#drawing this ruined my fucking nail polish because i didn’t realize it wasn’t dry yet. cries

[clottedscream]

my little meow meow. my skrunkly scrimblo bimblo

[ID: a digital illustration of Lorelai Blyndeff from epithet erased in her bunny witch costume, posed at a 3/4ths angle. She’s a teenage girl with dark skin and long, curly brown hair with blonde streaks. Her witch hat is tilted down so the ears flop forward sadly, and she scrunches up her face and cries. She appears to levitate weightlessly, and her tears bubble around her face in the shape of cartoon bunny heads. To her chest, she hugs her sister Molly’s bear hoodie. The background is a dark swirly purple with white clouds floating over top, and the image has a slight chromatic glitch effect that resembles a vintage anime screenshot. End ID]

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Boiling the Frog

When you leave things up to me, you get Horrible, but I suspect you already knew that :3c

You hated nail polish.  The whole process of manicures, in fact, seemed like a frustrating hassle, far too much effort for a result that would only chip in a few days anyway, something that was…girly, in a way you instinctively shied away from.  Your friends would admire your hands and complain that leaving them bare was a waste of good genetics, but you were perfectly content to simply regard their nails with vague admiration and leave things at that.  When would you ever need to learn, anyway?

“Fuck.” you swore under your breath as your hand trembled, moving the brush in the wrong direction and ruining the coat yet again.  Reaching for the rubbing alcohol and undoing everything for the umpteenth time was the last thing you wanted to do—you’d already been at this for over an hour—but entertaining the idea only reminded you of the last time you’d given into the impulse.  You saw his face in your mind’s eye, clear as day, the handsome cheekbones and elegantly styled light hair framing cold grey eyes that betrayed no hint of emotion but communicated profound disappointment all the same.

“Even young girls can do this properly, it’s one of the first things they teach each other.  How is this so difficult for you?”

The mere memory of hearing him say the words made your heart wobble.  You scrubbed at the fresh paint with new fervor, erasing the thought of having to actually hear them again with each stroke.  You’d do it right.  You could do this right.  It was easy.

You’d never paid attention to the routine before, but in only a short time you knew it intimately.  You knew how to push your cuticles back (an intimidating process that drew blood the first time you tried it) and to lay a clear base.  You knew how long to wait between coats and how to brush them for the best consistency and coverage, and you knew to coat the undersides of your nails with the topcoat to keep them from chipping for longer.

Only a month or two ago, if someone told you you’d learn to do all this for some guy, you would have laughed in their face.  You tried not to think about that, just pushed past the fatigue of making such tightly controlled motions for so long and tried again, watching the rainbow flecks of the micro glitter swirl against deep blue in the wake of the brush.  It was a good thing you were on the very last nail.  There wasn’t much time before you had to go to work, and Kira hated to be kept waiting.

You waved your hand in the air in an effort to get the last coat to dry faster, capping the bottles with your free hand and putting them away.  These, too, had a particular order to be in, and you weren’t sloppy enough to forget again.  Everything had its place.

Time to go.  You took a glance at yourself in the mirror, adjusted your slacks and dress shirt, and made for the door, stepping into the hallway.

“Kira?  I’m ready to go,” you called for your boyfriend (it still felt a little weird to think of him as that) and made your way down the stairs.  Yoshikage Kira waited for you near the front door, standing between you and your shoes, making a show of adjusting his tie even though his appearance had never been short of what you’d call ‘effortlessly immaculate’.  It was enough to make you straighten your shirt again, a little more nervously this time, even though you’d already confirmed you looked professional enough moments ago.

Kira gave you a very obvious once-over as you came to a stop in front of him, finally reaching forward to redo the button at the very top of your shirt.  The sensation of his hands, close enough to your neck that you could feel their warmth, was enough to make your breath hitch, but he graciously ignored it.  

“That’s all anyone else should be seeing of you.  You look very professional.”  He raised his hand, a wordless invitation (or an order, something in your head whispered) and you complied, resting your hand in his.  He tilted his hand, letting the light catch your fingers from all angles, regarding your work in complete silence.  You couldn’t help but hold your breath.

“Very nice.” Your heart fluttered at the words, so simple yet rarely heard from him.  “I can see you’ve been improving with practice, I told you this wasn’t hard.  Although…” a frown creased his thin features, “I’m not sure about the color.  Don’t you think the glitter’s a little childish?”

You felt your heart sink.  “But…you said it was fine, when I picked it out.”  This was stupid.  It was your nails, it should have been fine if you liked it.  Ever since your relationship began, however, it became increasingly obvious that Kira was far more sophisticated than you were.  You found yourself acting in response, changing how you dressed and even what you cooked, a childish compulsion to please him, to live up to the standards he set for you.

“For work?  When you wanted to buy this I assumed it was for a night out or the weekend, so I didn’t raise any objections.”  He eyed the clock overhead.  “You don’t have any time to change it.  Come on; traffic will be terrible.”  He stepped aside, letting your hand fall out of his grasp as you stepped into your shoes.  Without another word, Kira opened the door and walked you to his car, letting his arm rest around your shoulders in a way that was almost possessive.

But I don’t want to change the color, you thought but didn’t say.

—

“…and that’s how I got Sato to start putting his laundry away!”  Suzuki, one of your coworkers, finished her latest spiel about her adventures in childcare, sitting back for your reaction with an expectant grin.  You gently nudged her to move her leg, letting you finish filling out the form, and gave a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement.  Lunch hour was only ten minutes away but really couldn’t come fast enough.

“Everyone kept telling me ‘oh, once he’s got the habit it’ll be so hard to change’, but once you know the trick it’s actually really easy,” she wound a brunette curl around her finger with a knowing smile.  Suzuki was a nice enough coworker, older than you and modern enough to work despite being a mother, but she had a frustrating ability to carry on a conversation almost entirely one-sidedly, and learning to tune her out was almost a prerequisite for your job.

“It’s just boiling the frog.  All you need is patience.”

The strangeness of the phrase made you pause, and you watched her grin broaden as you stared up in incomprehension.  “‘Boiling the…frog’?”

She clapped her hands, loudly enough to draw looks from others in the office.  “Funny saying, right?  I picked it up on a trip to America.  Basically, instead of trying to do everything all at once, you change things gradually, one at a time, and wait.  They get so used to things that they’re doing everything you want, and they don’t even notice the change!  Next I’m going to do it with vegetables.  You’ll definitely want to do things like that when you’ve got kids of your own!” she gave a knowing wink, despite the fact that you’d never once expressed the slightest interest in children.  She opened her mouth to continue some other story about parental wisdom she wanted to pass to you, and you went back to work, hearing her voice muffle into a background drone that was almost musical.

A shadow loomed over you, breaking into your thoughts.  The next thing you registered was that Suzuki’s presence had mysteriously vanished from your desk, freeing up a good third of the space.  

Kira loomed over you, beautiful even in the fluorescent lights that flattered nobody.  His hand came over your own, stilling your pen.

“What are you doing?  Lunch has started.  Hurry, we’ve only got an hour and I want to have Saint Gentlemen’s.”  Normally you would have objected—not even Suzuki would interrupt you in the middle of work, and there were only a couple lines left on the form—but Saint Gentlemen’s was popular, and missing out on lunch would put Kira in a bad mood.  You put the pen down and stood up.  It felt bold to grab Kira’s arm as the two of you walked out, but he didn’t pull away this time; when you looked up at his face, you realized it must have been because he was distracted, glancing over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“What’s wrong?”  You waited until the two of you were alone in the elevator to ask.  You hated to look like you were gossiping.  He took a deep breath.

“It’s nothing, really…I just dislike two-faced people, who smile to your face but laugh at you behind your back.  I’m so glad you’re nothing like that.”

You watched the lights on the display slowly count down, itching to press but unsure if you should.  “Like…did something happen?”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye and then reached out, once again holding you close.  

“I don’t want to upset you.  We’re about to have lunch, I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

Memory flashed.  It was Suzuki he’d been staring at.  

“Was it Suzuki?  Did she say something about you?”  The elevator doors opened, and Kira stepped out with you, holding you tight against the crowd flowing out the doors into the warm sunshine.

“Actually, it was about you.  She’d been laughing with some friends on her break, while you were still working.  ‘They’re so gullible,’” Kira repeated in a high-pitched imitation of your coworker, “‘Did you see their face when I joked that their work was worth the promotion?  I trust the part-time hires more!’”  His face betrayed no emotion, but you felt your stomach twist as you began to rethink every compliment or comment she ever told you in a new light.  Was that really how she felt?  Why didn’t she say anything?  She—

Kira took your chin in his hand, turning your face to meet his.  Something like amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re so easy to rile up.  Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to ruin your mood?  Forget about it.  You aren’t even friends with her.”

I thought I was, you thought but didn’t say.

—

“You’re lovely to look at, and so intelligent.  You’re just so…unpolished.  Only with my help can you really shine.”

Those were the words Kira said to you that first night you began dating.  You would have laughed, but you could tell by the conviction in his eyes that he was completely serious, so you played along, even if you didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.

As time went on, however, you began to realize just how right he was.

You were careless.  Time and time again you’d found yourself locked out of the house or missing your wallet, for Kira to look—with you in hysterics—only to produce the missing item from a pocket you must have forgotten to check.  You’d misplace laundry, and Kira would have to buy you new clothes.

You were naive.  Suzuki was the first of your silent bullies you learned about, but she wouldn’t be the last; it seemed like everyone at the office was undermining you somehow, and if Kira hadn’t been acting as your silent guardian you’re sure you’d be the office fool still.  It had been enough to make you quit your job from the stress, though Kira had been more than gracious enough to keep you at his home to recover in peace.

You were hysterical.  Too often you got yourself worked up, imagining that Kira said something hurtful, that he was trying to control you, that he told you this or that or locked you in your room.  It was in the moments of clarity that followed, moments that swept you up in shame and embarrassment, that made you realize that you’d imagined it all.  The stress of being the hunted at your job, of everyone being against you, was threatening to turn you against the one man truly and unconditionally on your side.

Kira had been so patient.  He helped you through it all, tolerating both when you hurled insults at him through the door he you locked to the moments of weakness when you sobbed like a baby into his chest.

“Structure,” was all he would say in those times.  “Structure is what will put your mind in order and make you stronger.  You’re very close, you just need me to help you a little more.”

He was right.  It was only when you knew you were following his lead that you really felt safe, that you could wear that coat or follow that recipe without being sure that you were somehow making a mistake.  The agonizing hours that he was gone (“I still have to work to support you, dear,” he said with a smile as you opened the door for him to leave) were almost suffocating.  Those rare, rare nights when he was out for longer than normal were the worst, when you genuinely felt that you were going to die.

Even so, it was with numb incomprehension that you watched him crush pills from an orange prescription bottle and tip them into the pot he stirred.  He caught your eye and smiled reassuringly, turning the label away from your view.

“To help you sleep tonight,” he offered as explanation, “I have to work late, but I don’t want you to be up all night worrying for me.  You’re fine with it, right?”

The idea of being awake and by yourself was awful.  The idea of being drugged—unconscious and vulnerable to whoever happened by—was borderline unbearable.  No, you felt the word push behind your lips, but you couldn’t make yourself say it.  You nodded slowly.

Kira tilted his head, a satisfied smile that made your heart flutter with pleasure.  If it made him happy with you, if it made you less unmanageable, maybe it couldn’t be that bad.  He gestured to the dinner table, where a small bottle of nail polish waited.  You could see your reflection in its pearly pink sheen as you approached.

“A new shade was released at the department store today.  I’d love to see it on you; we have enough time before dinner’s ready.”

You looked at the label, some high-end brand you would never buy on your own.  Killer Queen.

“It suits you, doesn’t it?”