#╰ ♡ ˙ ˖ ✶ wax wings and the salty sea — persephone aisa . ⊹ ♡

[tewwor-moving]

* & DOODLES .

heavy judgement from mine beloved seph — @huntershowl

[tewwor-moving]

“It’s only a matter of time.” The gravity of such a statement slips like quicksilver. A certain kind of acceptance, the welcoming embrace of consequence, he’s understood this since the first sentence to death and back again. Once battered and bruised, nearly mangled beyond recognition by his own father. Almost to a point that his own kin couldn’t identify him; an older brother that would’ve done anything to take his place in a heartbeat — the only one that really mattered.

And now, there’s another.

He stares at her with such clarity, inches forward that much closer. “Then tell me.” Discretion’s always been a strong suit within any client relation. But this? This is personal. It’s transcended such a title. Driven itself deeper than he could’ve ever fathomed, and there’s no fucking way he’d balk at such cautionary tales.

“I’m not able to weigh any options without any information to go off of. So tell me why there’s an ultimatum. Tell me why you’re so convinced that everything— especially this has to be your burden to bear alone. I get keeping secrets, alright? I get that some things shouldn’t be said because the pain’s too deep or there’s some binding contract, but telling me that I can’t a million times without even trying to explain isn’t going to fix anything. Disappearing into thin fucking air isn’t going to change how far I’d go to find you again and again and again. Not when it’s all said out of fear. Not when it’s being influenced by someone else’s feelings or agenda or threat. Only when it’s what you really want, and only you.”

SHE CAN FEEL IT, THE WAY HIS MUSCLES never tense. the way he doesn't flinch at her movements like she does his. even after everything — hearing the rumors, being warned over and over again, seeing hellhound in action — it's clear in this moment that he trusts her. she could snap his neck, drag a knife through his body like a gutted animal. she could eat him alive. but he trusts her.

it is unfair to bring lionel into this, but he has no idea why. the way he describes the potential consequences makes that very clear. in truth, even if she told him, persephone still isn't sure if he'd believe her. that's why the situation has been orchestrated the way it has — that's the genius of it. if she confesses now and he doesn't believe her, persephone's life would be over. it would be the first domino, the indirect cause of the cascade. if she tells him and he does believe her, lionel's life would be over. it is both secret and poison; it is the reason she forcibly estranged her twin brother; it is the reason she lives as she lives — and dies, inevitably, before seeing thirty. he cannot know. it will kill him.

( after all, it's a lot harder to escape a noose when your friends are convinced to tie it. )

❝ i'd rather you be alive and apart from me than — than following me into the fucking grave. ❞ her heart pounds. she wants to shake him. instead, her hands lift to grasp his shoulders and pull them apart, just enough for her to be able to look right into his face. seph's hair has come loose from its binding; long strands brush against lionel's arms, and little plumes of smoke curl around his legs like a cat threading its body between them.

❝ you don't. get it. ❞ her voice is sharp-edged and frantic. ❝ you think if it were possible — if it were okay — i would be like this? it's not something that can be fought. it will be the death of me, very soon. and it will be the death of you if you even know what it is, let alone pursue — this. whatever kind of mess it would be. ❞

[tewwor-moving]

threads her arms around litho’s shoulders from behind, presses her temple to his. “read me something.”

Upstairs is cast in a soft honey glow over wine-deep shadows. Worn, but well polished, wooden floors are kept clean. The warm toned furniture remain spotless, presentable to the select few allowed access. That basket of towels still sits near the window's ledge. The frame of which unlocked and panes cracked open. Nothing's changed much. Yet they've found comfort in it again.

How horribly domestic of them.

The slither of metallic arms around him reminds him of the time. It's late, as it almost always is whenever she visits. Doesn't mean he's slotted to sleep anytime soon, though. So he pulls a thoughtful face at the request. Tilts his head back until it's met with some part of the warmth from behind.

"So many days, oh so many days seeing you so tangible and so close, how do I pay, with what do I pay?

"The bloodthirsty spring has awakened in the woods. The foxes start from their earths, the serpents drink the dew, and I go with you in the leaves between the pines and the silence, asking myself how and when I will have to pay for my luck. "Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping."

Litho clears his throat softly. Been a while since he's recited a poem out loud; has him feeling rusty with how it's been delivered. "Amor by Pablo Neruda. Only the first half, but it's been on my mind a lot lately." He pauses, momentarily smiles into the cover of dark hair. "I wonder why."

[tewwor-aaa]

⭐️ litho litho litho

For each “⭐️” I get, I’ll write a headcanon about our muses ( accepting ) .

hey, remember that apple? the one litho made as an experiment to see how long it’ll last at a far distance. would it disintegrate or melt away the moment he’s not focused on it or outside of a certain range?

turns out that the answer is no.

whatever he creates from ink and willingly transforms into something 3d will stay that way unless summoned back. and with that apple specifically? he requested it back after the next few encounters. no clear reason as to why besides wanting to study it more after making some snark comment that definitely doubles as gratitude for humoring him.

and i’m not saying seph might see the same apple inked on his body at any time.. but she just might see it 😌

[tewwor-moving]

That blow could've brought forth another sensation. Pride of the damage dealt. Excitement of knocking her down. Any shade of happiness that he gained the upper hand. Perhaps he would have if Ricochet was a different man. But there was no change. The only thing felt was rage stemmed from fear. The kind strong enough to pump his body full with spiked levels adrenaline and cortisol.

This wasn't a dog playing with it's food. It's a trapped wild cat, hissing and spitting and gnashing at anything it can get it's claws on. Backed into a corner on unknown territory. Tail purposely stepped on with only the threat of it's life on the line.

That's how he regards the pair.

As complete darkness engulfs him, Ricochet writhes. Not in pain. No, the experience is oddly void of any hurt. It suffocates, though. All of his senses come to an end. There's nothing to see, smell, taste, hear, or even feel. Then light floods back in as his head's unveiled. Air tries to rush back into constricted lungs. The familiar sight of a barrel greets him and something.. splinters in the back of his mind.

For the first time since reawakening. Ricochet smiles. Teeth bloody, lips split, skin horribly bruised all over. He grins until the cheeks ache with a fierceness. His eyes welcome the presence of a gun aimed directly at him.

"Seph.." Litho says, voice nearly as strained as hers from the sheer exertion it takes to keep that demon still. "Seojun should be here any... second. Just gotta.. Keep him restrained till' then." But God was he willing to let this one slide. "If he breaks free— do it."

IN THE BACK OF HER MIND, PERSEPHONE dimly registers that someone is screaming.

it does nothing to stop her. the force of her blows rattles up her arms and sends sparks of pain through the damaged nerves in her shoulders. again, and again, and again, she smashes her knuckles into the body on the ground. for a few moments—minutes, hours, she isn't sure—the beast completely engulfs her.

and then the trap snaps shut.

persephone is lucky that her reflexes are fast. her hand darts up to protect the soft flesh at her neck and shove the incoming fist down, so that rather than blowing her throat to pieces, it hits her square in the chest. there is a horrible crack as ribs and collarbones shatter. her arm crumples like a car fender with a metallic screech. persephone's body sails backwards, slams hard into the wall, and slides to the floor in a messy heap, leaving a smear of blood where her head made contact.

then, nothingness. a blissful sort of nothingness, peaceful, like sleep used to feel when she was a child. the world falls away, and seph can hear her brother's voice. orion digs his fingers into the flesh of an orange. you think we'll ever be used to it?

what are you talking about? seph, with a snort. they're sixteen. she's waiting — the oil and flesh of the orange would get gunked up in her finger joints. orion always prepares fruit for her. he'll take any excuse to use his hands. ( it's part of what makes him a great forger. ) i dunno. i still don't feel like a criminal or whatever. that's 'cause you don't have to do any of the dirty work, idiot. orion flicks a chunk of orange peel at her, which seph promptly dodges. it sails out the window behind her. both of them watch it go, listening in stunned silence to the startled cry — and subsequent string of curses shouted up at the open window — of the man whose head it lands on. after he passes by, they look at each other, pause for a beat, and break into raucous laughter.

the lapse in consciousness doesn't last long. persephone's body spasms with a jolt of adrenaline, a gasp tearing from her throat. every part of her torso screams in pain, worsening at the slightest shift in movement. the twisted left arm lets off metallic sparks. by twitching her shoulders, belly, and chest, she quickly catalogues the damage: broken ribs, cracked collarbones, potentially — given the rattling wheeze of her breath — a punctured lung. her reinforced spine is alright. skull hurts like a bitch; there's a horrible throbbing in the back of her head.

as her senses come back into hazy focus, memory floods in. the stranger, the print shop. litho.

it's a very bad idea to move right now if they want to survive to see another hour. but something fiery and protective kicks persephone's sluggish heart back into gear, and no matter how much pain she's in, she's been through worse. litho is barely holding ricochet back — and she can see it, the inky blackness creeping up his arms, damage that can never be undone. no. gritting her teeth against the sickening pain radiating through her chest, persephone uses her good arm to force her torso up. the legs find purchase, push, and bring her to a hunched, unstable standing position. ❝ li. ❞ it comes out scratchy, fragmented; her voice box is bruised where her arm slammed into it.

they stumble forward, the damaged arm limp at their side, and reach down with the working one to pull a pistol from a hidden holster at her hip. she stumbles. her legs buckle, and she lands hard in a kneel next to the restrained body, the barrel aimed toward his eye. through the haze of rage and the growing agony in her chest, she wonders if a bullet through the brain would end him. ❝ stop — fucking — moving, ❞ she growls, ❝ before i — blow a hole in your skull. ❞

[tewwor-aaa]

interaction call ( accepting ) | @huntershowl

The shift of cut crystal rings clear throughout the otherwise quiet haunt. Crystal decanters — highly appealing to the eye and practical in use if one ignores the potential lead poisoning the vintage were notorious for. But he’s taken the proper precautions to indulge in aesthetics for the night via meticulous cleaning and minimal storage.

Careful, Stygian stained fingers handle the unnecessary decor to pour liquid amber into a glass. Once, then twice to soothe away the horrendously long day behind them. “I’ve never quite understood the kinesthetics of my heart. How it hair-trigger sends bullets to the tips of my fingers and curls them into fists.” A rather funny way to break peace, he knows, but still his mouth decides to run; even without the excuse of loosening once the liquor fully soaks into his blood.

“Guilt and anger taste the same on my tongue. I can never remember which is meant to be virtuous.” Litho chooses to take a sip, grimaces as the whiskey passes the split lip nicked inner cheek. “I’ll take the shame to my grave like a whisper. Like a dandelion wish. Like an avalanche.” A partial glance slides to the distant pair of gloves he usually dons every waking moment. The same ones used to cover the unspeakable darkness that crawls further up the pillar of each arm. A testament to the battles thrown at the limits of this body. His body.

“In which case.. I am buried under seven tons of stone and soil. There are one hundred and forty-five broken bones in my body.” Only two this time around — fractured more than a clean break. “There are two punctured lungs.” Bruised, at most. “There is no time to suffocate.” He slipped from the wire just seconds prior. “But a body, my body,” he slows, now deliberate with genuine meaning, “would build itself again for you.”

[tewwor-aaa]

✧･ﾟ small starter call ( accepting ) | @huntershowl ･ﾟ✧        

He sifts through his memories and come up with one of Seojun’s warnings: rusalky aren’t creatures who begin in the water, but end there. Maidens murdered and those who take their own lives, all ill-fated in love. Some can’t pass on and remain in their watery grave, transmuted into something else, creatures with a malign will. Their only goal is to bring others to drown.

“Keep some distance, will you?” Litho says, all hush-like as he tries to do the same. But between the thick brambles and a slope covered in slippery grass, such a feat wouldn’t be easy to achieve. “And whatever you do— don’t listen to them. Don’t even try and eavesdrop.” For all it takes is a single note to entice one’s mind into joining the beautifully guised that perch upon the lake’s great flat rocks.  

[tewwor-moving]

His heart sings at the sound of his name, rough and tired as it may be. “I’m here.” I won’t go anywhere. Other quiet reassurances to bridge the gap of concern as weight’s shifted onto him. They’ve gone through this particular song and dance several times before. Where one’s far too injured or out of it to stand independently. So he’s ready to offer support. Gentle with the coaxing it takes to ease back into balance.

What he doesn’t expect is the fingers interwoven in his hair. The lips that meets his and the insane rush of relief that overtakes him. His own hands would’ve found its place on a smeared cheek if it weren’t for the precarious stability. But it hardly matters. Litho kisses her back with a budding tenderness as he tries to anchor them both here. Together, tucked away in a little safe haven of their own.

As much as he’d prefer to drown in this moment, there’s one pressing matter that has him slowly break away. “How much of this’s yours?” The blood, he means. Just to get a gauge on how much medical attention might be needed before he gets swept away. “And— welcome home.”

PERSEPHONE'S FIRST INSTINCT WHEN TOUCHED is almost always aggressive. either they flinch away and bare their teeth like a rabid animal, or they twist the perpetrator's hand back until something snaps. even as her eyes fight to focus on the present, on the person in front of her, that instinct does not overtake her. it's not hard to figure out why. the scent of ink and paper wraps around her before his hands approach, and even in this state she knows who it is. lionel. the only person on this shithole earth persephone would seek out in a state of half-consciousness.

the words are faint and a bit garbled in her ears, as if heard through water. it's him — he's here. he's — alive. ❝ lionel. ❞

and she certainly needs the help he offers; now that the crash is in full swing, her legs nearly buckle beneath her until she catches herself in the forger's outstretched arms. there is so much she needs to say. so many apologies to give, so many explanations, so many statements like thank you, and you look like shit, when was the last time you slept, and i love you too. but the words are all tangled up in her chest. instead, persephone threads a hand into his hair, pulls him close, and kisses him.

[tewwor-aaa]

“...”

“You’re totally a Jacob fan, weren’t you?”

[tewwor-moving]

Safe to assume that no one did; much less the two that continuously struggle with any range of emotions outsides of annoyance and rage. Yet he's concluded that those feelings like muscle. Exercise them enough and the stiffness becomes more limber. Easier to flex and be wielded, though ever so slightly. It's enough to have him unwind more than thrice, at least. Let both his tongue, heart, and mind get the better of them both.

"So rude." A clear pitch of humor twists his lips upwards, softens the rest of his features into something more warm. At home. "Imagine if I was en route to an actual appointment." Would it have changed things? Stunt their eventual relationship into a dead-end? Have it wind into an even more convoluted path? All thing he's pondered on nights like this. When the dust's all settled and nothing urgent snaps at his heels.

A jet black hand runs along the back of his hair as a moment's taken to breathe. He doesn't bother with the gloves anymore. Hasn't in quite some time when just in the company of them in seclusion. Besides, it's been getting harder to conceal it all. The ink's spread higher, now licking along his forearms instead of the wrists.

Likewise. That's all it takes for a sliver of teeth to show in delight. Litho has no qualms with having things stay one sided. He'd talk until the sun fizzles out. But to have some amount of mutual likeness to this ache in his heart? It's more than enough.

"Don't I always? Be too easy if I kick rocks on the sideline and idle."

@tewwor.

❛ the first time i met you, i had no idea you'd mean this much. ❜ ( and of course litho )

❝ ... ❞

FOR ONCE, THERE IS NO QUIP TO DEFLECT LITHO'S confession. persephone is silent. from the windowsill where she sits, her pale face is stark against the black sheet of her hair. from the pallor in her cheeks blooms a faint rush of pink. as they feel their face heat, they quickly turn it toward the glass and pretend to be very interested in something outside.

dangerous. this is dangerous. and yet — 

❝ yeah, well. who could blame you. i accosted you on the street and demanded that you work for me. ❞ finally, seph collects herself enough to tilt her head back against the windowframe and glance over at lionel. candlelight bathes his face in a soft glow, and her eyes find each of the little marks on his skin that she has noticed throughout her visits; they find his eyelashes, the edges of his hair where they absorb and reflect a halo of gold.

❝ yeah, look, it — th — ❞ her throat closes up before she can form any vulnerable words. it has been like this for a long time. so persephone waits, takes several deep breaths, lets the knot in her chest unravel before trying again. ❝ likewise. ❞

it is a horrible thing, because speaking it feels like willing it into existence. it feels like damning them both. and yet. ❝ you — changed things. you make this situation complicated. ❞

[tewwor-moving]

Litho stands there proud and un-fucking-wavering. Resolute in finally tearing out the heart shaped key that’s been jammed dead center in his chest. Willingly casts the revelation free despite the inward facing blades of vulnerability. It’s something he hasn’t re-familiarized himself with ever since breathing life into this other body. Always been too keen on reinforcing an ice cold distance from that scathing discomfort.

Now he blisters himself with it.

“I know I do.” His voice takes on an almost hoarse quality. Still stern, but frayed with an undeniable rawness. Too strained from an eerily similar conversation had with himself over and over and over again. There’s no talking him out of it. He’s tried and always fucking failed. “The hell do I gain by lying? You know me. How I work, how much I’d rather eat glass than draw anything unnecessary out. And I’m telling you this is necessary. That the only angle I’m tryin’ to ‘push’ is to make you see. Understand that I do this— everything I’ve done since the first time I joined you on a roof is because I loved you. I still fucking do.”

@tewwor​ said:

“why? it’s because i love you, damn me to hell. because I’ve always loved you.” ( litho 🥲 )

WORDS ARE SIGNIFICANT AND POWERFUL THINGS. when used right, the effects they have can easily exceed their intangible and transient nature. they can start wars. they can end relationships, end lives, shape or ruin societies from the foundation outwards. in this moment, lionel’s words hit persephone like a fucking freight train. she sways in place as the ground swells underneath her, legs unsteady and eyes unfocused, as if ten shots of tequila have hit her all at once. ❝ you … you –– ❞ the stuttering failure doesn’t last long. persephone falls silent, brows furrowed as if he’s given her some complicated riddle to solve. finally, after the rush of chaos has quieted in her mind, she looks up at him and shakes her head in bewilderment. ❝ no, you don’t. you don’t. you’re lying. what fucking angle are you trying to push here, huh? ❞ 

[tewwor-moving]

Time stops.

Even as the world around him rushes forth; his own body carried along with it. What was once a well kept visage has all but dissolved into hopelessness. Dark locks have reached just past his shoulders, mostly in a half combed mess. Wrinkles invaded every piece of clothing. Dark circles bruised themselves beneath each eye. A deep, almost unbearable sadness weighed on him. And for once he didn’t numb the anguish. Didn’t feel right when he put his all into that last confession.

It’s made him careless, he’ll admit it. Overly reckless with other emotions to the point where he landed in hot acidic water. All because of a small disagreement with a newer member. The sadness turned ire he carried was pushed onto that person without thinking of the consequences. And, in layman’s terms, he was forced to meet his own temper head on twofold. Barely came out of it alive. Wouldn’t have if Vector hadn’t miraculously stopped by in the nick of time.

There were too many injuries to keep track of in that bleary state. Consciousness weaved in and out for what felt like an eternity. Then it all crashed into place. A sudden burst of pure agony engulfed him to mirror the brilliant blue flames spread across his broken body. Litho’s cleared to return soon after. And he does, though bleakly. The fear of Ricochet returning is the only thing that maintains some amount of life in him. Otherwise, he’d be sulking his way into the floorboards. Try and bury himself in meaningless conversations with himself about what he could’ve done different.

Not that it’d matter. What’s done is done.

All he can do is mope and keep her perch accessible just in case. It’s become the only clean spot in his shop. The light’s always on. Windows kept unlocked. Two fresh towels stacked in a basket just beside the opening in case it’s been raining out. There’s even that crystal decanter on a nearby table; not without two well polished glasses waiting to be filled again in good company.

Litho’s come to sit vigil every night. Long after regular shop hours are over and all the doors are locked. He sits and waits. Scrawls thoughts wrapped in poetry whenever the threat of sleep creeps in. Until he’s unable to keep those heavy eyelids open and stare yearningly for her appearance. Wish upon it. Even pray on the occasional whim of desperation.

The start to a fitful slumber barely begins when something wakes him. Still groggy and disheartened, he blinks his eyes open slowly. Doesn’t care if his vision blurs as he rubs at them too hard. Except — wait. Bloodshot eyes shoot open and clear all at once when it registers. She’s here. Lucid dreaming or not, the instantaneous elation he feels carries him forward. Half scrambling, half shocked he’s closing the space between them once more.

“Seph, you’re back,” he breathes out in a rush. Trembling hands stretching before him to help Persephone inside. “You’re— welcome back.”

@tewwor.

IT HAS BEEN THREE WEEKS, AND PERSEPHONE has not been able to stop thinking about the look on lionel's face when she stepped away from him. the way she refused to explain; the way leaving his embrace left her body cold. ( you're a liability. i can't afford a liability. ) three weeks of no contact, three weeks of working herself past her body's limits, three weeks spent tracking down her latest target before ripping him to shreds with her claws and teeth.

it is under these circumstances, hunched over what was once a body and trembling from the adrenaline crash, that something in her crumples. a wall, maybe. one of the many barriers they built between HELLHOUND, the monster they've become, and PERSEPHONE — the terrified young thing who does not want to suffer this night alone.

they only snap back to awareness once they're at lionel's building. somehow, she's managed to haul her unstable and hulking frame across the district on muscle memory alone, without cops on her tail. one hell of a feat for a 6'4" woman covered in blood. the lights are on — of course they are — and she can see the window above her, the one she always climbs up the outer wall to get to. ( it's open. )

the shakes have only gotten worse. finally, persephone pulls her shivering body onto the windowsill and pauses to catch her breath. blood everywhere. blood matted in her hair, dried on her skin, in her clothes, in her teeth. but she's here.

[tewwor-moving]

As uncharacteristic as it is, all expectations remain aloft. Litho doesn’t bother to try and predict the next move. Won’t even prepare himself for potential heartbreak or a miraculous twist. He simply remains here in the present. Does what feels right as he tries to plant sturdier roots in this hill he’s willing to die on.

Persephone could’ve lashed out. Could’ve done a lot of damage where it hurts the most, but it wouldn’t matter. His arms would’ve remained placid. Ink wouldn’t fortify for protection or go corrosive in a serpent’s bite. If she snarled and gnashed then he would’ve bared his throat. All defenses remain at ease even though he’s well aware of the risks.

“I don’t know.. Think I’ve saved up enough for the both of us.” A poor jab at humor, but he still means it. Whatever it is that haunts Persephone like a second shadow could be dealt with. It has to be. Even if the answer’s not apparent just yet, there has to be some way to lessen that ever lurking danger. Though the same could be said for him as well. For all the paperwork he’s bound himself to as a glorified desk clerk, there’s still a quota to meet. Still plenty of vile creatures waiting for a single moment of weakness to lessen The Marked’s roster. But he’s survived this long. Some much longer than that, even, and a few have already taken a liking to the one he holds so dearly.

“But in all seriousness, we won’t know until we try. Rather, some of it’s happened already so we might as well work with it rather than against it,” he reasons quietly while also trying not to get lost in memorizing the shape of this moment. “I’d say I’m fairly hard to get rid of, but I’m not stupid enough to think my time’s infinite. We do have more power than you might think, though. The royal we as in Boone and Seojun— a few others that’ve dealt with just about everything under the sun, moon, and probably even in the Earth’s core.”

@tewwor — continued from x.

He’s seen it before. Dealt with the wrath that sparks in response to his decision. Continues to stand firm on the crumbling ledge that barely bridges them two. Them, with their seething quality to the unknown and very real dangers that come with it. Him, with an iron wrought determination that makes it possible to withstand such a tempest at its peak. Not a single care’s spent when all distance disappears. Litho stares at them with equal ferocity. Though one that’s more tempered in patience and keen understanding. Nothing’s said until the whorl of instinctual survival ebbs. “I can.” Calmer, if not just a hair terse. A tone only taken when things are nonnegotiable on his end. They don’t have to accept it. The confession can lay crumpled at their heel, but he won’t have it flat out denied. Arms inch their way around them tentatively; loose enough to pull away from without much effort. “You don’t have to return the feeling, I’d never ask that of you. But what I feel is my own and even if you say I can’t, I will.”

PERSEPHONE'S BACK TENSES AS SHE FEELS the gentle pressure of his arms, but strangely — and uniquely to this moment — she does not pull away. rough patches of scar tissue are just barely palpable on her back, through the fabric of her shirt. toward the edges of her shoulderblades, there is nothing but scar tissue as flesh melds with carbon fiber in a messy, painful union.

❝ you don't have to ask,❞ she mutters. ❝ it's already done. ❞

this is not the first time lionel has embraced her. it happened once before, when persephone was at rock bottom and close to losing their grip on reality. it's a marvel that she didn't kill him then. frankly, it's a marvel that she doesn't kill him now. instead, her hand drops from his collar. it hangs limp for a moment, metal clicking against metal, before both heavy arms lift and begin to circle around him in return. the movement is stilted; their arms hover and hesitate every few inches as if they are learning this movement for the first time. in a sense, they are. lionel is the first person who has hugged her in three years. it feels... wrong. this softness does not belong to her. but in this stolen moment, surrounded by the only presence that has ever felt safe, she can't bear to pull away.

finally, their hands rest on lionel's back. gentle at first, a fluttering, nervous touch. then her palms press harder, pulling him flush to her body as a shaky exhale escapes her lungs. the pressure allows her to feel his back through the dulled nerves in her prosthetics. grounding. a reminder that he is here, alive, and safe.

and stubborn. he doubles down, as persephone expected he would. the gentleness in his words makes the shame in her stomach churn, so she does not lift her head yet. he smells like ink; they focus on that, for now. ❝ you think i would be this upset if it were one-sided? that's the problem, lionel. we can't afford to love. ❞

[tewwor-moving]

He’s seen it before. Dealt with the wrath that sparks in response to his decision. Continues to stand firm on the crumbling ledge that barely bridges them two. Them, with their seething quality to the unknown and very real dangers that come with it. Him, with an iron wrought determination that makes it possible to withstand such a tempest at its peak.

Not a single care’s spent when all distance disappears. Litho stares at them with equal ferocity. Though one that’s more tempered in patience and keen understanding. Nothing’s said until the whorl of instinctual survival ebbs. “I can.” Calmer, if not just a hair terse. A tone only taken when things are nonnegotiable on his end. They don’t have to accept it. The confession can lay crumpled at their heel, but he won’t have it flat out denied.

Arms inch their way around them tentatively; loose enough to pull away from without much effort. “You don’t have to return the feeling, I’d never ask that of you. But what I feel is my own and even if you say I can’t, I will.”

THERE IS A BITTER TASTE on persephone’s tongue as her mind flicks through all of the different ways she could lash out at him. everything she could say that would hurt him, every pressure point, every sudden attack that would put him out of commission long enough for her to run away.

but something in her has grown weak. persephone can’t fathom hurting lionel, not when she has fought tooth and nail to protect him, and when he has done the same for her over and over again. her teeth grit together, bared, and without thinking, she launches herself off the windowsill and stalks toward him. ❝ god damn it, idiot, you can’t. ❞ a snarl, frantic and furious. it’s all they’ve ever been able to do when they’re scared: attack or flee. fight or flight, every waking minute, run, hide, fight. fight. before they know it, they’ve shoved him backwards and leaned into his space with a hand clawed into the collar of his shirt, eyes wild, body tensed like an animal readying itself to kill. but it’s not — the same, exactly. the way she looks at him is not cold and sharp like a wolf zeroing in on prey. it’s not enraged, like it is when hellhound breaks free and tears men to shreds. it’s terrified. wild with fear, a creature backed up against a wall.

and because it is not rage, she doesn’t sink her teeth into his throat where the jugular sits. instead, persephone loosens her grip, and her head drops onto his shoulder. all at once, the frenzy melts away; all that’s left behind is anguish, the fragile thing her anger was protecting. when seph speaks again, her voice is small, quiet, and terribly human. ❝ you can’t. ❞