𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 히아신스 ;; tog

PROLOGUE

➥ 000 ˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷

𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰, 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓸𝓪𝓭

❁ ᶫᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ .

SHE TUCKED HER SINS IN A BOTTLE OF TEARS

UNTIL ALL THAT'S LEFT IS A HEAVEN BATHED IN FIRE.

     Aureate locks fell just above those mirroring, brilliant orbs of melted gold, moving, twisting, and arcing in ways more than one that one can't help but fall deeper in reverie and wonder that if those gilded eyes were a sweet delicacy, just what taste it would bring. Would it be akin to caramel as its color suggests, sweet to the point of flooding and dominating the mouth with its taste, to the point of sickness? Or would it be like a coffee, where its bitterness is hidden under the lies that its color tells?

     For you who were hidden under the shadows of this dingy alley you currently sit in and underneath your similarly dusty hood and cloak, it would be the latter. Because like the man you grew to bitterly abhor, the boy in front of you who continued to smile beneath his exterior of arrogance and ego was an unfortunate remembrance of what you had lost unknowingly, and all for which was about a conquest that was never yours to star in. It gripped your heart as your nails did to your palm, tight and unwavering of the blood you knew you shed; but like a child, and not as someone who has lived your ears until today, you let your anger bleed into your face, sneering at the golden and noble appearance of the guest who has rudely entered the space you've long made your own.

     "Hey, is this really the guy you're talkin' 'bout? He doesn't seem to be anything special, not to mention stinky." The boy grimaces in clear disgust, waving a hand before his face as if to swat away the stench that burned his nasal canal. A useless endeavor, since he's practically by the source. What would he even expect by coming here, flowers and high-quality perfumes? Your scoff echoes in the small, two-walled quarters of the just disparaged alley, eliciting an annoyed look to appear on the boy's face. Short-tempered, you muse in passing to yourself.

     Metallic hues flicker with embers of his fighting competitive spirit as his brows furrow together in a heavy crease, rushing to open his mouth to holler and pick a fight, when his shorter companion, an acquaintance of yours if you could even call it that, pats his shoulder as a remainder. To request, to need something only you could give and perhaps partake; they who are intruders ━ uninvited and breaching to an annoyance -- can only slam their lips shut in your presence. After all, after months of being under your authority, the middleman knows not to awaken your ire.