two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl // lucas vs shelby
May 2, 2017 0:13:20 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on May 2, 2017 0:13:20 GMT -5
Residing in mind
Ever-lasting in heart
Simple body of mine
Is preparing to depart.
Denying self pleasures
I’ve lived long in hate—
Now I long for the luxury of
Golden tastes.
My spear is blocked by his own blade, and I sneer as I’m shoved backwards onto my own two feet. I do not know which of us two is truly trying to end the life of other, but neither of us are doing a swell job. Steadied and stupefied I spin the spear ‘round my palm as we circle each other slowly. My eyes drift down to his hands and the sight of dried blood is now long overlooked. There is no dirt under his nails or bags under his eyes— I see nothing but the lust of a man unattached a girl so broken she was unwilling to deny him the privilege.
When I had spent nights with him, the kingdom he had promised me seemed to already be appearing at my fingertips. There was a bottle of whiskey in one hand a cigarette in the other, his hands in my hair and his lips pressed to my ear. He would whisper the things I knew were false but wanted to believe with the few shards of my heart still slicing into the wall of my chest. I loved my body in the light of his eyes— when his fingers traced each of my ribs and covered the space between them nonetheless.
So beautiful, shrouded in cigarette smoke and disillusioned vision.
He told me I ruined the aesthetic when I spoke, that my tongue was to sharp to do anything but mar my image and make it undesirable to his hands. When I spoke of my mind aching and my thoughts dulling he’d press the palm of his hand to my mouth, covering my lips but never denying me the privilege of breath.
He seemed to only enjoy the moments when I simply existed.
But it seemed to be that Lucas O’Hara was not of the same lineage, for my voice brought interest to his face and color to his cheeks. He held his breath until I spoke and exhaled in the wake of my confessions. It was as though we were both locked in prayer, waiting for the other to finish the last request before making another in fear of looking the slightest bit too gluttonous in the face of an unseen god.
I have forgotten my offering of peace denied, but before the thought can slip completely away he smiles once again, charming and dignified but still as deadly as they could possibly come, “Tempting, my dear, but you know how fickle the Gamemakers can be.”
But I knew nothing of the sort. There was nothing more to the word than meaningless names and forgotten faces, two women with one heart of ice and one of fire between them.
While debating the truths and falsities of his statement he moves forward, and the corner of my eye catches glimpse of his face before he speaks for a second time, “And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather die on my feet as opposed to being savaged to death by who knows what while I’m locked in the throes of passion.”
(Good fuck I’m ovulating.)
Then stuck in desire my spear falls parallel to my side, and with the image of a sword stabbed through his chest in the moment of heightened senses, he reverses the roll and catches me deep across the thigh.
Blood wells in the wound and not only threatens to spill over but carries out the task efficiently, and with free hand I’m pressing palm to torn flesh and hoping that the rush of fresh blood ceases to exist and takes the feeling of sudden world spinning with it.
Pain has not graced me in this way since the day I stood eye to eye with Curse Jinx and barely lived to tell the tale— that is a point I do not wish to reach once again. If I am going to die here, I want to do so instantaneously, perhaps with a moment’s notice so I can prepare the mental monologue that is sure to be spoken as I spiral from lost reality to newfound graces and distorted tales of afterlife brought to pass.
Hunched over and still grasping at my thigh, I look up with straying eye and wait until our gazes meet. The thought of my next words are less overbearing when brought to the tip of my tongue, and what is supposed to be a tale of triumph disintegrates into a sob caught between each breath, “I killed Wylla, you know.”
I suppose that if I loved Lucas O’Hara, I would apologize.
[shelby leviane attacks lucas o'hara; spear]
zNvORV|bspear
[stabbed in neck-- x]
spearzNvORV|bspear
[stabbed in neck-- x]