#noir ic

[tumultesanguinaire]

❛ they die for love, you kill for it. ❜ for Noir

Teeth grit as Desire spoke to him. Yes, he killed to please their father, to earn his love, he was a pathetic person, adopted into a family just to be a skilled assassin. And his brother just lived to berate and taunt him.

Finally, Noir looked up, fists clenched, D.M. was no better than him, and at least he didn't have to love confined to the shadows. "The same could be said about you."

[cigarettes-n-daisies]

19 — Where the Heart is

► Part One ► Meaning // The phrase means that no matter who you are with or where you are in the world, your family and home always have the deepest affection and emotional pull. It is the place where you have a foundation of love, warmth, and happy memories. It might not always be the building itself, but being near your loved ones. ► Summary // The studio had been quiet, a place where Noir’s elegiac wandering had carried him. But who was he kidding? This was home.

Noir wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Someone hit the lights and bathed the small, messy studio in a blast of luminance. They idled contemplatively beside the switch and then Skarlet hit the lights off with a shrug. He was relatively tall at just over six-fulms of athletic muscle and sleek allure; the drummer that padded lazily toward his set wore mystique and muteness well. Hair a gradient of phoenix-fire kept shaved at the sides and often tied into a long ponytail. 

Another figure appeared seconds behind the gently-smiling Skarlet—they must’ve been together when they decided to visit the studio. Their lead guitarist paused at the dark doorway, a shock of off-white hair marked him as Grey. Hard to miss all the glittering piercings and that shit-eating smirk, the very same upon Noir’s lips when he breathed “Tch.” 

“Tch.” Grey answered good-naturedly and stalked into the dark studio, lithe fingers lifted his guitar and automatically tested its tuning. “We heard your emo-ass from the hallway. How ‘bout something with a little more oomph?”

“You can eat shit and die.” Their vocalist spat around a pearlescent grin, while idly wondering how well, or unwell, the others could see in the dark. His voidal affinity made it easy. 

His brother plucked a short riff, plugged himself into the shitty little amp that their almost-nonexistent earnings could afford, and Noir sucked his teeth—grinning behind the mic. “You sure you wanna go there? That’s all you and Skar.” 

The aforementioned drummer whom, rather readily, tapped his cymbals. 

And then Grey launched them into an intro with a laugh.

[cigarettes-n-daisies]

Prompt // Stress (@kri-babe​) -  Word Prompts, closed.

Features // Tyler, Noir

Summary // Someone needs to write a manual about all of the awkward social situations a person can find themselves in. 

I... am not an impressive person.

In fact, the only impressive thing about me is how unimpressive I am. At barely five-fulms tall and weighing in at a mousy one-hundred ponzes, I was just short enough to go unnoticed in a small crowd. Unnoticed was good. It was great, actually. And if I had the wherewithal and daring edge for the job, chances were I'd make a great spy because of it—but "daring" and "edge" were never used in the same sentence with "Tyler."

My eyes were a little large and the thick-rimmed glasses that dominated my nose only made them seem larger, pushing them into the awkward range. I had eyebrows but you wouldn't know it between their frames and my heavy bangs, but I definitely had them and they were definitely scrunched with a furrow right now. Because the girl staring back at me from the mirror... wasn't ready.

She wanted to be, but she never would be.

Her mouth was a little small and maintained a natural pout that always accentuated my frowns but never my smiles. There was a smattering of freckles like someone had grabbed a fistful of dirt-covered confetti and smacked me between those decidedly too big eyes. My freckles weren't a charming constellation but I'd experimented wearing foundation makeup enough to realize that makeup and glasses? They never got along and before the afternoon was over I had a very obvious smear of foundation on the nose of my glasses.

So, freckles it was. Awesome.

I could almost consider the color of my eyes... at least passable. They were a hazel that leaned toward green; a soft arboreal mixed with shades of honey and wheat that reminded me of walks through the woods. I didn't mind them and they navigated my mud-brown hair with a little less scrutiny, too. Cropped short and hassle-free, and, for the most part, out of the way. My bangs needed trimmed again.

The meek girl in the mirror attempted a small disenchanted smile and loosed a sigh. I'd once read a self-help book that said the color red was empowering; it boasted, as much as it bolstered, confidence—but I didn't own a single red anything, so my cloudy-blue sweater would have to do. 

I adjusted my oversized glasses, grimaced and turned away from my reflection. When I pulled the bathroom door open, someone pushed it open at the same time and it swung wide and knocked loudly on my knee. My wince was more reflexive than it was necessary; it hadn't hurt as much as it'd startled me, just like the person standing in the doorway. 

He was the sort of guy that turned heads on a swivel, with the sort of magnetism that skipped right over handsome and jumped into unfairly gorgeous. My nerves seized hold like they always did and I barely caught a glimpse of his eyes—they were a sharp blue—before my gaze swan-dived to the floor. Just like always.

Go job, Tyler. Why hadn't I bought a red shirt?

We stood there in awkward silence for what felt like minutes, but I'm pretty sure only a second or two passed before he made a sound that... I could only describe as irritation incarnate. Tch. If annoyance could pick one expression to print on every dictionary definition of the word it would definitely be that one.

I wilted the way I always did.

No color, not even red, would magically straighten my spine and square my shoulders and lift my chin—but his fingers did. And like the dumb-dumb that I was, he was met without an ounce of resistance and I got my second glimpse of his eye-color. They really were a sharp blue; they reminded me of afternoon skies during the cold months of winter. 

Then he leaned down—panic seared through me and my arms automatically flung forward and rammed into his chest. Which was thin but firm, and I was not thinking about that right now. He stumbled backward and my sensibility kicked in; I slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it.

This was my home now. No way would I summon the courage to open that door again. 

I would die in this bathroom.