefully constructed front.

Yet one encounter with a mortal, and he had unraveled at her feet.

If physically kneeling before the wretched creature wasn’t enough, he knew she had seen past his mask. By the time he had regained his composure, he was sure she had seen him.

It won’t happen again.

Loki is a god, and gods do not crack. Gods maintain their image, regardless of circumstance. Gods do not show weakness, do not show vulnerability.

This is a lesson Loki knows well, a lesson etched into his skin countless times by Odin’s hand.

And yet for each time Odin reinforced this lesson, the very same lesson was burned away by Thanos a thousand more.

Loki tried, he truly did. Loki maintained his godly facade for an impressive amount of time, resisting as his body was taken apart over and over and over again. Perhaps it wasn’t as long as he thought. Loki feels as if his entire life was spent doused in agony, spent with his flesh melting off and his bones withering away.

Ultimately, a god is no match for a Titan.

But a mortal is no match for a god.

And yet, Loki has found himself at her feet — at her mercy — twice.

Even after, Loki couldn’t bring himself to summon his cruel exterior. Perhaps it had to do with the way she had waltzed into his space, all soft and defenseless, carrying that deplorable drink as if it was the elixir of eternal life (unfortunately, it tasted just as divine). Perhaps it was his body, still sated and full for the first time in months, reminding him of the food — the debt — he owes. Perhaps it was the way she held out her arm towards him, even though he could see it shaking.

Whether it was any of these things or none at all, Loki’s cool mask of indifference was rendered utterly useless at her delicate, mortal hands.

Loki hates her.

His hatred fills every fiber of his being. It’s a scalding, fiery hatred, much unlike the frozen excuse of Loki’s heart. His frost giant heritage seems to reject her very being.

Loki hates her voice, hates her hands, hates her. He hates how she makes him falter when there is no place for mistakes.

Loki’s thoughts are interrupted by Thor, who enters Loki’s quarters without an ounce of hesitation — ever the righteous, confident, arrogant bastard.

Ah, but Loki almost forgot. Thor is not the bastard — Loki is. How despicable; for really, Loki can not even call himself a bastard. Yet, ‘the Bastard Son of Odin’ has a certain charm to it. Perhaps another false title for his collection.

“Loki!” Thor booms, “Here are your clothes that Lady Angel washed. You should be grateful brother, for she offered of her own volition — ”

Is it so surprising someone would offer to help Loki without external influence?

“ — to see and visit you! You are doing well. I am happy to see you are finally making an effort to get to know all of our friends — ”

Thor is happy? For Loki, or for himself? Why must Loki, even now, strive to prove himself to Thor? Why is Loki’s worth solely dependent on Thor’s judgement?

“ — and Lady Angel is absolutely wonderful. I am delighted to see you two getting along so well! I can’t believe you finally made a friend— ”

At this, Loki’s composure cracks for the second time that day.

“What am I? A pathetic child wandering aimlessly through a school corridor? A helpless hatchling at the mercy of others — groveling for the bare minimum? Who are you to congratulate me for ‘making a friend?’ She is not a friend ,” Loki spits out. He can feel his teeth grinding against each other, his fingernails once again digging into his palms. “She is nothing more than another worthless mortal, unworthy of even breathing the same air as I, and yet you suggest I be grateful?”

Thor advances on Loki, his eyes hardening. The atmosphere is tense; unlike the typical bickering between the brothers, Loki identifies something distinctly different in the way the air vibrates. The space between the two gods crackles. “Watch yourself brother —”

Brother. The word grates upon Loki’s nerves. How can Thor so carelessly throw the word around, even knowing of its false implications — implications and lies Loki foolishly believed.

Sometimes Loki wonders if Thor does it on purpose.

“Do you hear yourself Thor? Bending yourself over backwards to defend this wasted excuse of consciousness — you are the King of Asgard. What is she? She is nothing.”

And now Loki is no longer staring at his brother, but the ceiling of his prison. His back is slammed against Stark’s hardwood floors and there is sharp ringing in his ears, likely the result of the crack in the floor right behind where his head is currently embedded.

Loki almost laughs.

Truly, it is comical — comical that even now, Thor’s first instinct is to physically threaten Loki. As if Loki doesn’t almost enjoy it.

But Loki’s laugh catches in his throat, prevented from escaping by the large hand tightening around his airway.

Thor’s hand is around Loki’s neck — a mirror of His.

A thousand years Loki has known Thor. A thousand years of childish brawls, foolhardy battles, pointless arguments. How many times has Loki betrayed Thor? Thor betrayed Loki? And yet, Loki believed he knew his brother’s character.

A thousand years Loki has known Thor, but never once has he thought Thor to be cruel.

Oh how wrong he is.

Thor’s hands are gripping Loki’s neck and for the life of him Loki can’t breathe. He tries to draw air into his lungs — lungs that are screaming with a familiar ache — and fails. Phantom pains flicker across his entire body and somehow, in the second before his vision goes black, Loki manages to croak out a strangled wheeze of a laugh.

Loki is once again strapped upon a bed of coals, once again stabbed with blades of flame, once again torched with fire so hot he freezes. Loki remembers the only other time he begged — begged and pleaded for the sweet mercy of death, all while knowing death was a pleasure he was never to be granted.

Loki is once again kneeling — boneless — at the feet of a Titan, looking up into a face promising endless pain, a face painted with the patience of a thousand moons and splattered with the ruined blood of a Frost Giant.

Loki did not know that a Frost Giant’s blood could boil.

Ah, but the Mad Titan knew, and he ensured Loki would never forget.

Loki recalls the moment he let go — an eerie echo of his fall from grace, his fall from the Bifrost. And he remembers the horribly invasive power of the scepter, along with the blessed relief and utter disregard for self preservation that followed.

And it is this — the relief — that plagues Loki. He does not fool himself; Loki may be the God of Lies, but he has no reason to lie to himself . It is not the destruction of New York nor the deaths at his hand that weigh upon his shattered mind. No, it is the fact that Loki found solace in his actions.

Make no mistake — Loki does not rejoice in his crime, but nor could he say he regrets it.

For if Loki were given the choice, he could not — would not — choose to spare Midgard at the cost of his own sanity.

(But Loki was never given a choice.)

Alas, Loki is already insane.

The Mad Titan has taken so much from Loki.

Physically, Loki has long since disregarded his own body. He remembers the beginning of his torture, when he still held the title of 'Prince of Asgard,' when he spoke with arrogance and oozed of indignantion. Oh how naive he had been. When the first whips had landed across his skin, Loki's thoughts could never have anticipated what the coming months would entail. Loki did not once stop to consider how he would escape the clutches of his captor — oh the confidence he held! — but instead lamented the scars he would surely have to bear. Dimly, Loki recalls worrying over his marred skin, irritated at the blemishes he would surely have to cover when taking future lovers.

Loki scoffs.

Loki does not recognize the man who spent time thinking of lovers. Or of his physical appearance. Or of his interests. Or of any other insignificant pleasure that ultimately contributes to the annihilation of a soul.

(Even now, Loki carries with him an irrational fear of physical touch — a seed planted by the Mad Titan that Loki cannot gouge out, not even if he tore open his very being.)

In fact, Loki wondered if his corporeal form had even existed anymore. But most of all, more than the ruination of his physical form, Loki mourns the damnation of his mind.

Ultimately, the Mad Titan did triumph over Loki. For no matter how many times Loki escapes, fakes his death, runs away, he can never evade the visions that haunt his mind, the voices that infect his thoughts, the termites eating away at what remains of Loki’s sanity.

(If Loki were given a choice, he would have chosen death again and again and again.)

Alas, Loki was not — is not — given a choice, for suddenly he is not lying on a bed of coals, but on his apartment floor again. Thor has since removed his hand from Loki’s neck and Loki half wishes Thor just kept it there. Just kept on squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until Loki died on that bed of coals.

Loki wonders, if he were to die at Thor’s hand, would his brother feel remorse? Or perhaps, more realistically, relief?

Unfortunately, Loki is not dead, and Thor is gazing at him, concern evident in his gaze. As if Thor wasn’t the one who put Loki in this condition — wasn’t the one who greedily snatched all of Odin’s affection, wasn’t the one who pushed Loki out of favor, wasn’t the one who led his brainless minions in a brash suicide mission, as if Thor wasn’t the one who stared Loki in the eye as Loki let go into the abyss.

As if Thor wasn’t the first domino in a long ripple effect that eventually drowned Loki in his sins.

Thor was the smooth pebble that young children skipped over lakes, just barely skimming the surface of a tempting downfall — nevertheless gracefully leaping unscathed across the reflective waters. Yet Loki was the jagged, unskippable rock, destined to fall through the air and fall through the water with no hesitation. Loki has long since come to terms with this simple fact.

No longer does Loki resent his brother, for he understands: light can only shine in the presence of darkness. And if Loki is condemned to darkness — so be it.

Loki does not resent his brother, but oftentimes Loki despises his lightness . What some might say is endearing — the inability for Thor to give up — is just a burden. Even now, Thor still thinks he can change Loki, can fix him. Thor still thinks that by vouching for Loki and providing Loki a place to live and surrounding Loki with Thor’s friends that he can mend Loki’s broken soul and bring back the brother he once had. Thor is still in denial — he refuses to grasp the very simple concept that Thor’s brother — the Second Prince of Asgard, God of Lighthearted Mischief — is long dead. And so Thor continues to try. But light yelling into the darkness does not change it.

And even now, with Thor looming above Loki, Loki does not resent his brother.

But Loki resents Thor’s very being — the core of who Thor is. Thor is a duality; one of naivety and compassion, yet tainted — or perhaps embellished — with a smidge of cruelty and arrogance.

And as Thor is speaking to Loki, mouth forming words Loki is too tired to hear, Loki simply lies on the floor, limbs relaxed around him, throat sore, and does the only thing he can do when feeling so utterly empty.

Loki laughs.

______________________________

Midgard is rather charming in some regards.

Loki will eventually have to investigate the laundry process, for he has just now made the curious discovery that freshly dried clothes are warm . He suspects they were warmer right after they were dried, but he can still feel the presence of the heat, lingering within the very fabric of his garments. He wonders just how much they were heated up to — would it have burnt his frozen hands at the peak of its fiery glory?

No, Loki’s hands are too well accustomed to fire now.

But he doubts that her hands are. He envisions Angel pulling his clothes out of the dryer, her hands touching the same clothes that he has worn, that he will wear, that he is currently touching.

Yet is it entirely possible Loki is standing around, imagining a scene that never played out, for it was not Angel who brought Loki’s laundry back to him, but his dearest brother. Looking at his pile of clothes again, Loki takes in the telltale signs of Thor. The messily folded shirts stare back at Loki, mocking him.

He wonders if she ever even did any part of his laundry. Perhaps she only offered it as a way to ease the uncomfortable tension that had arisen earlier. Or rather, (and his stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought) she lugged his laundry basket downstairs and dumped it straight into Thor’s arms.

Why else would she refuse his help to accompany her?

A twinge of something rises up within Loki as he realizes she accepted Thor’s offer to bring his clothes back. Or, much more likely, she had pushed the task onto Thor in a desperate attempt to avoid encountering him again.

Not that Loki could blame her.

And yet the uncomfortable sensation within Loki only grows, and he realizes that he feels something akin to disappointment. Loki cannot allow himself to feel disappointment. He had long since learned not to expect anything from anyone — or perhaps, much more cynically, to only depend on — to trust — himself.

Trust, Loki knows, is a fickle concept the naive embrace. Trust itself is ill fated, the certainty of an inevitable betrayal the same as the certainty that one day everyone living on this cursed realm will perish.

Loki hates Angel. He hates how she pretends to care for him, hates how she imitates Thor, hates how she always finds a way to break him, and Loki hates how Angel makes him feel.

Loki's silent anger boils inside of him — like the steady countdown of a ticking bomb — manifesting itself out of him as the laundry basket is violently launched across the room.

He hates how he feels absolutely no satisfaction at the way the freshly clean clothes scatter across the floor, hates how he lost control, and hates how the damned mortal forces him to feel emotions he does not want to feel .

Sometimes all Loki can do is hate.

______________________________

The heat from the clothes have long since seeped into the floor.

The sun is just now setting, dousing Loki’s room in a fiery glow. Warm light spills across Loki’s bookshelves, his impeccably made bed, the clothes strewn around his floor. Loki sits on the ground, bare of his illusions, allowing himself to just be .

Staring across the room, he notices tendrils of light carefully curling around the air, miniscule particles of dust dancing in the golden glow. This is a gold Loki enjoys. Unlike the brash, loud character of Thor’s gold — of Asgard’s gold, this is a much softer, gentle color. The comforting hue reminds Loki of his mother, and against his will, he feels a wall of despair beginning to build within his chest.

For a second, Loki loses himself as the wall crashes over him. He drops his head, allowing his hair to dangle in front of his face, obscuring his view of the floating particles. He feels like a child — wants nothing more in this moment than to run to Frigga, for her floral scent to fill his senses as she envelopes him in her arms. What Loki wouldn’t give to have Frigga’s delicate fingers comb through his hair just once more, for her soft lips against his forehead, murmuring words of comfort.

But he can’t have that. Instead, here he is, sitting on the floor of a glorified prison in the midst of a community of people who hate him, with nothing but Thor to act as his buffer.

Looking up, Loki gazes at the honeyed light as it glides over a particular heap of clothing. He watches, mesmerized, as the light gently moves, unhurriedly bathing each corner of the fabric in its rich glow.

If he were still on Asgard, Loki would most likely have been reading, thoroughly immersed in some story or another. The sun would have showered his pages in its quiet glow, lighting the words aflame. He would have taken a stroll in his mother’s gardens, breathing in the sweet scent of her flowers as he sat in his favorite hidden alcove. He would have taken out his book and continued to read, read until the golden hue of the sun was replaced by the tender shine of the moon. Only then would Loki return, serenely walking back to his chambers, stopping only to retrieve a cup of tea, and resume his reading on his balcony.

Loki wants that.

Loki wants an afternoon to himself, with no worries plaguing his mind.

Loki wants to be able to read, and to do so in an environment which permits him to let his guard down.

Loki wants to sit outside, surrounded by flowers, and watch as the sun transitions into the moon.

Loki wants to indulge in a hot cup of tea as he watches the moonlight spills across the pages of his book.

Loki wants so many things — and he can’t have any of them.

Standing up, Loki decides he has spent enough time reminiscing over what he cannot have today. He feels sticky and hot and cold and hungry and all he wants right now , is a long shower.

And so Loki walks over to the same pile of clothes, now dull and abandoned by the sun, gazing disapprovingly downwards. Thor is truly an imbecile, for he has not even managed to separate their clothes correctly. Loki is currently staring at a dark green sweatshirt, one he knows for a fact he has never seen before. Tiredly, he tosses it upon his bed and scoops up a clean change of clothes, then turns around and trodds slowly into the bathroom.

______________________________

Water droplets rain all around Loki, swiftly sliding down his body.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy showering — it reminds him too much of another substance: denser, stickier, and much more red, trickling down his skin. Loki much prefers baths. Baths, however, render their subject very much vulnerable, and Loki does not fancy risking any more vulnerability than strictly necessary.

So Loki is standing in the shower, unabashedly soaking up the shallow warmth the water provides. Surely if Thor could see him, his brother would lecture Loki on wasting Midgard’s precious resources. But, Loki reasons, if Stark truly possesses the excess of wealth he boasts of, Loki’s water usage will not be of much concern to the man. And so this is a luxury Loki will grant himself.

The shower is one place where Loki feels the safest, where he allows his thoughts to wander and drift into otherwise forbidden territories. Today especially has been challenging, and even his muscles seem to ache, the fibers pulling away from each other, trying to rip Loki apart from the inside out. His mind is exhausted, filled with swirling thoughts of Frigga and Angel and Thor, with the occasional Odin and Titan intruding whenever a particular body part cries out.

And as Loki gazes down at his body, the disfigured canvas of scars stare back at him and he attempts to soothe away the countless aches. No matter how much time has passed and how much magic Loki pours into himself, the pains never seem to retreat. Rationally, Loki knows it doesn’t make sense. He knows his magic is fully capable of healing himself, knows that by all accounts he is healed.

But Loki also knows he does not imagine the sharp pains coursing through his veins.

He is fighting himself — the part of himself that does not want the pain to stop. Because all Loki knows is pain, and he fears the absence of pain almost as much as he dreads its glorious presence.

Loki raises his head, allowing for the stream of water to bruise his face. And if Loki’s closed eyes leak the occasional tear, no one would know.

______________________________

Loki’s self destructive spiraling is abruptly cut short by three succinct knocks from his bedroom door. Still soaking in the shower, Loki debates whether or not to answer; after all, he truly has no desire to see his brother again today. Or preferably, ever again. Unfortunately, Loki is all too aware that if he does not answer the door to let Thor in, Thor will simply let himself in. And if there’s anything worse than seeing Thor, it will be seeing a displeased Thor while Loki stands nude and wet.

Reluctantly, Loki turns off his shower, changes into his freshly washed ‘sweatpants’, and leisurely walks towards the door. He is honestly surprised Thor hasn’t invited himself in yet. He is more surprised when he finally opens the door and is promptly met with — not Thor’s brutish face, but the goddamned mortal.

She stands there, in front of his door, barely out of arm's reach. Loki can’t help but drink her in. He notices her hair, laying loosely around her face, framing her profile. She’s sporting a sweater, much too warm for the present weather. Its collar is stretched out over years of use, teasing his eyes with a fraction of her collarbones peaking through. Her legs are barely covered by absurdly short shorts, and Loki feels the back of his ears heating up. Hurriedly, he averts his eyes, falling down to her feet, once again hugged by soft looking socks — mismatched.

His scrutinization is interrupted by her voice; so soft.

“Hey! Sorry if I interrupted you. I heard you were in the shower but I was going around taking everyone’s dinner orders. We’re getting Chinese.” She tilts her head to the side, lifting her chin ever-so-slightly, distractedly exposing the tantalizing skin of her neck. She swallows, and Loki’s eyes discreetly follow the bob of her throat. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything?”

It takes a moment for Loki to register her question and another for him to process it. She is going to order dinner? For him? And she is asking him for his preference? Loki has not had the privilege of preferring anything in a long, long time. Damn this mortal.

“I am not familiar with this particular cuisine, nor Midgard’s in particular.”

She meets his eyes then, and only after does it occur to him that her eyes had been previously glued to his abdomen. His abdomen, he realizes which has been bare this entire interaction. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He forces himself to roll his eyes, running a hand through his still dripping hair to hide the scarlet his ears have surely become. “I am saying that I do not have a preference, woman.”

She lifts her shoulders briefly in a gesture Loki has come to associate with Midgard’s daftness and promptly moves closer to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, then curses himself for doing so. He truly must be losing it, backing away from a defenseless mortal. But she doesn’t push further, instead tilting her head at that angle again, asking him another question.

“Can I come in?”

Loki hesitates. He doesn’t understand her motives, doesn’t know if this is a trick the Avengers have set up or perhaps a test designed by his brother. All he knows is that Angel is staring at him with her eyes wide and innocent and completely devoid of deceit.

Angel must carry magic or Loki must be possessed by the Mind Stone again, for against his will, Loki steps to the side, allowing her to brush past him. The sleeve of her sweater comes into contact with Loki’s stomach, and he jerks away.

Awkwardly, Loki closes his door and turns to face the mortal, noting how hilariously out of place she looks, standing in the midst of Loki’s domain. With a wave of his hand, the previously scattered articles of clothing fly onto his bed, meticulously folding themselves. Angel’s surprised, quiet gasp does not escape his notice. She walks towards his bed, small hand landing on Thor’s sweatshirt.

“Take that when you leave.” Loki internally bristles at his own tone, noticing how Angel’s shoulders locked up when he spoke and did not relax when he stopped. “Please,” he adds.

To his surprise (again), Angel approaches him, sweater in hand. “Why?”

At this, Loki is caught off guard. Without warning, he is overwhelmed by distaste. His patience has been tested over and over again, and he does not have even a drop more to deal with this mortal’s incompetence. His hatred for her rushes back, multiplied a thousandfold. Who does she think she is and why will she not leave Loki alone? Why must she cut short his relaxation, intrude upon his personal space, inquire after him when he knows — he knows — she does so unwillingly? Why is she holding up Thor’s goddamned sweater, pretending not to know why Loki hates it so? As if she doesn’t know it belongs to Thor.

In fact, Loki is positive she is intimately aware of whom it belongs to, undoubtedly so. He hates Angel, hates her for reluctantly offering her help, hates her for her smoothies, hates her for asking him about his preferences. Briefly, he envisions snapping her neck. Effortlessly. But the image makes him recoil, bringing about not satisfaction, but horror.

His fists clench, his broken fingernails once again digging into bruised skin. It costs Loki an immeasurable amount of self control not to simply throw her out, hurl her from his quarters. Instead, he snaps at her.

“Girl, do not test my patience. I am warning you, it has been a very long day and if you do not exit extremely promptly, it will not end well for one of us.”

Loki hates the way her shoulders tense up again, hates the way she physically flinches away at his dismissal.

Loki hates how though he can sense her increasing heartbeat, her nervousness, Angel still looks him in the eye and informs him, in a terrified voice coated with forced calm, “I’m sorry to hear that Loki. I added this sweater into your laundry after it was done, but I should have known it would not have been welcome.”

Loki hates how she then drops her eyes, staring intently at her mismatched socks.

“I’ll just leave your dinner outside.”

Loki hates how she leaves, her hands gripping Thor’s — his — sweatshirt tightly, footsteps moving at a much brisker pace.

Loki hates how Angel closed off, how he closed her off.

Loki hates how Angel clearly did do his laundry.

Loki hates how Angel thought of him, giving him an extra sweatshirt, offering him a choice for dinner.

Loki hates Angel more than he hates Thor, more than he hates Odin.

Loki hates Angel more than he hates the Mad Titan.

The only person Loki hates more than Angel is himself.

Fuck.

______________________________

We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.

- Charles Bukowski

______________________________

Previous Chapter

Taglist: @spacedaddydinn @doct0rstrange

#Loki Laufeyson #loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #the hell in your eyes #thiye #loki x you #friends to enemies to lovers #reader insert #loki fic #jouce writes

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luminescencefics · 4 years

Photo

stubborn love

Ask and you shall receive! Here’s a little blurb about this post, filled with an angsty y/n and an adorably dimwitted Harry. Oh yeah, also smut. Enjoy!

2.6k word count

My masterlist // read below:

***

If there was one thing about you that Harry hated, it was how stubborn you were. And if there was one thing about Harry that drove you absolutely mad, it was when he left arguments incomplete—choosing the easy way out instead of finishing the conversation you ultimately started.

It was with good cause, though. After being together for three years, the little things started to surface every now and then. And with the aid of liquor coursing through both of your veins, it was only a matter of time until a fight started.

They never lasted long. And it was usually cured by sex, but sometimes, Harry did things that drove you absolutely bonkers, leaving you wanting to punish him a bit. Like tonight, for example, when you had to remind him three times that he had to be ready by eight o’clock in order to make it to your best friend’s birthday dinner on the other side of town. You watch by the vanity as you finish applying your nude lipstick, observing how he scrolled through his phone aimlessly on the bed with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His outfit was laid out beside him, his hair still wet from the shower he had recently gotten out of, and the time on the clock read 7:42.

“Harry, please get dressed. We’re supposed to be out the door in five minutes,” you remind him, sitting on the bed beside him while you buckle the strap of your heel around your exposed ankle. He nods absentmindedly while texting Jeff about scheduling radio interviews for the upcoming album, seemingly ignoring what you were telling him.

“Harry.”

Your tone is laced with annoyance now, and immediately his eyes snap over towards yours, taking in your completed look for the first time since slipping on the black dress you decided to wear this evening. His eyes rake your body instantly, and because of the years you’ve been with him, you know exactly what he’s thinking already. But you don’t have time for this, and when you stand up abruptly and saunter towards the door, you try to ignore the pout he shoots in your direction.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he says slowly, sitting up straight and facing the door you were currently standing in.

“Harry, please just get dressed! I promised Catherine we’d be there early,” you say tightly, giving him a pointed look until he surrenders and gets off the bed, reaching for his briefs in the dresser on the other side of the bedroom.

“Jesus, what is with you always needing to be early? You know Catherine’s always late, anyways,” Harry says in a clipped tone, shoving his long legs through the navy trousers laid out on the bed.

“Don’t start. This is important to me, and I don’t need your lack of time management ruining Catherine’s birthday dinner that I’ve been planning for weeks.” You knew that you were being a bit over dramatic, but the stress of making your high-maintenance best friend happy was weighing down on you. Coupled with the fact that Harry was leaving again for a few months, you were under a lot of stress to make everybody happy.

“What do you mean ‘lack of time management?!’ We’re talking about Catherine for Christ’s sakes! The girl who showed up late to almost every event you’ve hosted in the past two years! I think she’ll manage us being a couple of minutes late.” Harry speaks while finishing putting on his outfit, and for once, you really don’t have it in you to argue. Because arguing costs time. And time is something you are lacking at the current moment.

Your silence is what causes his head to snap in your direction, giving you a confused look. “Oh are you giving me the silent treatment now?”

You know that he doesn’t mean it, but his words are causing you to seethe in your heels. Before you can make a comment that will cause another argument, you start heading towards the stairs, grabbing your keys by the table near the front hallway and throwing them into your clutch.

“Oh, come on! Catherine probably won’t even be there for another hour anyways!” His voice is right behind you, and before you can even think about it, you’ve pivoted on your heel, your hair whipping against your neck with the sheer force of your movements.

“Enough! I’d like to get there before my perpetually late friend, and I don’t need you breathing down my fucking neck about it! Can you do that for me? Please?” You really didn’t mean to snap at him, but he’s been egging you on ever since you’ve asked him to get ready hours ago.

You know that your boyfriend means well, and that he’s got enough on his plate as it is, and going to your forgetful best friend’s birthday dinner is probably the last thing of importance on his list—but you’ve done so much for him. You’ve flown out to shows, you’ve gone months without seeing him due to his demanding schedule, you’ve practically uprooted your life to accommodate his throughout your relationship. And, of course, it was all worth it—because he’s worth everything. But sometimes, especially times like this, you wish he would realize that and just do as you say.

And with one clipped nod, the nod he gives you when he’s surrendering to the argument, he reaches behind you for the front door and holds it open, allowing you to walk in front of him and head towards the car at the end of the driveway, trying your hardest to let the anger seep out of your skin.

***

You hate to say it, but Harry was right. Catherine was forty-five minutes late to her birthday dinner, and before it was over, she was already drunk enough to completely forget to thank you for putting the entire thing together.

But you were far too proud to show your boyfriend that he was right, so instead of acknowledging the smug look he was shooting your way, you decide to order another drink and continue swallowing them down until you were drunk enough to forget how annoyed you were at the entire evening. When Catherine announces moving the party to the new club that opened downtown, you decided you were done, choosing instead to end the night early.

While you were waiting for the valet, you notice that Harry wasn’t as drunk as you were, but he was definitely drunk enough to let his hands rest low on your hips while his body enveloped yours, seemingly protecting you from the cold. His lips would brush your neck every now and then, and while you appreciated how touchy he got when liquor was in his veins, you were still annoyed at the unfinished argument the two of you had hours earlier.

“You look so beautiful tonight, baby. Can’t wait to take you home,” he whispers in your ear. You blame the shiver that racks your body on the wind, even though your insides were burning at the feeling of your boyfriend’s lips against the shell of your ear.You’re silent the entire car ride home, resting your head against the window as Harry’s hands splay against your exposed upper thigh uncovered by your short hemline. With every stop light, he would look over towards you, and you could feel the heat of his gaze every time he ogled your body in the short garment.

Ignoring Harry when you were mad at him was an entire feat in itself.

When he pulls into the driveway, you’re the first to spring out of the car, determined to put enough distance between the two of you so you aren’t tempted to let him win the argument. Harry knows this, because he knows how stubborn you can be. He loves this little game of yours that you play, and while he knows he’ll ultimately apologize to you in the end, watching the way you battle yourself with touching him and keeping your distance makes him only want to rip your clothes off more.

He sits on the loveseat in your bedroom while you rip your heels off and place them on the shoe rack in your closet. You're aware of his gaze, watching every step you take as you remove your earrings, plug your phone into the charger, run to the restroom to wash your face. His silence is irritating, but you’d be damned if you were the first to break it.

It’s once you’ve finally stripped out of your dress when Harry breaks.

“Christ, can you come here, please? You’re killing me, baby.” His voice is rough and you can hear the frustration laced in his words, and it’s enough to make you stare at him head on, hands gripping the undergarments gracing your hips, looking down at him with a stern look.

Harry does his hardest to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you.

“I’m still upset with you,” you utter, walking towards the loveseat slowly. You purposely matched your bra with your underwear, and it’s enough to cause Harry’s eyes to wander the expanse of your skin, holding back a groan at the sight of you.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds miles away, and you can tell that your body is distracting him. He’s not even looking into your eyes, and once his big hands reach out to grab your hips and pull you down on top of him, you immediately back away, removing his hands from your body.

“No touching. Not until you’ve apologized properly.” You know it’s wrong to tease him, but sometimes your boyfriend needs a little reminder of how to treat you when he’s been a bit unfair towards you.

He frowns instantly, crossing his arms against his chest like a petulant child. It’s enough to cause you to snort, before crossing the room and laying on the bed, your back towards him and your front facing the window.

You can hear him shuffling around, most likely removing his clothes in favor of wearing his briefs to bed. And once the overhead light is off, just the light of the moon filtering through the room, you can feel his body hovering over yours in the bed, his hands gripping your waist tightly.

“Hate when you’re a tease,” he whispers against your neck, rolling your body so that you're completely under his, staring up into his dark eyes.

You lock your arms around his neck. “Hate when you’re a prick,” you reply back, trying your hardest to suppress the moan urging itself out of your throat when his hands trace the swells of your breasts, before settling at the tops of your underwear.

“How many times do I have to apologize?” He says, his eyes locked on your body instead of your eyes. You know that he’s been wanting to see you naked all night, and while it makes your skin prickle with goosebumps, it’s not enough.

“Until you mean it.” You watch as he swears under his breath, before moving his hands behind your back to the clasp of your bra. He’s cautious, testing to see how you’ll react, wondering if this is still a game for you. And when you’re quiet, he takes that as affirmation, ridding you of your top layer before pressing his mouth against your newly exposed skin.

You bite your lip so hard until you can taste the metallic flavor of blood, trying your hardest to ignore Harry’s bulge growing against your upper thigh. His mouth is moving lower and lower, his hands kneading your exposed flesh, and it’s driving you absolutely mad to stay silent. But you’re still angry. And stubborn as a bull.

“You know I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt your feelings,” his lips are ghosting over your clothed center, and when your body twitches under his, he takes that as a sign to pull the lace from your skin, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well you did, Harry.” Your voice comes out much more high-pitched than normal, and you know that it’s due to your boyfriend’s proximity to your heat. It’s coursing now, and Harry’s eyes flicker from your eyes to your exposed center.

“Didn’t mean it,” he’s distracted again, and before you can yell at him, you watch as his ringed fingers trickle from your navel down to your clit, before swiping against your folds. He’s testing you, wondering how long you’ll be upset with him. You’re still silent, because he doesn’t deserve you at your full-capacity, not when he’s still so cavalier about the way he treated you earlier.

When he removes his briefs and teases you with the tip, your hands immediately grip his shoulder blades forcefully, and the sting is enough to make him look at you for longer than a few seconds.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever…” he’s teasing you, knowing that you’ll eventually break. But your boyfriend is completely underestimating your stubbornness, and when he tries to turn you over so that your front is pressed into the pillows and your backside is in the air, the position that he craves the most, you clench your abdominal muscles and anchor yourself to the mattress.

You won’t be giving him that luxury today.

He says your name breathlessly, but you ignore it. Instead, you bring your mouth closer to his, before speaking instead of kissing him. “Need you to mean it, baby.”

Harry groans against your lips, his tip slipping in when you moved closer to his chest. His mind is moving a hundred miles a minute, trying to remember the exchange of words you both had hours earlier, wondering what he did to make you so upset.

You can tell that he’s thinking, and you decide to reward him by wrapping your legs around his waist, allowing him to slip further inside of you. You’re not that much of a monster.

“I do mean it! I’m sorry I made you late,” he’s stuttering and his eyes are completely blown out, and normally you’d kiss him at this moment when his length is almost completely enveloped by your heat. But he still isn’t understanding it. And you’re still mad.

“Not why I’m angry with you,” you say against the corner of his mouth, your breath hitching once he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. His brain is clouded over with lust, and trying to apologize at this moment is damn near impossible.

His hips start to rut against yours, and when he pulls back out and pushes inside of you once more, gathering a gentle rhythm, you dig your fingernails deeper into his skin to remind him that you are, in fact, still waiting for a decent apology.

Harry’s breathing your name in between moans, his lips inching towards yours desperately. He normally kisses you during sex, tangles his tongue with yours, pulls his teeth against your bottom lip, anything he can do to get closer to you. But you’re denying him of this luxury, and he’s growing more and more frustrated with each pump into you.

“Harry!” You’re not sure if it’s from pleasure or from the fact that he still can’t come up with the reason why you’re so upset with him. But once you’ve stilled under him, his eyes snap to yours, and he’s realizing then that he truly has been a bit of a dickhead tonight.

“Didn’t mean to make you late. Didn’t mean to egg you on. I know—fuck, I know Catherine is always late but that doesn’t mean you are. I know this was important to you. ‘M sorry I was such an asshole. You’re important to me. I love you, fuck baby, I love you too much. Can’t stand you being mad at me. Please.” He’s desperate, his words falling over your cheek in hot pants. His eyes dart between both your pupils, and you can tell that he needs you to understand his words. That he truly means them. That he needs you to fucking accept his apology because he’s about to burst inside of you, and his heart can’t take you not kissing him and looking at him the way you normally do.

You smile then, removing your hands from his shoulders and tangling them into his hair, bringing your lips to his. He sighs in your mouth, relief coursing through his veins. He starts pumping into you again, and you’re finally reciprocating, kissing his cheeks and his neck, whispering his name into his skin, telling him that you love him with each press further into the mattress.

And when he finally comes, you reward him with an open-mouthed kiss, your tongue tangling with his, whispering “I love you” until it settles into the back of his throat.

Because even though you’re stubborn, and even though Harry can be dim when it comes to apologies, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You love him far too much to let him go that easily, and when you’re cuddled into his chest and he’s running his fingers down your matted hair, you fall asleep knowing that you’re safe in his arms.

#blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry x reader #harry smut #1dff #1dffupdates

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7-abubi · 3 years

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„She was, in fact, a child of the moon. Wandering around aimlessly in the dark. Bringing light to everyone around her.“

#mine

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beautifullyplaintaxicab · 3 years

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she was, in fact, a child of the moon.

wandering around aimlessly in the dark,

bringing light to everyone around her.

#moon #moonchild #moon quotes #quotes #selenophile #astrophile

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shanyyhermosoxoxo · 3 years

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04.27.21 MOON CHILD

She was, in fact, a child of the moon. Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark. Bringing light, to everyone around her.

-s&a

#moonlight #moon #night #photography #full moon #supermoon #pink moon #in love #pretty #art

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boat-dock · 3 years

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“Knowing You is for the Better” chapter 17

School has been really stressful lately but I’m trying to keep updating :))

Not for the first time that Hope wondered if it was strange that she almost never turned on a full moon, she’s done it twice, maybe three times in the three years since she triggered her curse. It wasn’t something she did on purpose, at least she didn’t think that she did. Tonight as she ran under a sliver of a crescent moon, she tried to remember what it felt to run with her pack in the bayou under the full moon, but she found that she barely could. One of the amazing things about her pack was that they could control when they turned, so now most full moons they relaxed and enjoyed their freedom.

She started her run tonight with a goal in mind, but she was planning on running for a while to take the edge off of her nerves, however that was not what was happening. Her instincts were heightened in her wolf form, but tonight was different, there was a strange magic in the air that was overwhelming her senses. It was pulling her, guiding her through the forest. In the back of her mind she figured that this could be the work of her grandmother Esther, but as a wolf the consequences of that seemed very far away. She’d lost track of how long she had been running or where exactly she was, the ground was solid under her feet as she burst through the tree line and saw a towering mansion in the distance.

It was a deep cream color that resembled marble, with more windows and arches than Hope could possible count. The years had taken a toll however, vines and cracks crawled up the walls, it looked destitute and abandoned compared to the lively Salvatore house that Hope was used to. She sucked in a deep breath and shifted back, so she was standing completely naked staring at her old family home.

It was strange to think of the entirety of her father’s side of the family living here together, in fact it was nearly impossible to imagine them living anywhere together for a lengthy period of time without completely burning the place down. She’d known about this house for a while now but had never been, there was never a reason. The family that lived here weren’t the same people that she knew now, of the parts of her past she chose to dwell on this was not one of them.

The wind whipped around her and she regretted her lack of clothes, not that she was cold, due to her tribrid nature it was very difficult for her to feel the cold, but she was very exposed. She doubted there would be anyone here, most people had forgotten about this old house and even if they remembered it they most definitely avoided it. It was quiet and still as she padded across the grass toward the main door, or at least what she assumed was the main door.

It creaked open slowly with a push and for a second Hope feared that she wouldn’t be able to cross the threshold because of her vampire nature. It was a ridiculous thought, if the house was in the name of anyone in her family that was a vampire it meant that she could cross without permission and if it wasn’t that meant it was the property of the city and she could enter then as well.

The first thing she notices is the very thick musty scent of the house, the next is the extreme size, her home in New Orleans was a large house but this mansion was triple its size. There was a grand staircase and a door that led to what Hope could only assume was a ballroom, pushed into a corner was a large table covered with a large sheet. Seizing the opportunity, Hope pulled the sheet away, grinning at the dramatics of it as it fluttered and fell to the ground, then she pulled it around her shoulders so it covered her body from the nonexistent eyes.

Now that she was actually in the house she had no idea what she needed to be looking for, it was strange walking around this large empty house that held her history, she should probably be feeling something right now, but instead she felt numb. That pulling sensation from earlier was still there, in fact it was stronger now than it was before.

Against her better judgement she decided to let it lead her up the stairs, the dusty white sheet dragging behind her like a cloak. She tried to soak in everything around her, some of the paintings had been left behind and were still hanging on the walls. Her dad had put those there, most likely, he was the only member of her family before her that cared about art and he had had this house built so he most likely picked what art that would go on the wall.

She continued walking down the upstairs hallways, wandering aimlessly and peering into empty rooms until she came upon a room that was overflowing with stuff.

The walls were lined with books of every size shape and color, some were elegant and extravagant while others were falling apart at the seams, there was even a small section of scrolls tucked away into a top corner hiding in the shadows. Boxes filled with god knows what littered the room, so many that as she tried to make her way around them her sheet kept getting caught on the corners. This room felt right, she’s not sure why, there was no reason that she should believe that whatever answers she was looking for would be in this room, but it really felt like this was where she needed to be.

A sudden movement broke the stillness that had surrounded her as a small bird took off from a shadow and flew straight out the door she just entered. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest as she jumped to the side. She pulled the sheet closer around her as she recognized the bird that just nearly gave her a heart attack, it was a Starling.

Her grandmother’s chosen bird and known spies.

Esther was here, Hope didn’t know where and she didn’t know how but she knew she was here. Esther was the strange force pulling her here, even though it had been a part of her plan to come here all along, her grandmother wanted her here for some reason. Whatever plans Hope had she was sure that Esther had some of her own. How was she going to contact her was her main issue, because no matter the presence she had here she was still dead.

Ghosts were not a new concept to Hope but that didn’t mean that she enjoyed them. She’d encountered many ghosts throughout her young life and they were almost always hostile to her, but now she was capable of taking care of herself. If her grandmother was looking for a fight she would find one, but something about this didn’t feel threatening to her. That’s not to say that she was comfortable, she definitely was not. She was wearing next to nothing in an old abandoned mansion where she was probably going to meet and communicate with the ghost of her dead grandmother, uneasy didn’t quite cover what she was feeling.

Hope sucked in the musty air through her nose trying to calm her nerves. She started looking through the boxes, examining the books and trinkets that filled the room. As she was doing so, however, she noticed a strange breeze and smell that began to fill the room. The wind caused goosebumps to erupt across her skin as she tried to place the familiar smell.

It was earthy with a sharpness to it… almost burnt? That was it, burnt. Incense. But there was no incense burning in the room, or anywhere else in the house that she had been. The thick smell started to overwhelm her, her senses were muddled and Hope suddenly found it very hard to focus or to keep her eyes open. The book she was holding slipped and hit the ground with a bang.

There was a heaviness to her body that was pulling her slowly to the ground. In the back of her mind she realized that something was wrong, this shouldn’t be happening. But before she could do anything about it her grip went slack on the sheet and she fell to the ground.

This was not the kind of sleep that Hope was accustomed to. She felt like she was floating and falling in the darkness all at the same time. She waited for the nightmare she had become so used to over the last few months to take hold but strangely it never did. Instead when she finally pried her eyes open it was like she was completely awake but in a different place. Things were sharp and clear unlike every other dream Hope had.

It was the same forest. Tall dark trees, the onslaught of birds, and the powerful bonfire. But for the first time Hope was in control of the dream. She waited for the birds to swarm like they normally do and for Esther to appear, but they never did. Instead she just seemed to pop into existence by the fire across the clearing from her. Hope took a moment just to watch her, examine her, it was strange that Hope could see herself in this woman that had had a very little part of her life. Esther was the only other member of her family that had the same red hair as Hope, the same blue eyes that she recognized as her father’s and her own. It was the only proof she had that this woman was related to her at all, considering the way her grandmother had treated her as a child.

She forced her feet to bring her closer. The heat of the fire was pushing her away but she fought against it. “Hello child,” Esther said and the sound of her voice startled Hope. Throughout this entire thing she had never actually heard her grandmother speak, the smoothness of her unplaceable accent was shocking.

“Hello,” Hope countered, “ You’ve been wanting to speak to me,” with what little plan she had Hope didn’t actually know how to speak to this woman. Yes she was her granddaughter, but they did not know each other and Hope was not here to rekindle a familial relationship.

“Yes, but you have not been making it easy for me.”

Hope raised an eyebrow,” I wasn’t aware that I was doing anything,” everything blurred for a moment before sharpening again. It became clear to Hope that her metabolism was too fast for whatever Esther had drugged her with to hold her under for much longer. Words piled up, ready to spill from her lips but she restrained herself and managed to keep her composure.

“When you realized that I was trying to contact you I assumed you would have tried harder to talk to me,” Hope couldn’t get a good read on her grandmother. She was used to the strange way her family interacted and behaved but there was something different about Esther.

Hope absentmindedly racked her fingers through her hair,” What do you want from me?” she asked purposefully not reacting to the jab. Maybe if she could gage what Esther wanted from her she could figure out how to use it to her advantage.

Esther turned so she was fully faceing her now. Power radiated from her, but Hope radiated it right back. “ I imagine it is the same reason you came here tonight Hope,” she gave a pointed look that put her on edge and paused just long enough for Hope’s skin to crawl,” The gemini twins.”

The dreamscape swirled dangerously and Hope didn’t know if it was caused by her or Esther but she had to think it was her. Whatever control she’d held onto was dissipating fast and was accelerated by the mention of her girlfriend. What did Esther know about Josie? What could she want with Josie? Or Lizzie for that matter? Hope started to fight against her body to stay asleep.

“Relax child I only wish to help,” Esther said, noticing their fraying reality.

“Why would you want to help them,” Hope shot back. Every paranoid bone in her body was singing and screaming simultaneously. She fought against the noise.

“I want to help them because they are important to you,” she said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. But it didn’t make any sense to Hope, Esther never cared for her, she had been a pawn to be given away or killed whenever necessary. Nothing in her past could allow her to believe that her grandmother could be doing something simply for Hope’s sake.

“You expect me to believe that you went through all the work to get here and contact me and you want nothing in return,” sarcasm dripped from her words, it was very clear that she was not buying this,” and how are you even here anyway?”

Esther did a much better job of controlling her emotions than Hope did, she answered all of the questions that were being thrown at her with patience and ease. “You’ve lived here a long time Hope,” She started,” and I’ve been here the entire time watching you grow up.” A tingle ran up her spine at the thought of Esther watching her her entire life. It was creepy but she decided to see where she was going with this, “ watching you grow has made me happy, happier than I’ve been in a long time, it’s given me hope that our family could be something more than monsters again.”

That’s all they were to Esther, monsters of her own creation, the creatures that went bump in the night. She fixated on that word. It had been following her around her entire life, making it stick out to her in most situations.

Monster. Abomination. Miracle.

She forced all these thoughts to the back of her mind where they normally lived,” What does that have to do with the twins?” she ground out, clenching her teeth so tight that it pained her. The fire flickered out of existence next to them, leaving the dreamscape darkened and melting away around her.

“Josie makes you happy.” she stated. Hope didn’t like hearing her girlfriend's name on Esther’s lips. She’d come here with the intention of getting Esther to help her with the twins’ situation but she hated that she was one step ahead of her even now. “Sense she makes you happy I want to help you,” until then Hope had kept her face neutral but she squinted at that comment, “because believe me when I say that without my help there will be no saving them.”

In that moment Hope would have given anything to stay asleep and continue this conversation. She would give anything to save Josie, and if Esther believed that she could do that then Hope sure as hell wanted to listen to her. Hope might not trust her grandmother but there was no doubt that she was a powerful and competent witch with over a thousand years of experience on her, she knew what she was talking about when it came to magic.

The dream dropped away almost as suddenly as it had appeared and Hope found herself once again sitting on the floor of the library in the mansion. She stood and pulled the sheet back around her. On the floor next to her was a large leather bound book with browning pages. It hadn’t been there before she fell asleep, could it have fallen from a shelf? Flipping the cover open, she recognized it as a grimoire, one of her grandmother’s grimoires. The breeze that she had become so familiar with came back and leafed through the pages like it had a mind of its own. When it settled the pages landed on a spell that Hope was unfamiliar with. It was strange and ancient, but she had no doubt that Esther wanted her to find it. She was exhausted that night to examine the spell then, so she ripped the pages out to be brought back to the school with her.

She was unsure of how much time had passed but her body ached in a way she was unfamiliar with as she dragged herself back to the school. The moon was considerably lower than when she left on her run earlier that night, even the stars seemed dimmer. Whatever she had been drugged with had taken a toll on her system and her body felt like it was being pulled in a million different directions. Her bones ached and trembled as she shifted for the run back to the school.

The school was peacefully quiet and still when she returned. Hope couldn’t handle any more excitement or stress tonight. Thoughts of Josie swirled through her mind. Her girlfriend was clearly distressed earlier that evening when they were together, she hadn’t ended things between them, but they were definitely in an uncertain place.

Maybe this could be the answer the Saltzmans had been searching for for nearly seventeen years.

She’d done all that she could for tonight, however, all that was left was to sleep. She’d managed her way to her room, nearly unconscious on her feet as she crawled into bed, praying for a dreamless sleep.

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i-write-shakespeare-not-disney · 4 years

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Tumblr said something went wrong so I apologize if there’s two of these. Moon Child “She was, in fact, a child of the moon. / Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark. / Bringing light, to everyone around her.” -s&a

🥰🥰🥰 this is the first I get this one! ♡♡ I love it. It hits particularly hard after the last few days

#poetry

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ygzg · 3 years

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She was, in fact, a child of the moon.

Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark.

Bringing light, to everyone around her.

-Adasha

(Picture taken by me)

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mimymomo · 4 years

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Don’t Forget To Say I Love You Part 1

Orphydice Soulmate au! Orphydice Soulmate au!!

Title from Reeve Carney’s “Don’t Forget to Say I Love You”

...

Orpheus couldn’t wait to meet his soulmate. He dreamed of holding them close in his arms, of their warm smile, the sweet sound of their voice, and laugh. He wondered what color their eyes would be, the exact shade of their hair. Would they be small and feisty? Tall and demure? Would they be an early bird and take joy in watching the morning sun peek out from the horizon every morning? Or a night owl, spending those dark nights snuggled up under a blanket, cracking jokes basked in the moonlight until finally caving to slumber? Did they love music? Did they prefer fast lively songs with pulsing beats and heavy bass? Music that called for dancing close in the dark, played in the neon lights of a smoky club? Or did they prefer slower ballads, swaying back and forth to the melodious tunes of brass instruments and piano? What were their hobbies, their likes, and dislikes, their favorite colors, and seasons? Orpheus dreamed of the answers to them all.

He constantly found himself staring down at the static number tattooed to his forearm: 24198. Twenty four thousand, one hundred and ninety-eight days. That’s nearly sixty-seven years. Sixty-seven years to spend with his soulmate, to spend by someone's side. Sixty-seven years to have someone to have and hold, love and cherish, to be within the brightest and darkest of times. Someone, he’d get to experience the rest of life with. Orpheus wanted that closeness, ached for that next level of intimacy.

His parents didn’t last. According to Mister Hermes, a now distant friend of his mother, Orpheus’ parents weren’t soulmates, but to them, that didn’t matter. They were in love. Their relationship, a turbulent storm of passion and lust was followed quickly by a fervent marriage and abrupt divorce, leaving behind a small child in its wake, Orpheus. A casualty of two young lovers falling out of love.

His mother was still young when her marriage dissolved and Orpheus was born. A youthful and wild summer flower, not ready to be tied down to the burdens of motherhood. She hungered for freedom and independence, not a curious toddler who constantly cried for attention and teethed. She itched to leave, and one day, she did. She walked into Hermes’ bar, a barely coherent Orpheus in her arms and a baby bag strapped to her shoulder. “I want to find my other half, to live my life. I need this Hermes,” the young woman cried passively, handing the toddler over to the older gentleman, adjusting the aviator glasses stuck into her hair. “I’ll be back once I find him.”

And with a toss of her velvety caramel hair, and not a single glance back, she was gone. Orpheus didn’t blame her for leaving him behind, couldn’t. Even for the short time he had been in his mother’s care, he could tell that her heart had not been in it. While he was with her, her mind was somewhere else, not tucked away in their quaint one-bedroom apartment, but out somewhere far away. Orpheus always wondered if his mother had ever managed to find her soulmate? If she was happier now? He hopes she is. In the twenty years since she left, she never returned to the bar- was she still out there looking or had she just forgotten about him in the process? Orpheus wasn’t sure which one he would rather be the case.

Orpheus viewed what happened to his parents as the worst outcome, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. They were why he was so adamant about finding his soulmate. He wouldn’t face the same ill-fate as his folks, his heart couldn’t bear it. He would love his soulmate with all he had, he wouldn’t leave them as things get difficult. He told his vision to everyone who’d listen: his soulmate would come marching through the doors and Orpheus would instantly know they were the one. They would chat then reach for each other’s hands, their numbers would begin The Countdown, as most called it and they would live happily ever after. He would hold them forever, never letting them go. They would walk hand and hand, side by side through any storm or change.

Mister Hermes and Lady Persephone had always called a hopeless romantic, joked that his head was stuck in the clouds, that his eyes were permanently tinted rose-colored. He spoke in sonnets and could only see the world for what it could be. As a child, Orpheus had minded the teasing, thinking that the two adults hated his quirks and flowery mind. He brought up his concerns one night as Mister Hermes was tucking him into bed.

“Child, I wished more people could be like you. The world would be a much more pleasant place if that were the case,” Hermes said.

“You mean that?” the young boy asked, voice full of hope, eyes wide and bright.

“With all my heart,” he replied. Orpheus trusted the older man’s words and hadn’t doubted himself since. He kept his head in the clouds, he continued to write melodies and lyrics he once heard in his dreams. He kept his eyes wide, soul light and heart open. Others called him naive and too soft, but Orpheus learned to pay them no mind.

“Orpheus,” Hermes called out snapping the boy out of his daydream.

“Yes, Mister Hermes, sir?” Orpheus replied, still in a slight daze.

“You peering at that number again?” he asked pointedly, his tone reminiscent of a father scolding a young child over stealing a cookie from the jar before dinner.

Orpheus tugged the end of his pulled up shirt down over his arm, “no…”

Hermes sighed, “Boy, what did I tell you about having your eyes glued to that number of yours at work?”

Orpheus lowered his head, “not to.”

Hermes walked over and placed a hand on the poets sagging shoulders, “they’ll come, Poet. Just gotta be patient.” Orpheus gave his guardian a small smile before pulling out a damp dishrag from the front pocket of his apron. As he started to dry the freshly washed glasses, steam still radiating from off their rims, his mind wandered back to his soulmate. Would tonight finally be the night where they would walk through those doors? Orpheus could only hope and pray to the gods that it was. But whether it was tonight, tomorrow, months or even years down the line, there was one thing that Orpheus was certain of, he loved his soulmate with all his heart and soul. And he couldn’t wait to meet them.

…

Eurydice hated her soulmate. Sure, she had never met the person before, but with just one glance down to the dark printed numbers etched into her tan skin, a burning sense of rage coursed through her veins. Ever since childhood, she was never a fan of the whole soulmate concept. The fact that the number of days you had to live post-meeting the supposed “person your soul most desires,” permanently stuck to your arm never sat well with Eurydice. To some, it was romantic but to her, it was just a cruel reminder of your fate and mortality, that life wasn’t permanent and death was coming for them all.

Her father, when he actually was home and not blacked out drunk, would always without fail, give her such a somber look whenever she would walk into a room. Was it pity from the pathetically tiny number on her arm? Or maybe it was from the guilt of dooming his only child with such a short existence just like what happened to her mother? Eurydice didn’t know nor did she care to ask. She hated the damn pity everyone dealt her once they saw her number, that they mourned the end of her life like she wasn’t still alive and breathing in front of them. She was a walking ghost that unfortunately, everyone was still cursed to see.

Eurydice quickly developed rules that she followed to a “T”: she took to wearing long sleeves or a jacket, even in the hottest of months, just to spare herself the accidental peek. She would keep to herself, always wear a sharp glare to keep others from coming too close. If someone didn’t get the message and chose to approach, she refused to let them talk first, checking the state of their clock before allowing them to speak. Of course, she knew that she was just prolonging the inevitable but she had plans, things in the future she needed to accomplish before she kicked the bucket. If no one wanted to believe she would live long enough to see those dreams become a reality, then she’d just have to prove them wrong.

Eurydice was walking around aimlessly after an exhausting day; she had to attend all four of her classes and her boss had called her in to do an extra shift despite today being her day off. And to make matters worse, the heating in her apartment had decided to go out on one of the coldest days in March. So, to say she was tired and more than a bit pissed off would be an extreme understatement.

The sun had set and the moon was out, shining in its full glory. The smoke and lights from the city buildings made seeing any star in the sky nearly impossible. She continued to walk down the street further away from her apartment, had no clue where she was heading, no set location or direction. She stepped one foot in front of the other, the wind harshly whipping at her face, eyes getting teary. Why did she think this was a good idea? She should’ve stayed in her icebox of an apartment.

Suddenly, a flashing neon sign grabbed her attention. The splendid fluorescent light, obnoxiously blinding in contrast to the dark indigo sky. HERMES, it spelled out in large, incandescent letters, hanging from the side of the building just at the end of the street corner. She didn’t know what drew her to the building but she quickly found herself fast tracking down the pavement, to the front of the brick building. She pulled open the heavy wooden door and was greeted to a rush of hot air, the sour smell of liquor, a hint of smoke and something...floral, wafted around the room.

She cautiously tiptoed into the bar and looked around the establishment. It was virtually dead besides one or two other patrons. Well, I guess it makes sense. It is a Wednesday.

With scant more courage, Eurydice marched over to the bar counter. As long as she was stuck in here, she might as well get a drink. She sat down in tall barstool, her feet dangling slightly off the ground. She waved her hand to get the bartender's attention, but his back was turned to her, humming an unfamiliar tune. After another minute, Eurydice spoke up,“‘Scuse me.”

That was her first mistake. Rule number one: never speak up first. So simple yet so vital.

The young bartender turned around and jumped. His humming silenced and his sweet, yet professional smile shifted at the sight of the woman who called for his attention. Despite his best efforts to appear neutral and undisturbed, his eyes went wide and mouth hung partially agape. Eurydice felt the air escape her chest, this boy was beautiful. Warm hazel eyes, brown shaggy hair that reached mid-forehead and a cute boyish face. He was on the taller lanky side, but Eurydice swore she could see the tiniest bit of muscle poke out from the cuff of his worn white shirt. A striking red bandana was tied snugly around his neck, the color matching his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Orpheus was in awe. The young woman in front of him was beautiful, stunning, an angel. Her face was round, chubby cheeks and nose a dusty red from being outside in the cold. The end curls of her midnight black hair reached just above her shoulders and her bangs were perfectly symmetrical. Her oversized wool coat draped over her small frame. Orpheus focused on her eyes, oh, her eyes. Her eyes reminded Orpheus of melting chocolate, sweet and rich and utterly enticing. As he stared into them deeper and deeper, he struggled not to melt from their heat and completely indulge in their splendor.

Eurydice whipped her head to the side and forcibly cleared her throat, Orpheus taking note of the white feather that was clipped in her hair. “I, I’m sorry,” Orpheus sputtered, jumping back into action. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“An old fashioned,” Eurydice answered, eyes still glued to anywhere but the cute bartender in front of her. Orpheus nodded and got to work on her drink, restarting that song he was humming earlier once again. “What song you humming?” Eurydice asked, unable to keep herself from prying.

“Oh, it’s just something I’m working on,” Orpheus smiled.

“You a singer?”

“Singer, musician, and writer. I play the guitar and perform here sometimes.”

“Wow, a real jack of all trades you are,” Eurydice smirked, snorting lightly.

Orpheus laughed, “I guess you could say that. What brings you here?”

“The heater in my apartment kicked the bucket,” Eurydice sighed.

“Oooh, I’m sorry,” Orpheus said, more than a hint of concern lacing his voice.

Eurydice just waved him off, “it’s whatever. Just gotta call the landlord in the morning.”

Orpheus gave her a small grin, the ends of his mouth curling up the slightest bit, “least you’re out of the cold now, right?”

Eurydice gave a nod, returning the grin, “yeah, you’re right.”

Orpheus poured the finished drink into a polished glass and gently handed it over to the young woman, “your drink.”

That’s when Eurydice broke the second most important rule: no touching.

She carelessly reached out to grab the glass and before she knew it placed her hand over Orpheus’. “I’m sorry-” Orpheus began until a sharp, pain-filled groan forced him to let go of the glass, causing Eurydice to nearly drop it on the counter. Orpheus stared down at where the pain was coming from: his forearm. With a shaky hand, he slowly peeled his shirt sleeve back and glanced downwards. He gasped, his number, once a dull gray was now a searing blistering red. The Countdown had started.

Eurydice set the drink down and turned back to the young man. “Hey, what gives? Are you-” she gazed down at what he was staring at. No, no, no, oh gods, please no! Eurydice began to back away but before she could step too far Orpheus reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Wait!”

Eurydice froze. A quick excruciating sting began to radiant from her arm, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Tears sprung into eyes, salty and involuntary. This couldn’t be happening, not now. She had so much to do, so much planned. She had been so careful for all these years, and it was all for nothing.

“Come home with me!”

Eurydice whipped from head up and glared at the boy, eyes ablaze. Who the hell was this guy? First, he ruins her life and now he’s trying to lure her back to his place just to get a quick fuck? Screw him. She felt scalding hot, a pool of poisonous venom boil in the pit of her stomach. “Who are you?” she lowly growled.

“The man who’s gonna marry you!” he answered earnestly with desperate eyes. “I’m Orpheus.”

Orpheus. Orpheus, that was his name. Orpheus, the name of the damned man who ruined her life forever. “I hate you,” she whispered ghostly quiet, head tilted to the floor. She watched as tiny droplets of hot tears fell to the dirty floor.

Orpheus frowned, a chill ran up his spine. He was stunned by his soulmate’s reaction, “what?”

Eurydice ripped her hand away and held it close to her chest as if just touching Orpheus brought her all the discomfort in the world. “I hate you!” she screamed through teary eyes and ran to and out the bar door, leaving a confused and heartbroken Orpheus behind.

Eurydice tore out the bar, down the street, past her apartment complex, further and further into the dark envelope of the night. She just ran, and ran, and ran, and ran. Her knees buckled and her chest was on fire, each intake of frigid air burning her lungs but she kept running. She ran until she reached the edge of town, right in front of the public park. She fell to her knees and sobbed. She sobbed for the future she’d never have, for the dreams she’d never accomplish. She sobbed for herself and Orpheus, the poor bartender who had done knowing wrong and now was cursed with her shit luck. She sobbed for her fate and her limited days left. She sobbed and sobbed and never once looked at her number, couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not that she needed to, she had it memorized:

194.

One hundred and ninety-four days.

She’d be dead in just over six months.

She ducked her head into her knees and mournfully sobbed as the rays of moonlight gleamed up above, bathing her in there light. She couldn’t escape her fate, no matter how hard she tried.

#hadestown #orphydice #orpheus x eurydice #orpheus #eurydice #my wriring #my fic #im sorry this is gonna hurt

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rhacnyras · 5 years

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c a n c e r she was, in fact, a child of the moon; wandering around aimlessly, in the dark; bringing light to everyone around her... ( late birthday gift for @faheyy ♡ )

#astrologyedit #zodiacedit #canceredit #horoscope #astrology #cancer #bensolcs #usersabrina #usercecilie #mine*#ninasfamily #my gifs*#mine: astrology*

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shiftingshiftingshifting · 3 years

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him, him, the ominous him

literally not me ranting to one of my friends about dr feelings for the past couple days and not mentioning a SINGLE name

the ominous he would be proud of me

#vagueposting #jk that’s a lie i mentioned lady cat’s name once #and brandon #but THATS IT I PROMISE OKAY #shifting #shiftblr #reality shifting #desired reality #dr number 4.1 #She was ‚ in fact ‚ a child of the moon. Wandering around aimlessly in the dark. Bringing light to everyone around her.#gonna out him here real quick #nobody reads this far anyways lol #probably #txt. When the time comes ‚ Petyr ‚ you must remember the safest place for a mockingbird is high in the starry sky.

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axelisrose · 4 years

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1. ACTVARIVM

Sunlit greenery surrounded a plain white house. The strong iron fence protecting it now was gone unlike the faint sweet scent of the blooming flowers. They appeared as peculiar colourful dots in-between the harsh black marks on the grass. Burning memories drifted here and there and eventually led to the innocent building standing in the very same place where once the old World Military housed. Replaced by new change and forced into the present. Just like that. The cold breeze on this summer day seemed unlikely to be able to refresh the joy of those wandering the disastrous field. Like ghosts, haunting for passed friends or family and loved ones. Closed eyes and the sharp sense of ears will hear the whispers of battle cries whilst smelling and breathing in their remnants of ash. None could voice their anger of frustration by merely screaming dead names aloud into the world anymore. It was eerie for the young children watching their parents walk around aimlessly as they were told to wait by the entrance gate. Their big, curious eyes followed the tall humans and witnessed how tears were shed, knees dropped into mud, and a door knocked on.

-"...Yes?", a muffled voice eagerly answered, carrying a polite and formal sound.

-"My name is Atrox, the one in charge of the government of Lux-", footsteps forward after the chair was driven back, then the door was opened in a flash.

-"Mr. Atrox!", a figure with black hair slightly cutting into golden eyes, dressed in a dark cloak surprised the superior man with a short shock. He did not anticipate such a child-like person to be the new leader of the World Military, or at least what was left of it.

-"You must be Walt- No, pardon me, shall I refer to you as Renwick or Cherrywine?"

A moment of naught but silence. As his pinkish eyelids seemed to close entirely from tiredness, they jumped back open as he spoke:"You may refer to me as Renwick, please."

Atrox was older than the average middle-aged man at his workplace. A child may have a slip of the tongue when walking past, seeing him without his uniform and call him 'Grandpa'.

-"Mr. Renwick.", he felt odd addressing someone so young so formally,"I can guess that you know why I'm here. Do you mind me coming in?"

-"I do think it'd make for a better environment to tell you this story, rather than just standing here by the door and having even children look at us.", Walter widened his eyes to scare them as Atrox had a look for himself, then returned his sight to his subordinate to find a face just as he left it.

He let him and entered as well the interior of the house. Such an odd feeling; so uncharmingly blissful. It was decorated nicely one might say, when ignoring the tossed books laying scattered across the pale wooden floor. It felt like a doll house on a military cementary. Such was the image in Atrox' mind. He tried to forget about the provocative thought, only to think about it more after being reminded of the dark deeds he had done. Taking and losing lives were truly two sides of the same coin. But he was too old for regret. "So-", Walter's words pulled him out of his miserable trance, thankfully. Atrox quickly pulled out a voice recorder in response. With the help of a push filled with dread it started recording. As Walter had sat down on the beige couch, he emptied the seat and welcomed his guest to sit next to him and that was when Atrox realized he should not underestimate this teenager. The common smell of coffee was something anyone would have noticed when taking the first few steps into this house. A slight rise of caution emerged when seeing him hold two cups of warm coffee. Unlike the beverage itself, it was not so common to make something appear out of thin air but Atrox had been warned beforehand, thence he welcomed the offer and sat down. After all, he had not been chosen to be the leader of the government for nothing. The price for this rank was a regretful past.

-"Please tell me first how and why this happened, Mr.Renwick."

-"Of course. The initiator was myself.", Walter surpressed his smirk.

-"The cause of death of over seven hundred soldiers was initiated by you?"

-"Yes, Sir."

-"You're now in charge of the very organisation you almost had all of its members killed?"

-"Precisely", he answered the deep gaze of his superior with his golden eyes, then he followed the military suit to its right sleeve, went further down and found a shaking hand, tightening the grip around the recorder to control the internal distress and prevent something ugly. "Sir..?"-

-"Why did you cause this, Mr.Renwick?", his tone changed, attaining a more concerned voice.

"It was truly alike to a play of tragedy, Mr. Atrox. My sincerest condolences, I have heared you lost both of your sons during this small war. That is why, I believe you must hear about it in its entirety. Shall I begin?"

"Pl- Please do so."

"The goals of the other parties actually differed from mine, but the shared destination is whence our lust for the ambush was born.

I suppose I should tell you about this kid, named Satanael Leo Roseblood. He has the Devil's Will which made everyone come to this occasion in the first place. Essentially, this was a race between the greed of many to make the world their own. To access the Axis Mundi, overcome God and making the world truly your own, you're in need of something equally strong as God's Will, and that little thing was inside Leo. His reason for coming was to free a man named Charles Blackwood from the World Military's prison whose nephew, Ray Blackwood, also came for the exact same purpose. Both neither knew of each others' presence however. A variety of small bounty-hunter parties joined this hunt as well and amongst them was the white soldier- or should I call her ice-cold killer, ha? Leigh, Leigh Godsent is her name and she was there to take on Leo herself, accompanied by her guardian, a strong man, Bruce and by myself. They were under my protection until I realised my goal: taking over this organisation. It was a fight amongst the wildest of animals during a night of heavy rain as well as falling bodies. Oh, I almost forgot, pardon me, another party arrived rather late to the commotion: the Layla-Tribe. I know, but even I was astonished by the fact the news of the battle had reached the southern lands. I spread word by simply shouting and telling on my way home from 'a meeting'. Honestly, to think rumors spread as fast as I've read about them in stories is ironic.. and cliché. Their ambition, I do not know as after I've accomplished my feat, I turned ignorant towards the battle and its fighters.

The house was filled with its usual staff and soldiers on this night. A calm rain and moon presented the scenery pleasantly. Unknown security established in the minds of those living their everyday life. A knock interrupted this comfort of silence. "Daniel..?", the door opened with a noise so small, it did not reverberate and entering his office was a woman of the secretary staff. Someone who had developed feelings for Daniel who returned those with joy. "Lizzy, don't call me by my first name while you're still out there in the hallway.", he got up from his desk. They hugged and kissed. "Is this the night they will try to attack us?", she asked, grabbing both of his arms. "No need to worry, though. Their only objective is someone amongst the intruders, so we'll have them trapped in the entrance. While they're fighting each other we'll either capture or kill them with our arms. Even bullets will be mortal while they're focused on someone equally strong as them."

-"Will we be safe-", her petite voice was stifled by a tighter hug and a vibrating floor.

Daniel knew the odds were against him. A king being cornered by all the other enemy pieces on this board. The times when a lie shined more beautiful than a missed oportunity to secure a safe reality- regret.

A white rose glowed by the shine of the moon. Grey spots staining it as the raindrops fell onto the petals. It stood upright however, not giving in to the weight of the pressure.

-"Lizzy, after this, I'll quit. I'll quit this and we'll live together in a wonderful white house, surrounded by a green meadow, what do you say? This was the dream you told me about the other day, right?"

"Mr. Cherrywine!"-

The woman escaped the warm arms and withdrew into the cold emptiness.

-"They're here, am I right?", Daniel's tone of voice filled with rising maturity.

-"Sir, shall we proceed with our current plan or do-"

-"Tonight, soldier. Tonight is the one time you may all act as you will."

-"Sir?", a lost voice, deep within darkness, alike a child asking his parent for approval.

-"Go, now. Defend this house to your dying breath! Carry on this spirit to the others! Fight!"

"Sir!", Daniel watched the man's back turn, slowly but surely passing through the same door he entered the only safe room left with. Someone who would not return, ever. Only his footsteps echoed through the hallway back into the office right into Daniel's consciousness. Lizzy stared into his teary eyes, his slightly twitching jaw and his lying mouth. She approached him again, this time with a caring gentleness, however she did not understand just why his emotional state changed so suddenly but caressed him nonetheless.

"It would seem we are not the first ones to arrive.", I said.

"Izzat good, or bad?", Bruce asked.

"Obviously good.", Leigh responded.

Next to the country road there was a white facility, in the middle of a wide garden, which was the headquarters of the World Military. Usually belted by a rectangular-shaped iron fence and now those missing parts were going to help other parties to intrude. The three made their way into the front yard which was not bombarded to naught like those parts of the now useless fence. Danger approached security. On the way to their mischief the scent of innocent nature followed their soon to be bloody hands. The mother tried to stop their children from committing sin, yet failed to do so. The child had attained its own body, mind, and Will.

Changing from the calm sound of shaking leaves and trees and the cold but soothing wind, gunshots had already been fired in the entrance hall which benefitted Walter's thought of idea. After hearing the commotion start and finally taking off he told Bruce to stay with him to infiltrate this house.

-"Leigh, you go to the right side and enter from there.", he pointed with the tip of his finger to the fourth floor while his voice was being shaken after every two words from jogging steps.

-"Huh? Are you blind? There ain't no entrance."

-"Why yes, there is actually."

-"No. Jumping in through the window and I'll attract everyone's attention and then I'm fucked."

-"You won't be. Bruce, there is someone already up there, am I correct?"

-"As a matter of fact, he is right, Leigh.", Bruce was able to locate various positions of people if he desired so. Being an observer led him to hold onto this exclusive right, yet robbed him of his ability to partake in conflicts of Will such as the ongoing one in the entrance hall of the World Military.

-"Who?", she suddenly seemed interested. Her breath was not exhausted, not at all but energetic.

-"Haha, Leigh! It's ya old fella! What's his name again?", Bruce showed enthusiasm for the idea.

-"Leo?"

-"What do you say, girl? There is an entrance on the right, yes?"

She smiled. Her body accelerated, she was in the middle of the two and now had her nose in front of them as bits of pieces of flimsy, enlightened particles slowly came together and joined around her body helically, they lit up with increased regularity until she finally jumped through shaking might towards the right side of the facility and landed in a matter of mere seconds. Her hair, white and fanned out, carried by a gentle atmosphere by moonlight.

-"Amazing.", Bruce said plainly astonished.

-"For her age, that is true. But watch now."

While the two men were running still toward the entrence, having their heads turned to watch Leigh, almost having reached their destination, their sight was blocked by a tree and all they could see was how the greenery was shortly illuminated by a flashing lightning which helped Leigh achieve great height she was in need of in order to reach the destined window on the fourth floor. And by the help of resounding smashed glass both of them were left reassured as their desired entrance neared and grew in size. Walter stood with his back on the left wall next to the entrance door and so did Bruce on the right. The two were being parted by two massive glass doors which incurred small, young scratches and bruises. One peek and one would see brutal warfare. The interior orange lighting crawled over the floor to flee and reached out to the door and faded into the outside, not meeting the shaded shoes of the two.

-"Find a person named-"

*Gunshots*

"Huh, what?"-

-"Daniel Che-"

*Person dying by firearm, exclaiming death cry*

"Cherrywine, right? The leader of-"-

-"Precisely! Locate him!"

*The glass doors burst into thousands of shards*

"Found him! I know where-"-

-"Perfect!"

"Hey there's two kids up there!"

"A boy and a girl?! Why the hell are kids here?!"

"They same from the park in Pandemonium, even!"

"Keep your eyes on the- Argh! Fuck!"

"Damnit, You there! Have your squad handle the children! Go! Go! Go!"

"Yes, Sir!"

Those shouted words travelled their way through the hall by the same air that could be listened to by the outsiders. Walter and Bruce nodded in agreement and charged in themselves after having turned invisible by Walter's doing. Altough maintaining such casual charisma for the younger, Bruce was again amazed by the carefree attitude internally. Words exchanged were only audible by the other- perfectly thought of for secret infiltrating. They ran. Running amongst a disgustingly high quantity of nameless bodies, dropped dusty weapons in the fawn-coloured entrance hallway to advance forth to the stairs leading to the upper floors. The images were shaky and flashing because of the hurry but seen hidden behind a wall, there was someone dressed rather fancy for an occasion such as this. A blonde protected by four men, also in suits-

"We're the fucking Blackwoods, alright?!"

The boy's eyes favoured green sapphires, lighting up, he pushed the two men next to him aside, his upbeat, blonde hair bounced carefully as he the took the small but promising steps outside of the brittle but protecting wall, escaping the extended grasping arms wanting to hold back their young leader he stood there, out in the open, thenceforth having amounts of military and third-party rifles pointing on and their courageous, blind anger aimed for him; his pupils widened. Walter's drifted towards the left, capturing the essence of the scene of a boy's stand before a rain of bullets ended his young life. Walter and Bruce were right next to him, in the middle of the hall and to evade potential death here Walter wanted to shift the storm of bullets behind them but he was unable to proceed so, as the blonde pointed his right index finger up in the air, his tips of blonde hair were slowly eaten by a pitch black. The bullets flew with incredible speed after having been unleashed by provoked ignorance. Ray Blackwood willed fire, shaped alike sharp, giant roses, enough to protect him and his team, with rushing flames swallowing the lead as it continuously reached for the soldiers on the higher level, clearing the hall of other gang members as they realized the offered opportunity to climb up in the enemy's castle and rushed towards the freed stairway just as Walter and Bruce did. At the time, in conjunction with the beard stubbles around his mouth, his lips formed and pinned a smile on Walter's face during the witness of the fire's spectacle. Alongside the smell of dead bodies, technically spread gunpowder, the reek of blood there now joined too an ashy scent which also stained the beige walls with clouds of grey. Little crisping fires spread and burned on the floor, inflaming the golden carpet, acting like the starting signal for the blonde to take off the black mantle. The floor was trembling due to the drumming feet of the enraged. His men followed the back covered in a black tank top with war cries enacting a picture of five gang members chasing after a hord of about one hundred bounty hunters chasing after the entire staff of soldiers of the World Military- A hunt.

"Why did you stop? Mr. Renwick?"

Walter tried to cover his overtaking smile with a weak left hand which then landed in his lap as he began to hold back his snicker, exposing his mouth area which lacked any beard growth.

-"Please do excuse me, Mr. Atrox. I was just thinking... This one kid, Ray Blackwood."

-"Positions of both Blackwoods as well as everyone elses besides yourself are unknown, yes?"

-"That is correct. Everyone who was involved in that night and was featured on the wanted list, is somewhere unknown. However, that was not the reason for my laughter, excuse me, please."

-"Then what reason did you laugh for?", Atrox became nervous and impatient. His grip around the sweaty recorder tightened again, yet not as tight as it became after Walter's response:

-"I was just thinking about how Ray Blackwood could, if he so desired, infiltrate even your facility. Even without me acting as an initiator, believe my words as I saw his flames in person and do allow me to share this with you: Orange isn't the brightest colour his fire can rage into."

The sight was cut rather short because of the insufficiency of lighting when she first had entered the building. Plus, she could not rely on someone else to handle small stuff like this like Walter could in the hallway, thus she had to use her own Will to enable herself to a greater vision. As she rushed with fast but faint steps forward small particles of lightning appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared to reduce the amount of pain she had to endure before actual combat. The light was minimal, yes but it served its purpose perfectly when Leigh noticed she was running down a narrow hallway on the fouth floor. Without worrying about herself, she progressed, she ran, she followed the same stenching smell of blood she scented when she fought Leo in the park. Her hand placed quickly on the sheath of her sword, her shoes cried aloud when she abruptly decelerated once she saw a slender frame of body standing with its back to her. The light was fading but before it went out and a new one arrived she saw a pale figure which featured a petite back where three long, sharp and thin scars running down the whole dorsum with spine-length, long, saggy brunette hair and oddly enough feminine curves.

-"What-", her clueless muttering was immediately topped by another astonishment in the very next second.

She evaded the daunting atmosphere radiating from the strange body, drifted backwards as the white strands of her wavy, long hair split her vision into many more little windows to peek through and her nose filled with the nauseous stench of blood she did not miss but was sadly too familiar with. Left to right and right to left it was corpses, however not as whole but slashed, brutally, they had become one with the walls and floor, without any mercy, their interiors seemed to fade into the elements of the components of the facility. Organs leaking their dried blood, spreading it onto the surfaces leaving a bitter aftertaste for Leigh's eyesight behind which evoked sheer disgust inside her prior-resolved consciousness. Yet, averting the sight of the late, focusing on the living, specifically the only other living being in the present in this dark hallway beside her, she drew her sword. It cried, alike ready to take life when it left it's shelter. The white blade was shining at regular intervals, made by the particals of her lightning manipulation, which shortened steadiliy as she pointed the edge of the blade towards the naked back, making it glow eternally.

-"This time, Leo. I'll cut your back open and make you cry.", altough whispering a careful but threatening tone the hallway made her words clearly audible to her enemy whose left scapula deformed, the cracks of bones, into a slowly twirling circle which was ready to unleash a beastly crawl towards its enemy only to paint another massacre of corpse:

-"Shh, hush or you'll bite your tongue.", his head turned slightly towards the girl. His tilted chin accentuated by blue light.

For a second she didn't know what had occured to her in a matter of mere five seconds and how those resulted in her falling out of the window, ready to greet the ground with her very face. Her vison was tossed, it seemed like up was down, down was up, left became right and right became left as her body was pushed and thrown towards the point she had entered the hallway in. On the brink of losing self control it was a small but impactful push forward it that made her fail falling into the depth of darkness. Reverting time was her Will, the only thing she wanted was to stand before her-

-"Leoooo!", the name echoed from a swollen throat back into the building's interior reaching its namebearer in a slight shock of surprise.

And there she was, in mid-air in the middle of his clear field of vision after having turned around completely to be welcomed by a girl encased in a glowing, blue aura, her widely opened, golden eyes told her a sad story reflecting the image of a broken boy.

Was it sadness her anger evolved into?

Was is regret her strike, already in action, was turning into?

She wanted it to stop, make the strike undone and forget this encounter, but even so, her action had already moved faster than her begging, twitching scream that was being thrown into the other, monotone face. The sword cut deep into the boy's left shoulder, driving its blade through muscle and bone, skin and cell, deforming and ripping apart what was once harmonic. Her feet met the floor safely, tiptoeing forwards making soft steps, her dizzy body fell into his arms, her head rested on his left shoulder. Both were enveloped in darkness' silence and tranquility whose small bubble of saftey and comfort were pierced by blinding lights. Leigh's eyes jumped back up just when she allowed herself to let her guard down, forget and drown into the warmth. A swarm of small military squads were rushing towards them. She could feel the danger in her stomach; the anxiety made her blood pressure rose to an unhealthy extent but she made no move; her lightning had long vanished. Only small bits of laughter unchained her from paralyzation. Leigh's pupils grew affixed to the sight of lines exploding out of their back's encasement, stretching and finally impaling every single soldier who dared to enter this hallway without giving any regard to their prior actions, hence suffering the lethal, equally unjustified, consequences. They were smashed down onto the floor to enable them to join their late comrades. She couldn't refrain from sharing a tear or two and bit into the shoulder to repress a scream of hopelessness and her quiet weeping; it was yet again too much for her to bear but ready to break down, having even averted vision, her ears caught the crawling sound of enraging words:

-"I thought you came to kill me..", thus causing something deep inside her tainted mind to allow her become free.

-"Yeah. You're right..", she whispered back.

Pushing and rejecting the warm body away from her, she ripped the sword out of his bleeding body and held it tightly in her right; creating afterimages she ran up with such excellent speed and reignited anger, turning her slender motion into a heavy slash. He evaded, as expected, thence her last afterimage before the inital blow had also striked without making Leo taking notice. The open wound was of much help to him as forms of blood outgrew and stopped the strike effortless. She aimed for and punched into his stomach, making the afterimages disappear and getting the lower part of her right arm sucked into Leo's body, making it stuck. Her shock was quickly calmed but not prepared for following: A acrobatic transition of the upper and lower body happened before her; she could feel the creeping fluidity of the stream of blood forbidding her arm freedom. Falling into distress an idea rose from small moment of clarity. "Ha!" She rammed her free, electrified left arm into the body of blood as she herself was hit by a foot with such might, it smashed her into the wall next to the corpses.

-"Fuck. Fuck, ahh.", she bit her tongue and spit out blood. Her throat felt poisoned, such was the feeling, it made her think if her right arm had been injected with something toxic.

Remaining on her knees after having tried to stand up but failing due to increasing dizziness, he picked up her sword and threw it over to her which was first caught by her weak hands, afterward, the floor itself. New members came running into the hallway with shouts, cries, weapons and lights and were in a moment of mental aberration since the hallway had lost original strucure and acquired new shape in the form of a white, spacious room. A snap. The sword no longer lied on the floor, lightning jumped from one to another, striking down man after man. Whomever would spectate this act would blurr the sound of bullets but become accustomed to the sight of a berseker, one girl fallen into a killing frenzy, guided by hatred or frustration.

"Unable to kill one strong, so she turned to kill a few weak."

The blade took singular body parts which she used immorally as makeshift weapons to shove them into the living faces. The blood of your own friends was tossed into your eyes. Adult men were screaming as if still in kindergarten, as if having to go home, leaving behind and parting with your playmates for the day, except now it was for ever. Exclamations were cut short by halving throats in one-sided anguish. Ten, no twenty, thirty, they kept coming, they kept dying.

-"Alike a flash appearing before your chest allowing you to draw your last breath."

-"Were you able see her in action? I thought you were elsewhere at that time?"

-"Yes, I was indeed but I did get the chance to see her in action as she was my trainee before the execution of this operation.", Walter smiled casually.

-"Hm.", Atrox gave in to the statement without rebuttal,"Continue, then, please."

-"Of course.", he leaned back after having a sip of warm coffee.

The hord of madmen were yelling their way up, mercilessly losing and taking lives as they climbed and climbed up the stairway, grasped by the thought of world control. Pushing each other as well as military soldiers off the stairs, their minds were not functioning rationally no longer and at the very front of the heated mob were the Blackwoods, Bruce and Walter. Together, however, as if on command whilst running, their heads turned left, towards the passing lower story and metamorphosing structure. Agitated by the loss of stability of the weakening stairway they all accelerated and started running to their heart's content towards the promising destination. The collective stemping grew even louder than the mindless shouting of war cries and last confessions.

-"Walter is this your messed up witchcraft!?"

"Thank you kindly, but this isn't my accomplishment!"-

-"Whose is it then?"

"I'm not sure and how would I know for certain, but I will guess it's our Devil"-

"More importantly, is the target still on the top floor?"-

-"Man, it's seems like the top part hasn't been affected..yet."

We were running right behind the Blackwoods, too, still invisible however:

-"Ray!"

"It's alright, I'm fine as long as they believe so."

"Don't push yourself, too hard, Ray. You're already a better leader than your father."-

"I'm sorry...even after losing one of us you're still so.. goddammit!"

-"We're here to rescue Charles and no matter what it tak-"

-"Man, shut it and look over there.", he pointed towards the nearing wall, and shrinking width of the stairs, which was about to push everybody off and make them fall into their death, deep down into the abyss, the ground floor.

-"Ahh! Walter!"

"That's Satanael, I'm certain now, though he is not my current objective."-

-"Yeah, well but we're about to gon' get pushed off!"

"Oh, how very tragic..."-

"Juuuuuuump!"

Soldiers, gang members, assassins; all were willing to let themsleves get rescued due to an emerging ground floor whose height grew steadily without harmonic unrest, re-enacting the image of an elevator, by jumping to the left. Marble grinding upwardly on marble, screeching its deconstruction. A great quantity fell off when landing, therefore were screamed after but those painful screams were swiftly healed by the size of the rising chunks of the ground floor. They were seperated now, all on different levels of height. Once the 'elevator' passed the remains of the stairway, they started merging into one, barely getting crushed by the sudden fusion a lot of people were left with even less space to take a stand on.

Walls were cracking, returning to their singular elemental components, the house was truly coming down and reforming. Space and room were played with to one's own advantage.

-"Ray, You alright?"

"It'd be a damn shame if I wasn't!"

"Is your uncle still on the top floor?!"-

"Yeah, Shanna still can locate his presence up there."

-"Then, protect the blonde! Surround him and finish the military's dogs!"

"The introduction part is finally down, baby! Now it's our turn to take over! Let's fucking go!"

End of ACTVARIVM

#rosenschnee #book blog #original work #story #axelisrose

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