A Myriad of Stories

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Flames of Passion

Postby ghostyghost » March 3rd, 2019, 1:12:10 am

She knows he watches her. She can feel the weight of his gaze, and it sets a slow, deep fire in her soul. Unable to help herself, she adds an extra sway in her step, draws herself into a more dignant posture, and sends a flirtatious smile to a cute guy across the room.

Really, she shouldn't tease him like this, but part of her argues that it's only fair. He treats her far worse. At the thought of his treatment, she frowns, and an angry energy comes into her step. Frowning, she makes her way out of the building and slips out to car; even as she drives away, she can feel him staring at her.

Oh, she's in it when she gets home. A terrifyingly-exhilirating mixture of excitement, anger, and fear race through her, and she has to fight against pressing harder on the gas and speeding home. Still, her grip tightens until her knuckles are white. Finally, though, she arrives at her small, out-of-the-way house, and her observer stands casually in her doorway as if he's been there this entire time.

“Leo,” she frostily greets as she exits the car, but the fire in her soul has spread throughout her body. She feels as though she could set her house alight with a single touch, yet she gives the tall man the cold shoulder as she glides up to her locked door. Such a contradiction of temperatures; how can she act so cold when she's burning alive?

“Rose,” he softly greets, his voice an odd mixture of anger and fondness. She stiffens at his tone, and her eyes narrow as she stabs the key into the lock. He's angry? Despite knowing what she was coming home to, indignation floods her and feeds the fire into a roaring beast. Flinging her door open, she stalks indoors and flings her heels off. Behind her, Leo quietly walks in and softly shuts the door; his anger has always been quiet, soft, calm. Much different than her volcanic rage.

Just another thing she hates but loves about him. In all situations, he is calm and collected, the perfect illusion of control, whereas she is untamed passion, the perfect reality of lack of contact. It pisses her off how stupidly calm he can be, yet she admires him for it, which pisses her off even more.

Everything pisses her off. She welcomes the anger with open arms as she stares into his honey-brown eyes. They reflect the fire within her, and she struggles to hold onto the fury. As if sensing her weakness, he steps forward and tenderly caresses her cheek. She leans into the touch before snapping back to her senses and slapping his hand away; he watches, amused, as she strides across the room to get away from him and his stupid touches.

“No!” she snaps. “You can't keep striding in her, buttering me up with a few soft touches and some tender words, and leaving without a word in the morning!” Her words are harsh, angry, and bitter, but there's an underlying sense of pain and hurt. As much as she tries to hide it, she loves the man just as much as she hates him—maybe even more. Definitely more. While her hate can be smoothed away with a few sweet words, no amount of bitterness or abandonment can chase away her love.

He knows it, too. With a sigh, he leans against her counter and regards with a slightly condescending look as if she's a child throwing a fit. Stop this game, his gaze says, and give in to me like we both know you will. He, however, doesn't put these thoughts into words; instead, he says, “Rose, you know I am a busy man. I can't stay.” His words are even more condescending, and she bites back a scream of frustration.

“Stop treating me like a child!” she hisses. Her chest heaves with emotions, and he regards her with a cool look that only strokes the flames burning just beneath her skin. She knows that he's busy being a god or whatever, but she's good enough for more than a night of love! Right?

“Then stop acting like one. If I could visit more often, I would. You know that, Rose,” he explains softly, but his tone and gaze have lost their condescending edge. She frowns; does she, though? Her flames are slowly smothered by a blanket of self-doubt, and she turns away from him to keep the god from seeing her weakness.

“Do I?” she snaps back, but her anger is forced and has lost much of its fire. She craves his touch, yearns for his comfort, needs all of him, but she can't let him see that. Not yet. Maybe it would be easier to just welcome him with open arms every time he visited, but her pride won't allow it.

“Yes, you do. I'm not the one with another lover,” he quips back, and she whirls around at his accusation. The dying fire has been reignited, and this time he rises to meet her in her passion. Usually, the anger in his eyes would be enough to make her back down; this time is different. This time he's accused her of cheating. He has accused her! In her anger, she strides forth, closer to him, and sends him a scatching glare.

“Oh? Really now? Have you ever seen me with anyone else? I've been faithful! I haven't—why would you—I can't believe you would say that!” she splutters, too worked up to even speak. It hurts because she really has been faithful. Even if she doesn't think he's coming back, she doesn't touch another man, and it hurts that he doesn't recognize that. Why does she even bother?

“I—well,” he stutters for something to say, and the fire blazes higher with every failed attempt at speaking. He stares down at her and bites his lip. She stares up at him and narrows her eyes. Neither one speak for a few moments, but she eventually breaks away and paces angrily across the floor.

“Exactly. Maybe I should have another lover; obviously you do. Maybe you should just leave because obviously you don't love or trust me,” she snaps. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she stops in her tracks, shocked by her own words, and her anger dies out as she glances at the surprised god. He gazes sadly but fondly at her, and he offers her an apologetic smile so full of emotion that she has to turn away

“Do I need to remind you, Rose? I love you. Only you, and no one else. I'm sorry,” he softly tells her as he walks across the room. His arms wrap around her waist; she stiffens but leans into his touch. As she turns around and wraps her arms around his broad shoulders in a tight, possessive hug, tears leak from her eyes and wet the fabric of his shirt. They stand in silence, both clinging onto each other as if this is their last night.

It could be. Every time he leaves, she knows that she might never see him again, and the pain of uncertainty haunts her always. For now, though, she pushes those thoughts and away and instead pulls away to lead the god to her room. If it's their last night, she will make the most of it.

After their night of passion, she fights against sleep, but it eventually claims her. He stays awake, though, and watches over her as she sleeps. He thinks about if they'll ever meet again, and as the sun rises, he thinks about just staying with her and never leaving. As always, though, he gives her one last fond look before walking out the door and promising that next time he'll stay.

Always next time.
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Re: A Myriad of Stories

Postby ghostyghost » March 11th, 2019, 11:22:46 pm

Even the stars seem foreign and cold. Shivering, I wrap the blanket tighter around my form and hunch closer to myself, but I don't bother to move towards the warmth of the fire where everyone else sleeps. A muttered spell increases the warmth of the blanket slightly, but in the end I'm still sitting sitting on top of a snow-covered igloo. How warm can I get?

“You should be asleep,” Zyran remarks as he climbs up beside me, and I roll my eyes. He holds out a blanket, though, so I scoot over to give him room beside me. After a bit of shuffling, we're both situated under the warm blankets and staring up at the Kryous sky. Stars glitter, each one marking the existence of a realm; my eyes settle on Eroan, the brightest one.

Isn't it odd how the artificial realm is the brightest one? The magic forces of all those people shining across the space between realms, a beacon to any lost or wandering soul… does it really mean anything? I frown and let my eyes wander across all the other stars in an attempt to find answers to questions that have been unanswered for centuries.

“Do you think that there's a reason to live?” I whisper, turning to the hybrid sitting next to me. His black eyes stare into mine, and I can only handle the intenseness of his gaze for a few seconds before I look back up at the clear sky. Thankfully, the famed snowstorms of Kyrous haven't hit us yet, but it's bound to happen soon.

“No. But I'm not sure I'm the person you should be asking,” he responds, his voice a mixture of amusement and meloncholy. Sighing, I huddle closer to myself under the blanket. It's so cold. Isn't it fitting, though? We've been essentially banished; everyone we've ever known and loved is either dead or has turned their back on us.

And it's my fault. Swallowing thickly, I take a deep breath and try to distract myself from the thoughts of the past, and as a distraction, I ask, “Is there a reason to die?” Zyran hums in thought, and a particularly cold wind blows past. A shudder racks my body; it's so cold! The blankets seem to barely help. How can it be so cold?

Too focused on the chill in my body, I don't notice as Zyran shifts closer until he wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I tense up. He begins to pull away, worried that he freaked me out, but I huddle closer against him. For the warmth, of course. We sit, just starting at the stars, and I forget that I even asked him a question until he answers me.

“No,” he begins, “I don't think so. There can't be a reason for something so destructive. Besides, if life doesn't have a reason, death wouldn't either to keep the world balanced.” He seems more secure about this answer, and I wonder how many times he's thought about it. Just how much death has he seen? I glance over at him, and maybe it's my imagination or the reflection of the stars but it feels like I can see the dying souls reflected in his black eyes, his own pain hiding right behind.

“Yeah,” I whisper, unable to say anything else. Zyran doesn't seem to mind, and we stare at each other, just analyzing the emotions in the other's eyes. Once again, I find myself intimidated by the intensity, and I return my gaze to the stars once again. Now that I'm warm, the exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and my mouth splits into a huge yawn.

“Sleep, Droenix. You'll need your energy,” Zyran softly informs me, and as my eyelids slip shut, I shift to be comfortable resting on the male next to me. Before I can even really think about what I'm doing, I'm drifting off into the first real sleep I've had in a week.

It's also probably the only real sleep I'll have for a while. These next few months are going to be rough; who knows when we can go back home? How long will we be outcasted? Will they ever accept us? These thoughts swirl around my head as I fall asleep, and I gratefully welcome the ultimate, thoughtless oblivion of sleep. Later I can worry; now I must rest.
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Hating Love

Postby ghostyghost » April 12th, 2019, 8:57:51 pm

He hates the way she smiles. It sets his blood on fire, how happy she can look, and sometimes, he gets the urge to--oh, she irritates him so much, it's not his fault. He's not crazy.

He just can't stand her. Not anymore. It's been four months since she smiled at him like that. How unfair is it? Since when can you just smile like that at everyone? It's--it's--it's a sin! A crime!

Christ, he sounds insane. He lets out a breathless laugh, looks down at the picture of her, and shakes his head. Maybe four months ago, when he had been so in love and so euphoric, but not anymore.

He was crazy for loving her, sane for hating her.

But is this level of hatred warranted? He frowns, looks back down at the picture--of course. She violated their relationship, lied to him, deceived him into thinking their love was real! Then she had the nerve to blame it on him! It's his fault for not loving her like he should have, when he loved her more completely than anyone else could have ever hoped to achieve! He worshipped the ground she walked on, lavished her with affection, sacrificed everything for her--what did he not do for her?

A small, angry huff escapes him, and his hand tightens into fist at his side. He tries to keep a hold on his control, a hold on his emotions--God, he's so tired of losing control. He just wants to be normal again. He wants to forget he ever loved her, yet something keeps those memories at the very front of his mind, assaulting at every chance they get.

He hates her. More than he ever loved her because love is weaker than hate, hate is stronger and hotter and better and he should have never wasted his time with her. She wasted his time, he wasted her time, they screwed each other over--no, wait, no!

It's all her fault! He barks out a rough laugh and bangs his hand on the table. The picture rattles and falls over--distractedly, he picks it up and rights it. Four months ago, she stood in front of him and tried to excuse her despicable actions, as if there's any excuse.

Me, he bitterly remembers. Her excuse was me. Me and my supposed coldness. How else was I supposed to love her? Why did she not--how could she have just accepted all I have and everything I am and still want more?

So, yes. He hates the way she smiles because she used to smile at him just like that, except apparently not really because he wasn't good enough. It boils his blood that he wasn't good enough but someone far, far inferior to him is!

Or supposedly is. Maybe he isn't good enough. Maybe nobody is good enough for Her Majesty, maybe she's just lying to everyone with her stupid, stupid smile.

He hates the way that smile still makes his heart do flips and his knees weaken, desperate to bow before her and beg for forgiveness, to grovel on the ground before her. He hates how that smile brings back memories, except all of those memories are fake because she never loved him. He hates the way her smile still deceives him.

He hates the way he loves her.

Sometimes, like now, he truly does hate her. He wants to see her burn, slowly--he wants to destroy her very being and savor every moment of beautiful, cruel destruction. Only pure, writhing, burning hatred exists, and it takes over his mind, staining his vision red and threatening to destroy his sanity.

Other times, he just wants to bury himself in her center and drown in her essence; he loves and needs her so completely, so desperately, that he wants to devour her, simply so she will finally be his. He wants to destroy her in an entirely different way, and it comes so strongly that it blurs the edges of reality--there she is, her and her stupid smile, across the street when she should be at home under her boyfriend's brother.

This dichotomy between love and hate--he can't stand it. Oh, how horrible it is. Hating hate just breeds more hate, and hating love? Peace of mind has become the faintest whisper, somebody he might have known four months ago but whose memory now only lingers at the very edges of his mind.

Please, he just wants some rest. With a soft sigh, all the hate vanishes, back again to Pandora's Box until he cracks it open once again, and in its wake, a void, gaping and black and mysterious, appears.

What is better--to simultaneously feel infernal hatred and divine love or to feel nothing at all?

Perhaps neither. Perhaps both. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps--his life, just a bunch of maybes and unsurities.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's not. Maybe she never existed, maybe she always existed, maybe none of this even happened and he's actually just hallucinated this entire thing, sitting in some white padded room somewhere. A comforting thought, really.

Can anything even be considered real? He hates the question, still he numbly slips down the wall and brings his knees to his chest to better ponder such existential questions.

Are love and hate real? They are not tangible, not quantitative--you can't say you have a thousand love units versus four hundred hate units. They both exist in relatives, relative to each other and other such intangible emotions. Love more than hate, hate more than love--what does it even mean?

How pathetic is he? A sharp, self-pitying laugh breaks him out of his existential crisis, and he struggles to his feet, the weight of his love-hate still weighing him down. Once again, he looks down at her picture, at her smiling face, at her arm around his waist.

Calmly, he picks her picture up and studies it. He takes in the way her blue eyes crinkle, the way her dark brown hair seems like liquid chocolate, how happy she seems to be standing next to him. Then, he turns around, looks down at the picture once again--and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and then the floor, landing face up.

The glass has cracked and broken off; over his face, there's so many cracks his features are illegible. Her smiling face, though, shines clearly through all the broken glass.
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