[Osiris might be a god, but the thing attached to Set is only a shade... and that shade isn't welcome in Hayame's territory. The minute he steps into the snows it is quieter, fainter in the face of a mind that did not believe in him- that, though she had sworn her service and her violence for the god of war's blessing, barely believed in gods at all. Certainly not ones she had not exchanged blood with.
Hayame flinches away instinctively from a hand approaching her wounded eye, the eyepatch flickering in and out of existence and flashing hints of what lay beneath- what she found so disgusting and shameful, that dark, empty eye socket with perfect eyelids, as if the eye had been removed by a surgeon and not a demon's fingers. And though she flinches first... the conflict twists her facial expression, her lips, she wants so badly to just-
To tilt her head so that she might wordlessly beg for his fingers to stroke along her cheek, to find some place for it to rest in his palm. On that day when the pollen had been so heavy in the air she had felt Amos' hand there, as they found themselves accidentally sharing similarities in their pasts, and ever since... she has craved the warm comfort of that sort of touch. (Craved a lewder sort of touch, ever since that night after the masquerade.) But when she touched herself... it didn't do anything at all...]
I hate so much of what you do...
[Her voice whispers out, a shudder working it's way down her long spine. (But it's worth noting, even if she doesn't notice... that she says what he does and not what he is.)]
I know how to be a warrior-
[She swallows, her eyes (one eye and one empty lid) fluttering closed. It feels like a lie-]
Not how to be a friend-
[What is she supposed to do? Is she supposed to overlook his plans? Because she cannot. Is she supposed to calm her rage? She does not know if she can. Is she supposed to overlook how he fraternizes with all her enemies? Impossible.
no subject
Hayame flinches away instinctively from a hand approaching her wounded eye, the eyepatch flickering in and out of existence and flashing hints of what lay beneath- what she found so disgusting and shameful, that dark, empty eye socket with perfect eyelids, as if the eye had been removed by a surgeon and not a demon's fingers. And though she flinches first... the conflict twists her facial expression, her lips, she wants so badly to just-
To tilt her head so that she might wordlessly beg for his fingers to stroke along her cheek, to find some place for it to rest in his palm. On that day when the pollen had been so heavy in the air she had felt Amos' hand there, as they found themselves accidentally sharing similarities in their pasts, and ever since... she has craved the warm comfort of that sort of touch. (Craved a lewder sort of touch, ever since that night after the masquerade.) But when she touched herself... it didn't do anything at all...]
I hate so much of what you do...
[Her voice whispers out, a shudder working it's way down her long spine. (But it's worth noting, even if she doesn't notice... that she says what he does and not what he is.)]
I know how to be a warrior-
[She swallows, her eyes (one eye and one empty lid) fluttering closed. It feels like a lie-]
Not how to be a friend-
[What is she supposed to do? Is she supposed to overlook his plans? Because she cannot. Is she supposed to calm her rage? She does not know if she can. Is she supposed to overlook how he fraternizes with all her enemies? Impossible.
So how?]