He sniffs, blood-slick fingers coming up to pluck the cigarette from his lips. He sported a large hole in his chest that was honestly more annoying than it was threatening to whatever he'd become. His human body had long since turned into something he could hardly recognize. She'd enchanted him and he'd willingly died at her hands but the decades were wearing his soul, her rejection turning him vindictive.
❝ If y'er done, 'm goin' out. A wet DICK'S better an' this. ❞
Also how come that there are a LOT of encouraging posts around this website, but there's not a single one praising people with low patience and lots of impulses and violence inclined that don’t submit to them?
Something like ''Congratulations! You handled the situation correctly and didn't smashed their heads through a wall to eat their brains in an extreme act of hystery caused by them being pieces of shit through your whole day and breaking your limits! Good job!''
Or ''You didn't set the entire city on fire through bombs even if they deserved it! I'm proud of you!''
When you open your eyes again, you're standing in front of Him.
Pale and tall, his features carved in alabaster from the obscene perfection that they're sporting. His tall forehead ends with slicked back, dark brown hair and a dark, long vest hiding what you're sure is the canonical standards of body perfection. His smile is wicked yet calm, and his red eyes are looking at anything in the throne room but your small form threatening to crumple to the floor.
Your breath evens. Your nerve tenses, and your hands begin to shake. What happened? What happened? A minute ago you were sleeping on Wrath's chest, and now you're projected far, far away from his place. How you got there gets no possible, plausible answer: your mind frets for nothing, mouth opening in horror as he slowly walks towards your form, the sash stroking the ground at each step before returning back into place.
''I must say... I am disappointed,''
When you realize that, unlike the last time, you aren't paralyzed and made of stone, the dash that you make away from him it's impressive. Like a panther, you jump away with a startled cry -- away from his outstretched hand. Your entire, soft body is shaking like a leaf, and there are light dark burn marks where he was too close. You feel pain, and this is like some sort of bullshit lucid dream.
And you can't wake up.
''I was expecting you to bring your presence at my throne in October... the first of November... but nobody came.''
His voice is like a cracking whip on your bare skin. A sob threatens to spill out of your lips, but you suck them in and sink your teeth into them to avoid a scream building up in the back of your throat. The smell of ashes threatens to burn your own nerves.
''I was waiting for you.''
On the outside, it might appear as if he's scolding an unmannered child -- but his words, calm and icy, makes what little guts you have twist painfully.
He's disappointed in you. He always was, and he's already turning his back at you
He scrunches his perfect face up, and his hand moves in a smooth, fluid gesture towards you.
For a moment, you feel air passing by. Your hair flow in the breeze he just created, so unlike him, that you almost don't notice yourself catching fire.
It's almost spontaneous, sudden and improvise. And painful. Every tendon, every nerve, every piece of tissue is screaming bloody murder for the intense, crippling pain tearing you apart like an old, torn tattered cloth to be thrown away. Your legs give out, crumbling under a burnt bone and carbonized flesh, and you find yourself springing up, screaming almost as badly as you were doing before...
Your mouth is hanging open by a good measure, a bloodcurling scream coming out of it, your skin covered by a layer of thick, wet sweat -- and your eyes are wide open, almost hallucinated and big enough to suck all the light of the room in.
An hand reaches for your shoulder, to shake you away from your costant terror of nightmares, and you smack it away in pure fear, grabbing at the spear... to find that it wasn't even there to begin with.
You don't control your urge to sob anymore after you snap back to reality: you just sob into Wrath's chest, completely crumpled over the suffering of another one of His mockings.
The little burning marks on your wrists remains unseen, for now.
Leticia is tricky: each time you think that you got the upper hand on her, she proceeds to pummel you to the soft grass -- and it wouldn't be so bad if only you weren't launched into it at the impressive speed of 250 km/h, where everything becomes broken glass no matter how soft it is.
You get thrown to the ground once, twice, thrice -- six times in a row, and each time you jump back to your feet and girate your entire, dislocated body to attack again. You manage to wound, scratch and gouge -- but so does she. By the time that you part from eachother with a jump you're missing an eye and having a bloody, empty eyesocket with a wide cut tearing it in half, missing hair and broken teeth, and a ferocious expression on your face that twists in extreme pain from the black murk seeping through the wounds and poisoning the tissues.
Meanwhile, she's in a worse shape. Pieces of bloody ice are peeking out of gashes in her bleeding skin and she's painting heavily, looking at you with nothing but hatred.
You don't know how you did it, but suddendly you're towering over her. And your hands are around her arm and they're tearing it off as if it was a piece of paper, launching it behind you without a care.
It's a long, static buzz in your mind. Nothing makes sense, but you're gripping and ripping flesh under your hands and claws, and your mouth has reached your ears in what you could only picture as a large, insane grin. The bloody spurts coming out at each bare handed strike reach an impressive height, and soon your arms are both stained to the shoulders with her fluids.
You have been stressed, almost murdered and left off with your thoughts.
It was about time that you exploded.
Some of the blood sprays on the house and on the windows, too: when you're done with her, she moans in defeat and fear, her body squashed by sobs. You simply lean over to her face, and she growns before you rip off what remains of her nose in a cruel act.
''Know your place,'' you sibil, the crazed grin still there. ''I crushed you two millennias ago, and I can still do it... if you pull this crap again.''
Then you feel like you're being watched.
It's Wrath, your boyfriend, and finally he's looking straight at you. Your grin widens even more, if possible and not in a very sane way, and you march a couple steps before you faint on the bloodstained glass with a cough.
Awake and achey, you grunt and begin to drag yourself on your elbows towards the house. Eventually, you'll make it.
You find yourself seated on your comfortable sofa, legs crossed over a cup of tea places in your lap. You’re feeling warm.
Too warm.
And Lucifer is in front of you, his tail slashing the air in half as he grins down at you. He occupies the entire room just sitting there, but for some reasons he’s barely twice your height. A lanky, tall man with smooth traits, with eyes similiar to braces piercing right through your very inner core.
You cannot move. And he extends a finger towards your face with incredible grace, grin widening.
You feel the unbearable heat getting closer, and the silky skin melting off your face.
It’s a curious, upsetting sensation: you had your skin peeled off once, but never liquefying like this. It rolls down your cheeks like tears, followed by your eyeballs. You feel excruciating pain, but you cannot move.
You cannot run and he’s laughing. This is your punishment for insinuating, for mocking.
Your hair burns off. Your skull gets exposed. Your hands shake. Your mind is shattered into a million pieces.
And you scream, oh, if you scream: you can finally move, and yell profanities and terror and vomit a sequence of shouts and puke out your fear, rip the sheets off your neck and body, spasm to get out of his grip. You’re in Hell, and then you’re not.
And it was a nightmare. And the walls are white, the room isn’t yours, and you’re clinging to Wrath so hard that the skin of his arms get red streaks from your nails and his chest covered in salt water.
And you’re sobbing your grief out into him, and this will never be a quiet night again.
