Hugo Boss [ Closed ]

[Rile]

A loud clashing of tin to pavement was heard echoing through the darkened apartment complex. Its source? A young woman was dragging a metal trash bin down the sidewalk - stomping toward her residence. It was nearly dawn, and she had to move quickly. He usually woke with the first break of sunlight to start his ritual of getting ready for the day; Brush his teeth, shower, dress, eat. Drink.

Opening the door her head tilted in, sniffing the air, making sure he hadn't rose for day. Hadn't started his shower. - She got the idea in a fit from the night before in the taverns; she didn't have a melon head - The air was dry, informing her there was no steaming shower, only a sleeping husband.

Quietly, she lifted the trashcan up and stepped through the living room, gently setting the can down within the kitchen. She tip-toed out into the hallway and turned into their bedroom, watching him for a few minutes to make sure he wouldn't wake. And when she felt confident enough, Rile made her over to their closet and opened the single door.

What she saw, was his stash. His amore. One true love. His boots. They were all lined up with their pair in a nice, neat, little row. So much love he held for them. So obsessed. They were the makings of her anger now. Her hatred. Would he be angry? Would he hate her? She hoped he did. She knew he would. Rile somehow wished for him to feel such a powerful hatred for her, it would make her love for him stronger. So naive, her thoughts. So heartbreaking. Why had the thought of him bringing her harm, make her faux-breathing coming to a halt? Why did the thought of his hands lashing out against her make her skin crawl - the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end. Why did it arouse her?

Rile grabbed an armful of leather boots. Various shades of dark dead skin. So fragrant, the cured flesh. They smelled so warm, like a field of wild flowers burned by the summer sun. Dried grass breathing up with a wisp of air, releasing its pollen into the atmosphere.

Her nerves were rattling, and she nearly dropped one of the boots in their room, barely catching it before it hit the ground. Thank God he was a heavy sleeper. Why was she caring now? If he woke. She wanted this. She wanted to do this. She wanted him to hate her. Why was she caring now?

Soundlessly, she lowered boot by boot into the kettle. The trashcan. They were towering up quickly. The heavy soles piling on top of each other. Suddenly, she felt some remorse. Why destroy something so beautiful? She'd grown attached to them, too. Not like he did. But, something was hurting her. Making her feel guilty. Did she want to anger him to such an extent?

The girl pressed her rear onto the counter and extracted a shoe from its final place of resting. It was one of his favorites. Hugo Boss. Dark brown leather. Sleek. Peering over toward the entryway of the bedroom - he hadn't stirred yet. With that thought, the article of his obsession was lifted to her face, and she nuzzled the smoothed, cold, dead flesh. She held it like a mother would her newly borne child. Delicately. Lovingly. She even kissed the top of it before setting it back.

Sighing, she held her head in her hand for a moment, studying the pile of animal hide. As if waiting for it to self-combust. Something miraculous. Unreal. Wondrous. Monstrous... Waiting for him to wake up and catch her. But it was only Six forty-five in the morning. There was fifteen minutes left before he even turned to look at the window of their bedroom. To groan.

Rile nodded to herself, as if she needed the reassurance and took a bottle of his whiskey. Uncapped it and turned it over. Emptying its contents into the trashcan. When that was done, she took a paper towel, turned the ignition to the stove and watched the blue flames separate around the saucepan still atop the burner. Six fifty-seven. The flammable paper quickly caught the lick of fire, and started to disintegrate. Holding her hand above the metal canister of shoes her fingers released the paper and it fell...

[SinisterGrin [SPBloodworth]:]

Sunlight was peeking over the windowsill. The window shouldn't have been open, of course It'd burn His wife into a crisp. She would've closed it if she'd come to bed. Maybe she'd come in too late, and had to stay in the living room where it was dark. She should've woken Him up and told Him to--

Sniff... Sniff sniff sniff.

She must've been cooking. She must've been burning something. He'd eat it, anyway. He'd tell her that it tasted delicious, even though He'd barely choke it down. The man would even have seconds, and if that didn't make her happy, thirds.

Calmly, Samwell got out of bed--short black curls were all crazy cursive in the morning, face lined with stubble, eyes bloodshot, hangover on His person. Always grouchy. Always half-awake after waking up, when He did sleep. And He'd been sleeping so soundly, lately, with Rile in the house. Little did He know what had been happening while He slept. Little did He know He'd be locking His closet up nice and tight from now on. Little did He know.

The bed complained as He sat up and swung His legs over the side. Feet hit the floor, and He rose groggily. Feline. Arms stretched languidly, and He stumbled, rubbing an eye with a fist, toward the kitchen.

He didn't even notice that there was a flaming trashcan in the center of His kitchen.

Just walked to the fridge, opened it, and got the family-sized gallon of orange juice out of the cooled inside of the giant white box. The black cap was removed, and He began to guzzle down the contents thirstily. Still holding the jug of orange juice, He walked out of the room and back into the bedroom.

Wait.

Wait just one second.

Eyebrows furrowed, His back still turned toward the kitchen. Was He pondering something...?

The jug of orange juice dropped, spilling across the tiles. Smoke billowed, filling the kitchen and living room, leaking into the bedroom.

Suddenly, Samwell's head jerked around, eyes focusing upon trashcan. The rest of His body slowly followed, eyes locking on the flames. He already knew what was inside of there... burning into nothing... Already beyond saving. His shoes were.

Grin took a few staggering steps toward the tin trashcan, and then sank to His knees.

Hugo Boss. Clean lines. Sleek style. Smooth leather. Pull-on design. Elastic gore for comfort and fit. Strap and buckle detail. Leather lining. Leather sole. Made in Italy. 16.20 oz. Two-hundred and eighty seven dollars and twenty-eight cents on sale. Twenty-eight percent off. Noimars. Black.

Queasy.

Hugo Boss Men's Calvino... three-hundred and forty-seven dollars and zero cents. Black. Pull-together casual coolness. Combat-style bravado. Suede, leather, and canvas. Eyelet lacing. Metal buckle and rivet detailing. Canvas lining. Removable cushioned insole. Leather-wrapped, flexible mid-sole. Textured rubber out-sole for traction and durability. Seven inch shaft. Five-star rating.

He gagged.

Hugo Boss Men's Bollino. Four-hundred and forty-seven dollars.

Eyes were burning.

Hugo Boss Men's Deangelo. Three-hundred and two dollars at twenty percent off.

Mouth was dry.

Hugo Boss Men's Aurelio. Three-hundred and ninety-five dollars.

Fists were clenching.

Mark Nason Men's Zip Boots Costello. Five-hundred and nineteen dollars.

His head was throbbing.

Frye Engineer Boots. One-hundred-ninety-eight dollars.

He sucked His bottom lip into His mouth, and bit down hard.

Frye MEn's Harness 12 Boot. Two-hundred-twenty-seven dollars and ninety-five cents.

Release. A giant exhale.

There were other pairs inside of that closet. That magical closet of His. The one that He trusted so few to go inside of. He usually kept it locked. But He hadn't actually thought she'd do it. He hadn't actually thought that she'd burn them. He thought she'd been bluffing. Thought she'd been all talk.

He took a deep breath of the smoke.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE SUPPOSE TO WEAR ON HIS FEET, NOW?!

Standing, He moved as calmly as possible toward the sink. Water gushed out of the faucet. He grabbed hold of the recoiling sprayer attachment and aimed it at the flames, spraying until all that was left was charred leather and wet ashes.

The voice that bubbled forth from His chest was so very calm... So very, very calm. He was controlling Himself. He was controlling His breathing... His heart rate. He was trying not to let it take hold. "What on earth would make you think that this was a good idea, Rile?"

Fingers gripped the sprayer loosely. Body was dangerously relaxed.

[Rile]

Stiffened. Watched. He was drinking his juice. And .. He hadn't noticed her, or the trash just yet.

Exhale.

No... He was coming back. She shuffled silently as far against the counter as possible as he knelt before the flaming alter. Clearly, he wasn't okay. Clearly, he was upset. Clearly.. She was in trouble.

When he moved - She didn't. Much like the ostrich thinking; If I can't see him, he can't see me - If she didn't move, he couldn't see her. But that, of course, was a load of horseradish.

Samwell didn't seem all that tense. He wasn't screaming. And his eyes weren't bulging. All his veins were still silently pumping beneath his skin - nothing abnormal was straining to be released.

Her arms overlapped at her womb and her shoulders lifted. 'I don't know', would make him angry. Some insult, would be even more horrible than what she did. Laughing about it, or making fun of him, would ... "I figured you needed a whole new wardrobe, Samwell! Really, I was only thinking of you.." She tried sounding stern. A tad joyful. Apologetic. Something to keep him sane. Grounded. But she knew he would pick apart her tone. Pick her apart. He'd know. He'd know..

Never did she motion to him. She wouldn't touch him, or make any sudden movements. Such fear of his man. Fear. Fear: Unable to control. The young girl simply blinked at him dumbly, trying to make it appear as if she were a Doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Truly he couldn't be angry at an attempt to make him happy?

[SinisterGrin [SPBloodworth]:]

Grey orbs were calculating--studying her. Penetrating--carving into her. Stern. They were in sharp contrast to the smile that was twitching at the corners of His mouth. Had she just insulted Him? That was -very- smart of her.

See. The situation went like this.. He'd teasingly told her that she had a melon head. He hadn't meant it. At all. He was joking with her. She'd then told Him that His nose was crooked. Which it was. There was no denying it. Rile had head butted Him in the nose and broken it not long ago, and it wasn't as straight as it once was. After He took back the melon comment, she took back the nose comment... Then He told her that she really -did- have a melon head. Once again, a joke. She'd told Him that His dick was small and that He was horrible in bed. It hadn't phased Him. She'd told Him that she'd burn His shoes.

He hadn't believed her.

He'd even found it remotely humorous.

Until He'd woken up in the morning ... and she'd actually done it.

Man, did His wife have emotional problems.

But that was alright.

He was a little unstable, Himself.

With the corners of His mouth finally curving upward in that maniacal way that they had when He got murder mad, he let the sprayer fall. It clacked against the wood of the cabinets and He stalked forward toward the still-seated Rile, whose arms were crossed over her abdomen defensively. Each hand fell nice and heavy against either side of her thighs: palms flat against the countertop. Body leaned in nice and close to hers. He knew she could feel the heat, because He could feel her cold.

Breath that smelled like the filters of cigarettes and putrid hangover rolled out of His mouth. He hadn't brushed, yet, " I loved those boots, Rile. Every single pair. I know I'm sick when it comes to them. But each and every single pair meant something to me. Each pair held memories, Rile. Every single one. Each one gave a certain vibe. A specific glow. You. Know. How. Much. I. Love. Them. You know. " His voice was so sweet...so light. Almost lyrical. One of His hands hand come up off of the counter and was petting lightly at the coolness of her arm, just below the sleeve of her dress. Such butterfly-soft caresses--like eyelashes tickling. "And yet, even after I told you I'd be mad if you did it, you went ahead and did specifically what I told you not to do. I assumed you were joking when you told me that you were going to do this, dear. And even when I thought you were joking, I told you that I'd be very... very mad...."

He wasn't even paying attention to His own fingers as they continued to brush against her arm so very gently. The way she was just staring at Him like that... Like she hadn't done anything wrong. It was pissing Him off to no end. Shoulders were starting to shake. But only a little. He could hold it in. He could hold it in. He could control this.

[Rile]

Frowned. He was smiling. That was a very bad sign. AND he was coming closer. She'd managed to now be seated on the counters top, and her body tried leaning as far back as possible, but the cabinet that hung over head made it impossible. She was trapt.

He felt so hot. It been nearly nine hours since she had him near. Since they shared a bed. And already she was craving his flesh on hers. Although it pained her to have him adjacent to herself, she couldn't help but inhale that stark scent from his skin - cringing as he spoke and intoxicated the air with his decayed breath - slightly sweetened with the orange juice that was now seeping into the carpet just outside the kitchen tile.

Still, she frowned, Honey eyes wide and fearful. Pleading for him to forgive her. But this is just what she wanted. She wanted that fanatic anger to keep him so serene.That was the only time he was tender. The only time he took the minute to touch her - with an undertone of repugnance.

"I'm -sorry-," she began, just as he ended. For, as naive as she was, never would she cut him off. Never. "I knew you loved them. Samwell, please believe me. I knew you did, my love. I .. Didn't know, however, what that truly meant to you.. What bond you had.. Samwell. -Please-." What was she was begging for? Please? Please -what-? Rile never lowered her eyes. The horror of him flogging her while unprepared was all that was racing her mind. Don't. Look. Away.

Never take your eyes off the Lion. The beast.

She'd acknowledged the wrong she'd done. And she'd asked for forgiveness - no, she begged for it. She would grovel if he made her. Oh, but when his body gave the faintest of ripples, her head shook franticly and she did the worst thing imaginable just then..

Rile reached out and took hold of his arms by the biceps. The girl was caressing her tiny hands across the defined bone of his jaw. Across his neck, chest, down his arms. Making her eyes water. Stifling the makings of bitter giggles with that of sharp inhales - making it seem as if she were starting to weep!

So pathetic. So shameful. What would her mother say? What would a mother say, to her childe groveling to her husband for forgiveness?

What a coward to his man?

Inside - What she wasn't showing him, was her smile. Her laughter. The girl was simply ecstatic with the outcome! Yes. She had emotional problems. Yes. She had many, many issues when it came to those tender emotions. But she wanted him angry. And she wanted him to make her angry, too. For some reason - Rile wanted Samwell to be the aggressor, so she could be his assailant. She wanted a fight? She wanted to hurt him, so he'd hurt her?

This girl. She gave the faintest of smirks to him. Such treachery.

[SinisterGrin [SPBloodworth]:]

She was SORRY!? SHE WAS SORRY?!

His entire body jerked away from her cold hands. A few steps backward. Jaw flexed, again...loosened...tightened. He could feel the growing pressure in His molars as they grated together. Those teeth would be sore from grating like that after it was all said and done. He was still in shock. He didn't know exactly how to react to what she had done.

How could she do this to Him?

Vomit was working its way up His throat. A load of blazing vomit. He swallowed. Hard. And then, He burst into a yelling fit. "SORRY?!" He repeated His thoughts. "SORRY?! YER FECKIN' SORRY?! AYE!!! YE BETTER BE FECKIN' SORRY! JUST FECKIN' LEUK!!!" He was spitting mad, face getting red. A hand lashed out and He grabbed her by her hair, yanking her off of the bar top and jutting the pointer finger of His other hand at the wet, bad smelling trashcan. Smoke still hung in the air. "JUST FECKIN' LEUK WHA' YE'VE DONE! Donnae ye have an'eh BRAINS?! YE CAN IMAGINE, THA' AH'M JES' BUSTIN' WI' GLEE!!! WHOT TH' FECK, AM AH SUPPOSE TO WEIR ON ME FEET?!!!"

He'd tried. Why was He doing this?

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He shoved her forward, releasing her hair. Shoulders were now shaking in ernest. Tired face was twisted past that grin that He wore when the calmness came over Him. He was furious.

It seemed He'd been lying to Himself the entire time.

He couldn't control this.

He never could.

He didn't see why He always tried to do it.

"How th' feck..." He was muttering. Hissing. Speaking through His teeth.

"Clean this up."

He wasn't going to do anything to her. Not while He was mad. He was going to take a shower. He was going to take warm, soothing shower, and then He'd figure out what He was going to do with her.

"Ah'm goin' tae sho'er."

With that, He walked, forefinger and thumb to the bridge of His nose, eyes squeezed shut, toward the bathroom.

[Rile]

Prick. Prick. Prick.

Rile took to glaring at the orange juice that he spilled on the floor. Somehow, that irritated her more than his yelling. His adolescent yelling. Childish. Ignorant - But so was what she'd done.. Orange juice. Spilled. Leaking. Splattered - just how she wished to have his head on the floor. The ichors in his body to paint their kitchen, bathroom. Her body. She'd came to fantasize what his innards would taste of. If she'd cut him open in his slumber, reached into his cavity and removed his very heart.. Strawberries. Sweet. Spicy. Hint of cinnamon. Dry. Hatred. So bitter with pride and fluids of his past lovers. Tainted. Repulsive. Nectarous - thick. Abominably delectable. Decayed.

So warm. So loved.

She frowned at it just as he took her by the hair, jaw tensing. Unlike him, she would not lose her temper with her partner. He grabbed her, and she had every right to strike back. Didn't she? Tiny fist clenched at the outsides of her thighs, head angled to the way he twisted her mane within his grip. The muscle inside her mouth was captured between her teeth. Silent. Collected. Accepting. She only stood there, hunched over with her hair in his hand, watching the juice. Diverting her emotions, her rankling emotions into what he commanded her to do - Clean.

When she bent down, after he'd left the dining area her head tilted a gaze into the trash. Burnt leather. Wet, burnt leather. She reached in with one hand, just as the other rubbed the back of her head. Down into her scalp. "Clean this up," she muttered. Mocking him. Rolling her eyes. Her fingers grabbed the tongue of one of the boots and lifted it out. Soaked. Ruined. She grinned, standing up and tossing it back into the barrel.

What she wanted to do, was beat him. Break his precious face. Perfect jaw. Bruises his lips. Flesh. Tear him open. And while she was staring down into that tin drum, she pictured it filled with him. Limbs. Tissues. Tendons. Beef, and her tongue moved across her lips, bringing in her lower lip as she looked up to where he'd disappeared. Toward the bathroom door. But she couldn't hurt him.

'As much as she hated him, she had to have him'.

Silently, she lifted the make-shift oven and started treading her way toward the door. Once there, the entry was opened and she put it outside, opposite the door. She'd have to wait till later to take it out fully. The sun was rising, and she was too tired to make the trip in a hurry.

Back in the kitchen, she tossed a rag onto the floor and soaked up his morning drink from the tile. Wringing out the warmed liquid into the sink, she rinsed it afterward - pitching it back onto the carpet, stepping onto it to lift as much as citrus as she could with the small dish towel.

So obedient.

[SinisterGrin [SPBloodworth]:]

There had been a time when He would've hit her. Would've struck her so hard it would've made her world shake. There had been a time a long time ago. But He, gladly, had changed. He'd learned to control that little thing inside of Him that lashed out so very quickly. He'd managed to squeeze all of that anger and hatred back inside of Himself.

This companionship had been failing since the day it happened.

Sam resisted to urge to hit the wall. It would've been immature to do it. So very immature.

Once He finally stormed His way into the bathroom, He slammed the door, turned the lock, and stripped out of the plaid pajama pants that He was wearing. The knobs over the faucet were turned--mostly hot water, harldy any cold. The creaking of the pipes. The creaking of His weight against the floor. The way He clenched His fingers against the side of the tub--took a moment to recoup with closed eyes and slow breaths.

Anger management.

What had they said?

Count down from ten.

Relax.

Ten. It wasn't just the boots that was pissing Him off. He loved His boots, no doubt about that, but there was now smoke damage and peeled paint in His kitchen. What the fuck had she been thinking?

Nine. He slid the shower curtain closed with a 'shink', and turned toward the sink, twisting those knobs as well. Cold water. Fingers wrapped about the handle of His toothbrush and held it under the opaque stream. Opposite hand grabbed the toothpaste. Thumb rolled the ridged-cap to the side and let it fall into the marble bowl.

Eight. The toothpaste squeezed out onto the bristles, and He shoved the brush into His mouth, scrubbing at His pearly whites with a feverous passion.

Spit. Replace cap. Cup some water. Rinse. Swish. Swish. Spit. Deep breath.

Seven. He resisted the urge to slap His palms against the mirror. How the FUCK was He supposed to pay for this? The smoke damage wouldn't just be in the kitchen, either. It'd be in the living room. Buried inside of all of His furniture. Caking the screen of His TV. All just material. All expensive.

Six. He slid the curtain to the shower open. Didn't bother to shave. Stepped into the shower. Closed the curtain. Palms flattened against the steam-wettened tile. Head leant forward. Ebon curls began to lengthen with the weight of the water. It ran down His scalp, neck, spine, lower. It pooled at His feet. Trickled down His chest. Warmed Him. Soothed Him.

Five.

But didn't soothe Him enough.

He gave into His immaturity, and clenched a fist, then slammed it into tile multiple times, counting down aloud each time it hit, "four, three, two, one." This anger management bullshit wasn't working the way that they said it would. Blood was misting in the bottom of the tub....disappearing down the drain... rinsing off of His knuckles.

He didn't even notice the throbbing.

Shoulders were shaking as He picked up His shampoo, scrubbed His hair vigorously, gave His body a wash, and twisted the knobs, yanked back the showercurtain. It must've been the rush of adrenaline that accompanied the anger.

His head was pounding something fierce. Blood was spattering against the rug as He stepped out of the sweltering heat. It wasn't just from His knuckles, but from His nose. The dripping turned into a pouring, and He tried to count, again.

Ten. His heartbeat and breathing were getting faster than they had been. Face was starting to get red.

Nine. Mouth was starting to get dry.

Eight. He took a deep breath.

Seven. He exhaled nice and slow.

Six. Another deep breath.

Five. Exhale. Nice and slow.

Four. Heartbeat began to slow.

Three. Salivation was happening, again.

Two. Maybe this anger management bullshit had something to it.

One. He opened the door and proceeded to dress as normal.

Walking out of the bedroom as calm as if nothing had ever happened, He finished tightening His tie, and walked to the front door. Hand grasped the handle, squeezed it, turned it, dragged it toward Himself. Without even looking at Rile, He muttered just loud enough for her to hear. "I want you gone."

One step over the doorsill, and the door shut behind Him.