#something about its delicate and fragile beauty would strike something in her heart

[theheroand]

bwah <- just thought about princess interacting with An Animal and began tearing up

[yuzoodles]

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composer/lyrics/movie/voice: 奏音69

illustration: rahwia

　 『ネクロの花嫁』

— necro no hanayome fanmade plot —

the necrophiliacs bride

today is supposed to be something usual. just going to work, dealing with patients and trying to cure every problem they might have.

lately, the patients i’ve been seeing proved nothing more than simple people. though, what caught my eye was a simple, pure girl, with white and fair skin.

“i’ll give you this body, please, take care of me.”

“i will have you, if you let me.” after all, its so sad to see her suffer from such a… tremendous disease.

i try my best to see her so often. her beauty is.. unimaginable. she’s so delicate… im so deeply saddened about her.

all went good and all is well… until it isnt. the poor woman had succumbed to her death.

that girl.. forsaken by everybody around her.. that poor and fragile girl. i made it my mission to ensure that she lays in a place where only quiet and beauty lays. the mausoleum. yes, its perfect for such beauty like her.

placing her there, i profess my love in ways it can never be reciprocated. i hope she can rest and i will make sure she will never be forsaken again.

time passes and passes, yet my love for her is undying. i shouldnt do this, yet i know that.. she would want this, right?

as it strikes midnight, with careful grace, i take my shovel and visit the mausoleum. there she is… there is my one and only love.

i will resurrect you… my dearest.

yet.. is this really the love that i’ve wanted? or is it just pure sin?

i only want to see her with me again. thats really too much to ask for?

putting glass in her decaying eye sockets,

mending silk around her fragile, torn limbs,

stuffing gauze to give her form,

dressing her up with the white dress that i have sewn,

shes back again, and will be only mine. staining my hands red, i handle her with care and precision. nothing can ever separate us again, my love.

one night, the two of them are dancing together on their love song. who could’ve known what was about to come? dancing gracefully, the two of them share something so profound yet so… futile and one sided.

soon, the atrocity is discovered. but the doctor isn’t going to let those same people that forsaken her take away their eternal love! he would never. he cries out,

“this is our eternal love! something that she wanted!”

yet, those people fail to see the affection this man has and see him as a complete monster. he only wanted to love her… what was so bad in this?

the woman is laying cold in his arms. perhaps, it was always like this, but it’s like she lost another part of her soul again.

the doctor cries once more, saying that he only wanted to be with her again… that he loved her with his heart!!

but nobody buys it. no one cares about what the man has to say. who in this case is right? who did the wrong thing?

wanting to be part of something impossible… even part of an utopia is never something that cant exists. yet, the feelings are something so big, that it doesnt even matter anymore.

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[belovedgamers]

not today, tomorrow

Ao3 link! (comments appreciated <3)

rating: teen and up no archive warnings apply

more eternal duo content about reincarnation au and post-Banquet feels :D /rp

It has been a week since the Banquet.

Eret cannot sleep.

He has tried. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe. He has, at least, attempted to try.

But it hasn’t worked.

And it’s not like they particularly mind.

It has been a week since the Banquet.

Eret has not stopped moving.

Well, she refuses to stop moving, does not feel like they should. It would be… It would be wrong to stop. Foolish did not give up his life for hers so she could waste it in idleness.

(Her legs hadn’t moved, her hands had been immobile and her very lungs had frozen, when he was taken, you did nothing—

They do not know how to forgive themself for that.)

She can’t just… stop. There’s… There’s no time for pauses, no time for quiet, only time to move forwards. Eret builds, and he digs, and he does his best to keep away from everyone else’s land of sight.

(your fault your fault your fault what did you do for them but make a toast and place your hopes in their clawed hands what did you do but kneel before your execution what did you do but spill ichor over obsidian with your lies—)

She does not want to stay idle anymore. And… and she doesn’t really know what she would do with rest, anyway. Eret has much to do, builds to finish, people to look after. Legislation does not happen overnight and without supervision. They have already failed enough.

(Now, isn’t this so much better?)

(... the darkness… within you...)

It’s been a week since the Banquet.

Eret knows. They could tell you the exact amount of minutes that has passed.

Even if the hours pass them by as they fill out paperwork, as they pile stone together and mine for andesite, Eret knows how much time has passed them by, knows the information as well as they know the back of their hand.

There is a golden watch around her wrist.

For Eret, it says, the letters carefully carved in its lug. She has never seen Foolish’ writing, but there is a certainty in his heart, born from the proud look in his emerald eyes the night of—

Born from the proud look in his emerald eyes that night. This is his handwriting, measured and neat so it will fit their name. She has not seen him write, but she has seen him type in the communicator, and knows that his typing is a mess. The idea that impatient, active Foolish sat still, the thought that he carefully, delicately carved these letters, one stroke at a time, on a surface so tiny, not for the grand memory of a build to impress others but for this detail that nobody else would see, it… it…

(“Anything for you, old pal.”)

It’s too much to consider. They do not dwell on it.

He’d carved a small figure in the crown of it, too, a poppy.

It’s her favorite flower. She does not know how the god knew.

(he looked at them with bright, proud eyes and extended a hand, come look, he said, he pleaded, a field of red stretched before their eyes, old pal, he was trying to not be weak, to let himself be vulnerable, there was a look in his eyes, look, i have made you a gard—

Shhhh.)

She does not know how he knew. He does not know, and it’s slowly making him desolate.

Sometimes, he finds himself angry at the god who so graciously gave her this gift. It was much easier to go on about her life when she didn’t know a part of themself was missing.

(and do you know he spoke the truth? perhaps he was simply a liar—)

But that sounds ungrateful, and it sounds wretched. Those thoughts make her out to be someone she does not wish to be. He would like to be worthy of Foolish’s sacrifice. He would like…

He is so tired. So very tired.

He must keep moving.

It has been a week since the Banquet.

She has not slept a single day of it, yet he is not tired.

Physically so, at least. There is a buzz thrumming on his veins, a shimmering sensation over her skin. She has not slept and yet she is not exhausted. He goes without eating but is not starving. He hadn’t felt thirsty until he tasted water. She spent hours mining for andesite, armorless, and not a single mob strayed close.

(Tell them their importance to the Universe.)

It has been a week since the Banquet.

She looks down at their hands. Not a single scratch. Not even a bruise. Even though her hands were bare, even though he hasn’t stopped for hours, in days, there is not a single ache in their body. There is nothing that hurts. Not even their back, usually tired after cartography work, after building and finding more resources, tired from the weight of their guilt, does not hurt.

She finds herself in front of a mirror.

The person who stares back does not look like a monarch. The person who stares back looks flawless, unweighted, magical. Beautiful.

He has not changed out of the dress since... that night, and yet there is not a single tear on it besides the ones from the Eggpire’s trap, not a stain or a loose thread. Their crown is gone—

all their gold is, only the watch remains, she cannot stand the look for it but she could stand much less to lose it

— and so is the corset, the shoulder pads, but the red gown still flows and falls, precious in its detailing. There are no bags under their eyes, no grime in his hair. There is nothing wrong with them.

(You look lovely, the captain had said, present tense, when they found each other by the spider spawner, when she showed Eret her graveyard.

Eret builds and Puffy does too. Different families of the same typeface. Different translations of the same text.)

Her hands shake, she steps closer. She is barefoot. How has she not stepped over a rock? How is he not hurt? Why are their heels not sore?

He steps closer.

There is a fine line of gold around her throat, settled into skin.

(You look lovely.)

(Does it know we love it? That the Universe is kind?)

Totems do not heal an injury from before the mortal blow.

But with Eret, there was no mortal blow at all. They know magic, and that night they felt it sink into their body. It had nothing to heal, nowhere to go. It could not reach Foolish, so it curled around her heart.

And the Universe, even then, watched.

The gods are the Universe’s favorite children. One of them died for Eret. It will not let her get hurt. It will not let his sacrifice go to waste.

No matter how much they deserve the pain for taking Foolish away from the living.

(You are not alone.)

Eret collapses into the mirror, catches herself with one hand. Suddenly, they feel like crying again.

You idiot, she wants to tell him, wants to scream it to his face. He wants to tell Foolish off for this. They want to make sure he knows to never do it again, that his life is not a trading card, that she does not want it, that she would rather die herself than see his body dissipate into divine light again and be haunted by his spirit, by his love, by his fear.

But she can’t.

He is back. She knows he is. Sam had told her, when they discussed the Banquet as Puffy collected some dirt, the words he sacrificed himself for me had spilled from her mouth before he could stop them.

Sam had looked at them with a mixture of pity and guilt.

(Those had been his friends once, had they not? Bad and Ant and Skeppy. The Badlands, a land of chaos, a land of love. Always together. Bad and Ant had been Sam’s choice of prison guards.)

(And Ponk had been his choice of beloved.)

(And Hannah had been his chosen ally.)

Sam had said he was with Ranboo and I last night and had closed his mouth around something else he’d wanted to say.

But Eret must have looked pitiful enough, because he’d continued after a pause.

He was pretending nothing was wrong.

Eret’s heart had broken.

She cannot see Foolish, because inevitably she would bring up his sacrifice, and whatever fragile peace Foolish had built around himself, she’d destroy.

He doesn’t want to hurt him anymore.

(All you would do would be to hurt him, guilty, harmful, poisoned, you are but a wicked seed of pain.)

She cannot see Foolish.

So she ignores her communicator when it rings.

(—always late, old pal, you should keep your communicator on you at all times, i will send you signs across the sky, here’s a messenger, did you seriously just leave me waiting—

No.)

It keeps beeping as she retrieves her sickle, as she finds the mirror again.

It keeps beeping as she throws the sickle towards its surface, as the mirror shatters at her feet.

Not a single piece of glass sinks into her skin.

(All you do is destroy. You were not meant for peace.)

(You are growing restless.)

It keeps beeping. She keeps ignoring it.

Eventually, it stops.

Hours pass before she retrieves it.

Old pal.

Hello.

We should talk.

Tomorrow after sunrise.

If you can.

See you soon.

There is not a single mistake in these messages. It strikes her more than it probably should.

(You are not alone.)

Her hands are shaking again. Maybe they never stopped shaking at all.

It has been a week since the Banquet.

Foolish sacrificed himself for them.

(“How do you always keep waiting?”

“I have infinity laid before me.”)

(When he spoke of their past, he looked so sad when you did not recall, guarded and wary and hurt.

What have you done but hurt him?)

We should talk.  

The words echo in their head. They can hear it in Foolish’s voice even if they have never heard him speak them.

Perhaps he should go. The time Foolish proposed is early in the morning but it’s not like Eret has been sleeping. They haven’t even changed, even though it’s been nearly two weeks and counting. They should… They should go. If Foolish wants to see them, maybe they could talk, and he did promise to figure out their memo—

(“Its okay, Eret.”

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.)

Perhaps he should go. But the time Foolish proposed is early in the morning and it’s not like Eret has been sleeping. They haven’t even changed, even though it’s been nearly two weeks and counting. They should… they should rest.

“Maybe next week,” she whispers to no one, to the Universe. “Maybe we can meet next week instead.”

If Foolish wants to see them, maybe they could reschedule.

It has been a week since the Banquet.

It can't hurt to wait a little longer.

.

.

.

.

.

“Just… just let me check something,” Foolish tells the creatures at his feet. “Just let me… Let me see… Just a second…”

But no matter how many times he looks at it, his communicator stays empty. There is no message, no call, there is no rushed footsteps from his portal, no apologetic grin.

“Just let me check…”

.

.

.

.

.

(Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts—)

.

.

.

“Hey… Hey… Hey, forehead, hey—

can you hear me— Hey, it’s—"

.

.

.

(—almost at the familiar door—)

.

.

.

"— it's me— Hey—  

Eret?”

.

.

.

(I wish to tell them that they are—)

.

.

.

(Wake up.)

.

.

.

.

.

There is a cat by the steps of Eret's castle. It looks a little like a toasted marshmallow.

Eret finds it some food. He sits in the steps while the cat eats from a bowl that may have been too precious to use for a pet's food once.

"Do you have an owner, kitty?" They ask, scratching between the cat's ears. It looks too well-kept to be a simple stray, but there is no name tag around its neck. Then again, name tags are rare to find, that might not mean anything.

The cat simply blinks at her and bumps its forehead against her hand.

Maybe she should give him a name.

[quinn-tessence]

Nocturne for a Clown

Part 1

In this frightening, destabilizing global pandemic, we all seek comfort. I found mine in Arthur, and I know many of you did too. This community has given me so much, I cannot express my gratitude enough. So here's something I can give back. A Nocturne for our beloved Clown, who still inspires us to this day, and will probably never stop. 🤡🖤

Summary: you stumble into an intriguing neighbor, a tragic, beautiful party clown named Carnival with jade eyes and cocoa hair. His meekness around you gets under your skin enough to lead you unconsciously into his path by accident.

Length: 3.5k

Warnings: mentions of mental illness, alcohol use, nudity, playful flirting and light fluff. Pre smut intro, this is going places… 🤭🤡❤

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You should have taken more bags, you could barely hold all these groceries as you opened the door to let yourself inside your block of flats. You greeted granny Mabel picking up her mail but swiftly turned your attention to the closing door of the elevator.

‘Wait, hold the lift, please!’

In your haste to catch the ride, a foot was lodged on the door, sliding it back open to let you in. Careful not to spill all the veggies on the floor, your attention fell onto the man sharing the ride with you only as he asked what floor you were going to.

‘5th please, thank you for holding the door'

‘Sure'

The lift shook in its slow ascent, your heart would have skipped a beat had it not been a part of your daily routine to feel that bump in your bones. His hair is really nice, the length and the curls around the edges. Hm. You couldn't help looking at him, he was all of your visual field after all, so you scrutinized, as you’d often do. He’d politely turned sideways, avoiding to keep his back to you, but you couldn't see his face clearly in the dim yellow light. He wasn't much taller than you, his complexion quite slim and fragile looking, his back slouched as if carrying the heaviest weight on his shoulders. Gotham made that easy, grey and gloomy by day even during good weather, a pile of construction and buildings with no defined identity, enough to fit all from the scourge to the wealthy.

‘This building's awful, isn't it?’ an uncharacteristic curiosity made you try out some small talk in the hopes you'd get a better glimpse.

You knew too few people in this building, and you were far from chatty in elevators with strangers. Usually. He looked so old fashioned wearing that shirt and the linen vest, but the ochre of his jacket heightened the cocoa brown of his hair, yellow light reflecting off the edges delicately. He was cute, in an oddly endearing sort of way. A pair of basil green eyes turned to your as he bit the bait, the sly grin cutting through his cheek a stark contradiction to everything else about him, the scar on his upper lip a peculiarity that only furthered your intrigue. There was a deep well of sadness in his eyes, overbearing, bone chilling. It prickled your skin as you noticed it, but the gaze under his eyelids was piercing. That unnerving feeling the striking contrast brought, you couldn't shake it off.

The joy ride on strings stopped just as your cheeks started to fluster. You bid him good night as you walked out, your awareness over your morning overuse of perfume now as acute as ever.

‘Hey!’ he shouted in a shy, husky voice as you stepped out.

You turned to him one last time to see him mimicking a gun shot to the head as a rather late comical attempt to reply to your earlier remark. Unconventional, yes, but not a sort of humor you didn't enjoy. The fact that you just couldn't make him out drew a puzzled smile on your face as the elevator door closed.

Hm. What was that? you wandered as you had one foot in stirring curiosity, the other guiding you to your door as if by reflex. You'd lived here for months already, yet you hadn't seen him before. He was quite handsome in an outlandish sort of way, you would not have let that go unnoticed had you seen him before.

Months had passed, yet you still had storing boxes around your living room. Your stay should have just been temporary, yet you'd started decorating it with your own sketches and it had suddenly become your home, your sanctuary, your oasis to recharge you after long days at the office close by. You'd stumbled into this place by accident while looking for a cozy place to stay, but you found no reason to leave it behind. Your own art gallery, with bright lights flooding the windows throughout the day that allowed you to paint during weekends without your eyes squinting, your safe space.

Not today though, your feet were sore and your arms hurt from carrying those groceries. All you wanted was a glass of white wine and an excessive bag of popcorn while you watched the Murray show, but you picked up Dostoyevsky to delve again into the question of the perfect murder while you waited. This book you could never grow tired of, and it rattled you to devour chapter after chapter, accompanying a tormented soul on a journey of falling into madness, its universe a silent revolt and escape from the reality of Gotham you'd craved deep down without ever voicing.

‘We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, that begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.' Hm. Go figure.

The deafening silence in the room would soon be filled by your own comments at the starting show, Murray’s humor making you roll your eyes at his lack of self awareness, quite versed he was in ridiculing one person or another. A comedy show, yes, but sometimes he would take it a bit too far even for your inappropriate taste in humor.

A few hours and half a bottle of wine later, the sweet taste of the wine still lingered on your lips, flooding your murky mind to a familiar place of solitary self indulgence. Not long after shutting your eyes, a recent memory took shape at the back of your eyelids, and you felt an irrational urge to trace a sketch of him. You were too tired to start drawing at this hour. Your fingers would be of much better use tracing those lines you were curious to feel off his own fingertips. You hadn't indulged yourself in a while, but the thought of this bewitching man flashing in the most vulgar parts of your mind soon changed that. Maybe you were blatantly objectifying your neighbor… but only a little… You'd been so busy with the new job, the long hours exhausting, the absence of a soul to keep you company a nuisance you'd learned to bury in piles of work. But the urges only amplified the more you'd stifle and ignore them, demanding to be satiated. So you gave into yourself, into him, into the sweet, intoxicating effect of your favorite wine, into the memory of the piercing green eyes that had you whimper in silence.

Something about him was out of place. You’d seen him from afar and he looked defenseless. But as you came closer, you could feel yourself swallow hard as you waited for his gaze to look to your direction. Odd, wasn't it? He hadn't said much, but the tension in the elevator had penetrated your bones to late night reminiscence. Something was not right about him, an 'I should be afraid, instead it turns me on' vibe to him had taken you right to the edge.

The next day you bumped into him after work at the corner store, he was buying cigarettes and a chocolate bar. With that level of nutrition, no wonder he was so feeble, yet there was something about him that had kept you up at night. You'd already developed a weakness for him, but that stifled your reaction instead of filling you with courage. He smiled shyly and walked out the door, his eyes counting his slouched steps. Shit. Next time.

One particular evening you noticed two blue diamonds peering meticulously through the store shelves, the greasepaint on the man's face rendering him almost unrecognizable lest for his unmistakable skinny complexion and beautiful cocoa hair. Your freight of clowns had shaped your life since childhood, yet that terror had somehow melted instantly at the sight of his jade eyes underneath the white blue makeup. He'd shied away as you noticed him, stealing a smile that got your feet walking into an opposite reaction, trying to hide your pleasant surprise at his creepy, endearing stares. You wondered if that was his job, it would be absurd to just walk around in a clown costume, stalking women. Not to mention, horrifying and nightmare inducing, as even you would have felt until a moment ago if it hadn't been him wearing the clown costume.

Fumbling around the store, shying behind the counters as you paid for your groceries, you couldn't resist glancing at him one more time. You'd missed your chance before and you regretted it. All it took was to reach for one item from the isle he was hiding in, even if you had no use for it. Startling him was the last of your intentions, so you mimicked his behavior peering at him through the shelves, perhaps that would open him up to you. As you both walked in the same direction towards the corridor, he stopped shy in his tracks, eyes now as big as the clown shoes on his feet, scanning the floors, anxiously facing the inevitable.

‘Hi there. I've seen you around, haven't I?'

You'd planned on being more casual in your approach, yet the tone of your voice evoked a warm intimacy built over nights of having him wander purposefully in the depths of your fantasies. The clown costume should have helped alienate that feeling, instead it only burned deeper. The youthful innocence draped across his face contrasted strikingly with the furrows in his forehead betraying his age. He couldn't be younger than 35 at least, yet the spark of his almond shaped eyes took 15 years off his complexion. He cleared his throat before being able to speak.

‘Hi! Yes, we met in the elevator last week. I didn't think you'd recognize me in my work outfit.’

‘I thought that was you. You could frighten ladies if you keep peering at them while wearing a clown costume, you know? Not a lot of good press on them in the past years’

A nervous chuckle escaped his throat, he couldn't have missed that connection himself but he seemed caught red handed.

‘Well I haven't even pulled my gun yet. I was waiting for the store to clear out a bit before I robbed the place and kidnapped you'

There was that dark humor, but damn him for making you smile like a teenager.

‘A clown with a gun and a plan, not at all frightening. You're funny! Pass me that pasta sauce, would you?’

He quickly reached for the item on his counter and reached over it to hand it to you. The gawkiness in his hasty moves was proof enough he wasn't used to being approached by women, you were sure his cheeks were as flaming red under the white makeup as the flower pinned to his colorful checkered blazer. You shook your head and pointed at the end of the counter, your feet moving in the direction where you wanted him. He followed shyly, dragging his oversized clown shoes.

As he handed you the item, you thanked him kindly and immediately put it back up on the shelf. His gaze fell to his feet again, surely flustered by the subtext of your action. Yet within a split of a second, his eyes pierced back at yours and you'd forgotten all words.

‘Why don't I walk you home instead? I'll keep the gun and kidnapping for another occasion. Let me help you with those' he reached for your groceries, his proximity to you feeding the fire. You gladly agreed and walked the couple blocks with him, curious of his day job and adoring the purr of his soothing voice, it tore you up every time you heard it falter. His suit and makeup should have kept you a mile away, yet he seemed to be the most welcome companion to comfort you through your biggest irrational fear. As you reached the apartment complex sooner than you'd wished, he stopped and let out a complicit chuckle.

‘I… seem to have forgotten to do my own groceries, I’ll have to go back now, somehow I got distracted…’

‘And I thought you were there just to kidnap me.’ You just couldn't help continuing his apropos, hoping deep down he'd actually do it. ‘Thank you for walking me home, that was sweet of you'

‘You're very welcome. I'm Arthur, by the way, or Carnival if you prefer the party clown'

‘Nice to meet you, Arthur. I'm Y/N.’

‘Y/N…’ the sound of your name off his lips jolted you shamelessly to the point where you needed to take that step back, and yet you didn't. ‘I'll see you around?’

The smile on his painted face a ray of sunshine in an otherwise wretched day. Carnival, you cheekily thought to yourself, never had you wanted to experience one as badly as you did seeing him light up a cigarette and inhale it wantonly almost halfway through, walking back a few steps, then turning and making his way back to the store.

Days at work had flown by rapidly in your constant distraction with a lingering image of a colorful clown. Not even the new guy everyone was talking about could catch your attention, even if your girlfriends kept mentioning a stunning pair of black eyes and a charming swagger. Had he been a smoker, you'd perhaps get a glimpse of him during your breaks, at least. The Fridays hardly ever felt like the weekend, and this one made you want to smash some bones, your own sorrows bubbling up inside you, like a mint candy in a bottle of Cola. You were more of an indoors cat, but your really couldn't pass on a 3rd invitation for a night out, your buddies would think you were willfully ditching them. Fine I'll go! Just one drink though.

Mixing gin and tequila hadn't been up there among your smartest choices. You should have stopped after the 3rd shot, but you hadn't had so much fun in months. Hah! I feel dizzy. But this feels good, your thoughts pieces of a puzzle you were too drunk to make out. As your feet moved out of the taxi and into the cold early morning air, you were finally back home. You must have remembered to pay the fare otherwise the cabby would have chased you down. You drifted in your scrambled thoughts as your feet walked out of reflex, your mind miles away, preoccupied with a certain pair of turquoise eyes. Perhaps you had a propensity for dark hues, but those had always just been mere dust in front of green shades. I’m not in my own mind anymore… I’m in someone else's... And I’m touching myself, I’m licking my lips, the tip of my tongue grazes over the scar on my upper lip, the heat of my breath comes from within a boiling body, my skin sizzles. I hum and I moan and I... hah, fuck, I think I just broke my heel, I’m so fekkin drunk. You dragged yourself to the elevator, your mind desperately hoping you were managing to keep yourself composed so the sweet old doorman wouldn't judge you as a drunken failure in life.

Why did you do this to yourself? And can you just not redirect all your remaining fluids to where they're not required before you're at least in your bed? Fuck, I can't... you'd been pushing the elevator button for a minute before you growled a tad too loud at the drunken realization you’d have to climb all 5 storeys in this wretched state you'd put yourself into.

Fine, just get your sorry ass up before you make a fool of yourself clowning around. Just one more and you're there. Fumbling for your keys in your bag, you leaned on the door and, to your surprise and annoyance, it opened. What the fuck, was I drunk before I left my apartment? How could I have forgotten to lock the damn door?

You felt sick to your stomach, you couldn't walk to the bed. You hadn't drunk so much for over a year, you’d forgotten how useless you were in this state. The couch would do for tonight. You almost dropped yourself to the floor, the couch not in the same position as you'd left it, but who cared. I'm never drinking again, you thought as you coiled around the pillow, a shoe dropping on the floor while the other hung half way. It smelled of cigarettes, most probably from your clothes.

A familiar enticing aftertaste of alcohol clawed its way out once again, you should have known this was coming. You wished he'd be there so you could release yourself to him, as frail as he was he'd surely handle you gently, and mmm wouldn't that feel sweet. The alcohol had just been a low end substitute to bury your frustrations and aches. Hah, even if he was here, you'd be useless. But that didn't stop you from dozing off to the thought of his gentle fingers strolling down your neck to your breasts, drawing circles on your waist before goin... down lo...

There was too much light in the room, as drunk as you’d been you’d forgotten to draw the curtains. You couldn't open your eyes, the headache was throbbing, so you rubbed your temples and turned your led limbs from the aching position you'd landed on as the most shameful drunk in this city.

Your mind thought you could take opening your eyes, and as you did you felt the alcohol pressuring your Adam's apple, a deep breath a flimsy stronghold to keep everything down. A deep breath that turned swiftly to a high pitched shriek at the sight of this man walking towards you dripping water off his naked body, a towel being rubbed onto his hair with both hands. You shrieked as you fell to the floor, hitting yourself against an unfamiliar coffee table, flagons of pills spilling all over it.

Oh shit, you heard him say as he hid behind the wall, peering at you but quieting his anxiety the more he looked.

'What are you... Y/N, you're in the wrong apartment! Shit, I need to put something on'

Oh god what had you done?? A sous chef could have mistaken you for a lobster and thrown you in a bucket of boiling water, you’d surely been simmering in that since the realization of how much of an idiot you were at walking into his apartment, of all damn places.

‘Oh my god, I am SO SORRY, I had a few too many drinks with my friends and I must have... I surely have climbed too many storeys to my place. I'll be out of your hair, I am so sorry!!!’ He'd been hopping throughout your dreams for the past weeks, you'd seen him naked so many times before, but not once in the flesh. You were flustered at the brazen realization of how far off you'd been as you fantasized about him bare before you. It was nerve wrecking, you wished you could just disintegrate into a million atoms and let the ground swallow you whole.

He chuckled as he returned in a half clothed state, clearly having shortened the process just to catch you before you shut the door behind you.

‘Yeah, the elevator was out of order yesterday. Hey, it's ok. You just really scared me, I wasn't expecting to find you on my couch, you know? You're... welcome to... stay a bit longer if you want. You look like you've had a rough night, I could whip out some breakfast and get you back on your feet. If you wish…’

He'd whipped out more than you'd thought he would a couple minutes ago, thank you very much for the extra sleepless nights.

‘Oh my god, no, I couldn't take advantage of you like that, I just slept on your couch uninvited, I am so horrible. Please excuse me, and thank you for not calling the cops on me.’

He'd smiled at you in the elevator before your heels had started flaming for him a few weeks back, but this was different. His whole face had lit up, his eyes sparkling as if emerald and jade had caught a reflection of the sun, his crooked tooth a tantalizing new discovery, especially as the scar on his lip etched itself deeper into your psyche. You were in his house, after all, where else would he feel most comfortable if not in his private, intimate home, one that you'd shamefully invaded and found him completely naked and wet.

‘They're on their way actually, I’m just stalling before they show up to escort you from my property.’

You chuckled as you held your temple, you must have been a disgusting mess, your makeup all smudged, on your face a decrepit layer of last nights overindulgence, and yet he made you laugh.

‘You're funny, Arthur... I'll take care of that myself, tell them it was a false alarm...’

As you opened the door to remove yourself from this torrent of shame, his voice stopped you in the doorstep.

‘Hey, you wanna… grab a coffee later tonight? It might help with that hangover’

‘You really want to go out after all this?’

‘Yeah!’ his eyebrow twitched in reflex, startling you at its sudden air of impertinence. You couldn't tell if your limbs had mellowed from alcohol, or his facial expressivity had been the melting catalyst. ‘Pajama night, I'll take you to the best Donut diner in town. 9 PM?’

You really wished you could process everything clearly, but he wasn't making it easier at all. ‘Alright then, pajama night it is!’

‘Great! Are you sure I can't help you to your place?’

‘Sorry to ask, what floor is this?’

‘6th.’

‘Oh, I’m right downstairs, maybe going down a flight of stairs will shake off this horrid hangover. Thanks again for... hosting me I guess, nice to see you again, Arthur. I'll see you later!’

You waved at him more in a futile attempt to cover your face as you stepped back out of that bubble of shame, feeling soaked to the bone. The droplets on his skin, he'd just gotten out of the shower, that routine gesture to slick back his hair, that wide morning gaze were mere special mentions as you went down the stairs, one other morning factor keeping your mind fully flustered as you unlocked your own front door this time.

-------------------------

Thank you for reading this far! 🤡🖤

A special thank you to a few wonderful people who inspire me daily ❤❤❤

@littlebird92 @life-or-something-like-lt @ralugraphics @jokers-puddin-pop @arthurfleckownsmysoul @bustafatclownnut @jokers-doll @rommies @bananabreaddough @paperorigami @ransomguest49 @daydreamhustler @arthurjokersgirl @lesbianearrings @arthurflecc @iartsometimes @arthurflecksgirl @forever-fleck @sweet-nothings04 @wuika @mollyxlyla-rosex @impulsiveclown @jokerlicious @jokergirl10491 @jokeconic @ajokeformur-ray @shaw-2000 @softyash @arthurflecc

[straycat-writes]

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (oda sakunosuke)

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (japanese, n.) - the feelings, scents, or images that evoke memories or anticipation of a particular season.

requested by: anonymous

It was spring the first time he saw her, the mild early April air carrying with it the scent of freshly bloomed flowers. She was curled up with a book in a quiet corner of the quaint little café he used to frequent, completely lost as the words on the pages painted a picture in front of her.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Oda must have stood there for a full five minute, wondering whether or not he should approach her and strike up a conversation. With mellow sunlight streaming in through the window beside her and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, she seemed almost too serene, too…picturesque for him to disturb her.

But humans have an innate instinct, a tendency to notice when they’re being looked at. She looked up from her book, slowly taking in her surroundings before her eyes finally landed on him. Oda would have liked to look away, should have looked away but he couldn’t bring himself to. When he blinked slowly, she gave him a dazzling smile, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He approached her, a charming smile gracing his handsome face, “Is this spot taken, ma’am?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, gesturing in front of her, “You’re very welcome to stay.”

He sat down, looking at the blue and gold cover of the book still glued to her hand. On France and Poetry. He raised a curious eyebrow, “Baudelaire?”

“Among others.” She nodded, rather wistfully, “Baudelaire was insanely talented, but it’s a shame he has become so synonymous with French poetry that people barely pay any attention to others.”

“And who do you think deserves more attention?”

“Well, many others.” She said, then smiled sheepishly, “Although I have an affinity for Paul Verlaine.”

Oda laughed, “Ah, one of the romantics*. I must admit they do have a dreamy quality to their musings.”

Her eyes lit up at that, “Right? I understand the appeal of realism and all, but nothing compares to this particular form of expression, and Verlaine definitely did it better than anyone else.”

“That might have had something to do with his muse.” Oda reflected, “They do say he was on love with Rimbaud.”

“He shot Rimbaud.” she laughed, “Twice.”

Oda grinned coyly, “We all have our love languages.”

They sat there and talked for hours, about anything and everything, and each time she laughed at something he said, Oda swore he heard windchimes somewhere in the distance. It was almost evening by the time they realized that they couldn’t stay there forever, curled up in a world of their own that started and ended in a cozy little café. When she left, all Oda was left with was a messily scribbled phone number and beautiful name to go with it. He smiled.

It was summer the first time the thought crossed his mind that he might be falling for her. They had been going out for a few weeks now. It was a stiflingly warm night, and the smell of freshly mowed grass mingled with that of the salty sea breeze as they walked back after having dinner together, his hand intertwined with hers. They had stopped at the docks to admire the nighttime sea for a moment, when he finally plucked together the courage to tell her what he did for a living, telling her that it was fine if she wanted leave after this.

She cried. Each tear felt like a rip in Oda’s heart and he desperately wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure if she would like being touched by him now. Then she got angry.

“You told me you wanted to be a writer.” She said through gritted teeth, “Tell me, then. Have you ever taken a life?”

The question took Oda by surprise. It took him a while, but he answered nonetheless, “…Never.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he began, then frowned, looking down at his feet, “Because then I wouldn’t have the right to be a writer anymore.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks, “Then why do you consider me shallow enough to leave you now? Do you really think that low of me?”

Oda was dumbstruck, unable to articulate even the simplest of thoughts. He had been ready for anything she might have had to say, but not this. Even after he told her everything…she still refuses to leave?

“Say something.” She frowned, lightly putting a hand on his chest, “You cannot hope to be a very good writer if you cannot even find the words to articulate –“

Oda couldn’t stop himself. He kissed her. The kiss was soft and true, tasting of subtle longing and slightly of the saltiness of her tears. And something else he couldn’t put his finger on, something far sweeter and much more delicate. They were both out of breath by the time he let go, and as he looked at the small smile fighting its way to her lips, at her rosy cheeks and shining eyes, Oda was sure he was in love.

It was autumn the first time he told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It was once again a lazy afternoon, and they were lying on the bed in his small but airy two room flat, limbs tangled with each other’s and a thin cotton sheet the only thing covering their naked bodies. She traced little circles on his chest with her finger.

“Sakura really looks up to you, you know?” he said out of the blue.

She smiled, “Yeah? Well, she’s a good kid. So are the others. You’re doing a great job, Odasaku.”

“You think so?” he murmured, turning on his side to face her, “I just…I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to them.”

“And you won’t.” she said, lightly cupping his cheek. His crystal blue eyes looked even more breathtaking when the golden autumn sunlight hit them like that. “You know why? Because you’re a good man. And because I would never leave you to do this on your own.”

Oda’s eyes widened, a strange kind of warmth spreading throughout his chest. “Do you really mean that?”

“Every last bit.”

For a brief moment, he thought he saw every beautiful version of future flash before his eyes. A beautiful sea-side cabin, where the salty breeze accompanies him as he writes everything he has ever wanted to put down on paper. Stories of people and lives and love and beauty. Stories about the kids, about her and about himself being forever locked in her embrace. It was a beautiful version of reality, one he wasn’t sure he deserved but one he wanted nonetheless.

And here she was, telling him she wanted the same thing.

He sighed, dipping slightly forward to rest his forehead on hers, “Sweetheart…whatever will I do without you?”

“That’s irrelevant.” She murmured, place a small kiss just at the edge of his lips, “Because you won’t ever have to find out.”

It was winter the first time he realized just how out of reach that beautiful reality really was. The world had never been fair. Bad things happened to good people everyday and the pursuit of happiness was utterly meaningless. Everything was meaningless. God didn’t exist, and if he did, he wasn’t worthy of being called one. What kind of cruel, sadistic God allowed innocent children to die at the hands of mercenaries?

Oda Sakunosuke had nothing left to live for anymore.

Or so he thought. If he had put aside the sheer rage coursing through his veins and clouding his eyes for one moment, he would have realized that he had one last solace left in the world. One last chance at salvation, waiting for him to crawl back home to her and into her welcoming embrace. She would weep with him, weep for him and soothe him as he screamed his throat raw and let out every last bit of pain and ache the world had shoved into him. And regardless of the amount of blood on his hands, she would gather him up and piece him back together again.

But rage and hopelessness and sheer, white hot fury had blinded Oda, and he could no longer see anything but red. Gide wanted a reckoning and Oda would give it to him, even if it ended up destroying him in the process. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

There were a few thoughts that crossed Oda’s mind as he lied there in Dazai’s arms, his heartbeat slowly failing him.

One of them was that he wanted a cigarette, which is an odd thing to think as you’re dying, but he allowed himself the liberty. The second was that he would never be a writer now. But that hardly mattered at this point. The third was that Dazai was crying. Oda had never seen him cry before, but he figured it was good for him, because underneath that fragile façade of the horrific ‘demonic prodigy’, Oda knew he was just a scared, broken little boy who just wanted to feel something other than empty for once. If his death was what pushed Dazai out of the darkness, then Oda wouldn’t consider it to be completely in vain.

The last thing he thought, as his vision began to grow darker and darker, was that there was a girl still waiting for him at home. They had had a fight before he left, and he had left her crying on the doorway in the biting evening air that chilled everything to the bone. He had left without telling her where he was going. He wished to God he could turn back time, even for a little bit, and say all the right things to her, or at least a proper goodbye. But it was too late for that now.

She would probably get the news from Dazai. He wondered briefly how she would take it. Would she cry? Would she get angry at his foolishness? Would she despise him for leaving her? If she did, he thought, he wouldn’t blame her.

Gide was dead. Oda had had his revenge, his hollow moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel any better. All he felt was this all-pervading sense of cold emptiness, knowing that his momentary victory came at the price of leaving two people behind to pick up their broken pieces. To clean up the mess he created.

He was very cold now, and too drained to open his eyes anymore. As the last of his strength left him, he only wished…something good comes of his death.

*romantics here refers to being part of the early 19th century literary movement, Romanticism, and has no relation to the present day connotations of the word.

[theloreofwhatilove]

She said the easter eggs 🐣 are lyrical 📝 instead of visual 👀 so here’s every parallel I could find so far 🔍

🍂 the 1

I'm doing good, I'm on some new shit 🆚 I’m doing better than I ever was (ciwyw)

and if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow 🆚 if I bleed you’ll be the last to know (cruel summer) 🆚 you drew stars around my scars but now I'm bleeding (cardigan)

roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool 🆚 have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years? (lover) 🆚 I've been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night (daylight) 🆚 once in twenty lifetimes (cardigan) 🆚️ only twenty minutes to sleep (epiphany)

for never leaving well enough alone 🆚 I never leave well enough alone (me!)

and it's another day, waking up alone 🆚 and I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side (dress) 🆚 we both wake in lonely beds, different cities (sad beautiful tragic)

🍂 cardigan

when you are young, they assume you know nothing 🆚 when you’re young you just run (this love)

high heels on cobblestones 🆚️ I was walking home on broken cobblestones (betty)

a friend to all is a friend to none 🆚 all of my enemies started out friends (the archer)

your heartbeat on the High Line 🆚 my heartbeat skipping down 16th avenue (ithk)

you stepping on the last train 🆚 we wait for trains that just aren't coming (new romantics) 🆚 I stood right by the tracks (sad beautiful tragic) 🆚 the train runs off its tracks (sad beautiful tragic) 🆚 Rebekah rode up on the afternoon train (tlgad)

marked me like a bloodstain 🆚 made your mark on me (dress) 🆚 you’re still all over me like a whine stained dress (clean) 🆚 this love left a permanent mark (this love) 🆚️ and you can aim for my heart, go for blood (my tears ricochet) 🆚️ sir, I think hes bleeding out (epiphany)

and when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someone's bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite 🆚️ but I know I miss you, standing in your cardigan (betty)

leaving like a father, running like water 🆚 clear blue water, high tide came and brought you in (this love) 🆚 skies grew darker, currents swept you out again (this love)

I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss 🆚 made your mark on me, a golden tattoo (dress)

I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs 🆚 can't turn back now, I'm haunted (haunted) 🆚️ you know I didn't want to have to haunt you (my tears ricochet)

I knew I'd curse you for the longest time 🆚 it's 2am and I'm cursing your name (twily) 🆚️ cursing my name, wishing I'd stayed (my tears ricochet)

I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired 🆚 you searched the world for something else to make you feel like what we had (wonderland) 🆚 “what you've heard is true but I can't stop thinking about you” (style)

and you'd be standing in my front porch light 🆚 stand there like a ghost shaking from the rain, she’ll open up the door and say “are you insane?” (hygtg) 🆚 wishing you were at my door, I’d open up and you would say (enchanted) 🆚 this is the last time I let you in my door (the last time) 🆚 you find yourself at my door just like all those times before (the last time) 🆚️ and maybe I don't quite know what to say but I'm here in your doorway (this is me trying) 🆚️ Betty, I'm here on your doorstep (betty)

and I knew you'd come back to me 🆚 this love came back to me (this love) 🆚 now you say you want it back, now that it's just too late (ayhtdws)

the smell of smoke would hang around this long 🆚️ clearing the air, I breathed in the smoke (daylight)

to kiss in cars and downtown bars 🆚️ remember when I pulled up and said "get in the car" (august) 🆚️ pulled the car off the road to the lookout (this is me trying) 🆚️ remember when you hit the brakes too soon? (ootw) 🆚️ all I know is that you drive us off the road (ayhtdws) 🆚️ "I rent a place on Cornelia Street" I say casually in the car (cornelia street) 🆚️ we were in the backseat drunk on something stronger than the drinks in the bar (cornelia street) 🆚️ I'm drunk in the back of the car and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar (cruel summer) 🆚️ she said "James, get in, let's drive" (betty) 🆚️ lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh, we can follow the sparks, I'll drive (ithk)

🍂 last great american dynasty

their parties were tasteful, if a little loud 🆚 it was so nice throwing big parties (tiwwchnt)

there goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen 🆚 in the end in wonderland we both went mad (wonderland) 🆚 it's all fun and games 'til somebody loses their mind (wonderland) 🆚️ and there's nothing like a mad woman, what a shame she went mad, no one likes a mad woman (mad woman) 🆚️ they'd paint me out to be bad so, it's okay that I'm mad (the man)

filled the pool with champagne and swam with the big names 🆚 jump into the pool from the balcony, everyone swimming in a champagne sea (tiwwchnt) 🆚 in the winter, in the icy outdoor pool, when you jumped in first, I went in too (paper rings) 🆚️ roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool (the 1)

Holiday House sat quietly on that beach, free of women with madness, heir men and bad habits, and then it was bought by me 🆚 bad bad boy, shiny toy with a price, you know that I bought it (cruel summer)

I had a marvelous time ruining everything 🆚️ they say I did something bad but why's it feel so good? most fun I ever had and I'd do it over and over and over again if I could (idsb)

🍂 exile

you’re not my homeland anymore 🆚 our country guess it was a lawless land (dbatc)

you were my town 🆚 you’re the west village (false god)

now I’m in exile seeing you out 🆚 and I can still see you; this ain't the best view, on the outside, lookin' in (the outside) 🆚️ visions of dazzling rooms I'll never get let into (beautiful ghosts)

I think I’ve seen this film before and I didn’t like the ending 🆚 music starts playin' like the end of a sad movie, it's the kinda ending you don't really wanna see (breathe) 🆚 tried to change the ending (cardigan)

you were my crown 🆚 they took the crown (ciwyw)

I think I’ve seen this film before so I’m leaving out the side door 🆚 you gotta leave before you get left (idsb) 🆚 should’ve known I’d be the first to leave (getaway car)

we always walked a very thin line 🆚 you and I walk a fragile line (haunted) 🆚 lost your balance on a tight rope (innocent) 🆚️ I'm still on that tight rope (mirrorball)

there is no amount of crying I can do for you 🆚 you never did give a damn thing honey but I cried, cried for you (cold as you)

you didn’t even hear me out 🆚 could you just try to listen? (sad beautiful tragic) 🆚 I screamed so loud but no one heard a thing (clean)

🍂 my tears ricochet

and if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes, too 🆚️ and if I get burned, at least we were electrified (dress)

even on my worst day did I deserve, babe, all the hell you gave me? 🆚️ even in my worst times you could see the best of me (dress)

and if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake? 🆚️ if the story's over why am I still writing pages? (dbatc)

and so the battleships will sink beneath the waves 🆚️ loose lips sink ships all the damn time (ikp)

cause when I'd fight you used to tell me I was brave 🆚️ this ultraviolet morning light below tells me this love is worth the fight (afterglow) 🆚️ if you wanna fight, baby let's go (battle) 🆚️ now we're fighting dirty (battle) 🆚️ fighting with a true love is boxing with no gloves (afterglow) 🆚️ combat, I'm ready for combat (the archer)

🍂 seven

I was too scared to jump in 🆚️ don't be afraid to jump then fall (jump then fall)

🍂 august

but I can see us lost in the memory 🆚️ hold on to the memories (new years day) 🆚️ I bet these memories follow you around (wildest dreams)

and I can see us twisted in bedsheets 🆚️ you see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night (wildest dreams) 🆚️ and I can still see it all in my mind, all of you, all of me, intertwined (daylight)

cancel plans just in case you'd call 🆚️ paper cut stings from our paper thin plans (dbatc) 🆚️ I never planned on you changing your mind (last kiss) 🆚️ my best laid plan (hoax) 🆚️ I am an architect, I'm drawing up the plans (ithk)

cancel plans just in case you'd call and say "meet me behind the mall" 🆚️ phone lights up my nightstand in the black "come here, you can meet me in the back" (delicate)

🍂 this is me trying

they told me all of my cages were mental 🆚️ gold cage, hostage to my feelings (so it goes) 🆚️ put you in jail for something you didn't do (afterglow)

and my words shoot to kill when I'm mad 🆚️ I've been the archer, I've been the prey (the archer) 🆚️ they strike to kill and you know I will (mad woman)

and it's hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound 🆚️ what do you say when tears are streaming down your face in front of everyone you know? (tmik) 🆚️ and it was like slow motion,standing there in my party dress, in red lipstick, with no one to impress (tmik) 🆚️ all of the moment I knew tbh

🍂 illicit affairs

tell yourself you can always stop what started in beautiful rooms 🆚️ visions of dazzling rooms I'll never get let into (beautiful ghosts)

a drug that only worked the first few hundred times 🆚️ my drug is my baby, I'll be using for the rest of my life (dont blame me) 🆚️ gave up on me like I was a bad drug (dbatc)

look at this godforsaken mess that you made me 🆚️ we made quite a mess babe (I almost do) 🆚️ I've been picking up the pieces of the mess you've made (ayhtdws) 🆚️ I'm a mess but I'm the mess that you wanted (dwoht)

and you know damn well for you I would ruin myself 🆚️ for you I would fall from grace, just to touch your face (dont blame me) 🆚️ nothing safe is worth the drive (treacherous)

you showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else 🆚️ the rest of the world was black and white, but was were in screaming color (ootw)

🍂 invisible string

cutting me open, then healing me fine 🆚️ paper cut stings from our paper thin plans (dbatc) 🆚️ so cut the headlights, summer's a knife, I'm always waiting for you just to cut to the bone (cruel summer) 🆚️ but I'll be alright it's just a thousand cuts (dbatc)

pulled me out of all the wrong arms right into that dive bar 🆚️ dive bar on the east side, where you at? (delicate)

🍂 mad woman

do you see my face in the neighbor's lawn? 🆚️ I see your face in my mind as I walk away (breathe)

no one likes a mad woman, you made her like that 🆚️ look what you made me do (lwymmd) 🆚️ dont blame me, love made me crazy (dont blame me)

and women like hunting witches, too 🆚️ theure burning all the witches even if you arent one (idsb)

does she smile? or does she mouth "fuck you forever"? 🆚️ but if I just showed up at your party would you have me? would you want me? would you tell me to go fuck myself (betty)

🍂 betty

you heard the rumors from Inez, you can't believe a word she says most times, but this time it was true 🆚️ the rumors are terrible and cruel, but honey, most of them are true (new romantics) 🆚️ ain't it funny, rumors fly, and I know you heard about me (blank space)

in the garden would you trust me if I told you it was just a summer thing? 🆚️ and I snuck in through the garden gate every night that summer just to seal my fate (cruel summer) 🆚️ I dont trust nobody, and nobody trusts me (lwymmd)

I don't know anything but I know I miss you 🆚️ I don't know how to be something you miss (last kiss)

just thinking of you when she pulled up 🆚️ he says, "what you've heard is true but I can't stop thinking about you" (style)

🍂 peace

the devil's in the details but you got a friend in me 🆚️ it's nice to have a friend (inthaf)

you paint dreamscapes on the wall 🆚️ you put up walls and paint them all a shade of gray (cold as you)

I talk shit with my friends 🆚️ if a man talks ahit then I owe him nothing (idsb)

and you know that I'd swing with you for the fences 🆚️ lights flash and we'll run for the fences (ikp)

give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other 🆚️ you can hear it in the silence (you are in love)

but I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm 🆚️ he built a fire just to keep me warm (ciwyw)

all these people think love's for show but I would die for you in secret 🆚️ I, I loved you in secret, first sight, yeah, we love without reason (dwoht)

🍂 hoax

my twisted knife 🆚️ I brought a knife to a gun fight (ciwyw)

your faithless love's the only hoax I believe in 🆚️ even if it's a false god, we'd still worship this love (false god)

don't want no other shade of blue but you 🆚️ deep blue but you painted me golden (dwoht) 🆚️ it's blue, the feeling I've got (cruel summer) 🆚️ I'm with you even if it makes me blue (paper rings) 🆚️ my hearts been borrowed and yours has been blue (lover) 🆚️ we're so sad we paint the town blue (ma&thp) 🆚️ I blew things out of proportion, now you're blue (afterglow)

you knew the hero died, so what's the movie for 🆚️ you know the greatest films of all time were never made (the 1) 🆚️ all of my heroes died all alone (the archer)

you knew it still hurts underneath my scars 🆚️ with every guitar string scar on my hand (lover) 🆚️ you drew stars around my scars but now I'm bleeding (cardigan)

you knew you won, so what's the point of keeping score? 🆚️ but now we've stepped into a cruel world where everybody stands and keeps score (eyes open)

my only one, my kingdom come undone 🆚️ I dont like your kingdom keys, they once belonged to me (lwymmd)

[writingbakery]

“the ballerina & the nutcracker”🩰

this is a work that’s very dear to my heart that i’m finally releasing to the world! i abandoned it for a while, but my heart has returned - as has my love for the story. loosely based on several versions of the nutcracker, and heavily inspired by the ballet classical soundtrack; i highly recommend listening to it as you read. if there’s enough interest, this will become a chaptered fic!

wherein reader is a lonely, lost ballerina, thrust into a world where rats don’t only talk, but wield swords - and is that their toy nutcracker, alive and fighting? this adventure has only just begun, and the reader will go on a journey of love, friendship, tears, and laughter to find out just what the meaning of courage is ✨

[pairing; nutcracker!kirishima x gn! ballerina!reader]

[warnings; violence, magic, rat soldiers, flowery language, crude language, implied child abuse, implied bullying, romance]

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────

chapter one; an enchanted evening ✨

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“after you, clara.”

“oh nutcracker, stop bowing. we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“always, clara. always..”

The Nutcracker Prince (1990)

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snow falls delicately outside the large, frosty window, rivulets of ice clinging to the outside wooden frame. the streets are quiet with winter emptiness, piles of glistening white snow covering everything within sight & softening the normally bustling street corners. inside, just beyond the twinkling glass, a person sits, hand tucked under their chin as they watch the snowflakes grace every available surface, eyes a little sad.

you sit so still that for a moment, any passerby making their way through the cold that chanced for a moment to peer up at your frosty window would think you were a doll. you were delicate looking from the waist up, features rosy & small, handcrafted in glass. the only part of you that seemed alive were your eyes, dancing amidst the snowflakes as they made their slow waltz to the ground.

your name is [y/n] [l/n], & your adventure is only just beginning.

leaning back from your perch along the windowsill, you let a gentle sigh escape, cold fingers carding through tousled hair as you set about to begin your day.

you work your way through a half hours worth of gentle stretches, ensuring you’d shaken off the lingering silks of chill deep in your bones before dressing hurriedly & making your way to the academy.

the treasure academy for gifted persons was a dance academy first & foremost, one you had been attending for most of your years. you’d known you were in love with the art the first time your parents had brought you to the ballet, the soaring dancers trapped behind your eyelids whenever you so much as blinked. you’d sat stock still in between your mother & father that night, enraptured by the graceful, yet powerful movements. afterwards, you’d stood amongst a small crowd as the ballerinas poured out one by one, special praise being heaped upon the male lead for his incredible strength in lifting so many of the others through turns & spins. it had confused you greatly at the time, rose clutched between small hands as you told the female lead that you’d thought she was twice as powerful. she’d done pirouettes & leaps twice as fast as the others, pushed her body beyond its limits & you couldn’t understand why no one would acknowledge it. the pretty ballerina had simply laughed, kneeled down to your level to accept the rose. “not everyone sees strength the way you & i do, dear,” she whispered to you before making her way out of the crowd, leaving you with a fluttering heart, a kiss pressed to your forehead, & the urge to dance hollowing out your bones.

that night had transformed you, sending a lithe little child soaring through the air in poor imitations of pirouettes & plies, tumbling over two left feet until your mother had relented, & enrolled you in ballet. your father had been disapproving, as always; always worried about what the neighbors would think. the [l/n] family was well off enough that they could bend the social status quo to their liking, but your father had always been fickle, a perfectionist. he couldn’t bear the thought of being seen as lower in any way, & a child that preferred ballet slippers to books and studies was shameful in every way.

until you danced.

even as a child you’d had incredible skill, raw talent in your every movement & it was breathtaking to watch. every dip & turn was fluid, marked with a steady gracefulness that usually came from years of study. exercises that took even the most skilled of dancers weeks took you days; by the end of your first year, you’d landed the lead ballerina role.

you hated it.

your instructors see you as nothing but talent with too much time to think, absurdly harsh on you; they demand perfection, take every scrap of effort you give & hungrily scrape your bones for more. you’re nothing but a means for them to succeed, a way to relive their own glory.

the ballerinas are kinder, more gentle. but they themselves are a beast all their own, wound up in tight insecurities & tighter diets, something your toned, strong thighs cannot sympathize with. they must be fragile as glass with the strength of concrete; a constant push and pull. the ballerinos get slightly more lee-way, less pressure, but you’re caught between both worlds, & so you bear both of their weights on your shoulders.

you are alone, but not lonely. so long as you can dance, you will never be lonely.

the music rushes towards you with every arching step, the melody whittled from your bones & thrummed from your skin. they become one, perfectly intertwined, two halves of a whole not yet separated. it’s where you feel complete.

most days, it takes a heavy combination of overwhelming exhaustion, late hours, and concerned fellow students to get you out of the studios. today, since it’s christmas eve, you’re out by lunchtime. you don’t want to disappoint your mother by being late, and you’re sure to take a long soak in the bath to wash away the residual stink of sweat and never being good enough.

you dress comfortably for the evening, simple trousers and a warm, red knit sweater. as you dress you can hear the loud, overeager shouts that can only come from children at christmas time; your cousins have arrived, their noisy cheer infecting the quiet house. it brings a smile to your face, makes facing your family a little easier.

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dinner is early, a simple affair when the clock strikes four and everyone’s made it to the dining room. you push roast potatoes and chicken around your plate slowly, soak in the bragging speeches and subtle jabs. you just want it to be nightfall already, curled up alone in your living room and watching the snow pile up as the clock strikes midnight.

after dinner everyone crowds into the parlor, your cousins bouncing around the tree excitedly - they want to open their presents, and no one can deny them. your uncle carefully hands out each prettily wrapped gift, the shine of their ribbons almost hypnotizing in the firelight. each child gets a small pile, full of little tin men and wooden trains, glossy eyed stuffed dolls and hair ribbons. you’re content to watch their enchanted smiles, curled up on the far sofa, and so your surprise is evident when your uncle places a small, delicately wrapped box in your lap.

uncle had always been a tad eccentric, your mother’s brother’s wife’s brother, or something along those lines. he was a toymaker by trade, careful hands crafting the most beautiful painted dolls and puppets, casting little fierce soldiers from tin molds. your father hated the man, but indulged his wife, as he was the only relative on your mother’s side that lived close enough to visit for holidays.

he handmade every child’s present, spending months before the holiday painstakingly crafting every toy to perfection, and he’d done so for as long as you could remember. it was sentimental and sweet, but you had been too old for toys for several christmases already.

still, you’re intrigued by the prettily wrapped present, taking it with careful hands and working open the ribbon. you gasped at the cherry wood box, poking through the tissue paper to reveal a handsomely painted nutcracker.

it was about the length of your forearm, built of sturdy wood and richly painted, glinting in the firelight. it was almost handsome, a hand stitched uniform covering its wooden form - it almost looked regal, like the little nutcracker was royalty.

“thank you so much,” you whispered, looking up at your uncle in awe. you’d never owned something so sentimental, so carefully crafted. it made you feel warm somewhere deep in your chest, blossoming through your body as you stared at the elegant nutcracker.

the moment is shattered immediately; it’s almost expected.

“and what use do you think [y/n] should have for that?” your father asked crossly, leaning over to rip the nutcracker from your hands. “they’re no longer a child, you foolish man. or have all the paints in your shack of a shop finally corrupted your mind?” he twisted the little nutcracker back and forth, digging a fat finger into the wooden jaw. it comes apart with a sharp crack, and so does your quiet patience.

you snatch the nutcracker back with a panicked gasp, anger building low in your stomach. after ensuring that all your father’s done is pop out the nutcracker’s lower jaw, you turn on him with a furious expression.

“why must you always ruin things that make me happy!? why can’t you ever let me be happy?” you shout, the parlor deathly silent. running up the stairs, you can hear your mother’s angry scolding and your father’s flippant excuses, overlapped with the whispers of your cousins.

you ignore them in favor of searching your room, letting out a triumphant little yell when you find it; a frayed ballet ribbon, torn from your old pointe shoes. carefully holding the nutcrackers jaw in place, you lace the ribbon underneath its chin and tie it into a little bow atop its shiny wooden head.

“there, aren’t you handsome again? nothing a little ribbon can’t fix,” you say softly to the doll, smiling warmly. you can’t help it, you almost feel like… it’s listening to you, encouraging you with a hidden twinkle in its painted eyes.

“father’s always so brutish. he breaks everything he touches, physically and verbally. don’t expect an apology from him either, my little nutcracker prince. he’s insufferably stubborn,” you continued, fixing its gold stitched jacket as you spoke.

“i hate him, sometimes. i must love him, of course - he’s my father. but i do not have to like him, and i won’t, not as long as i live. he’s always ruining things.” you let out a weary sigh, adjusting the little ribbon carefully.

“sometimes, i wish i was a bird, so i could fly far, far away,” you confess to the little nutcracker, eyes suddenly a little wet. “far away from father and the instructors and everyone.”

you set the nutcracker down next to you on the bed, curling up to wait until everyone’s gone to bed. “far, far away,” you hum, pulling the duvet over yourself.

next to you, the nutcracker shines in the lamplight, a mischievous glint to its eye.

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as the clock neared twelve and the house grew silent once more, you crept down the stairs, tiptoeing into the empty parlor. sighing a bit, you rest your little nutcracker at the base of the christmas tree, sitting amongst scattered tin men and abandoned dolls - your cousins leaving their toys long forgotten on the wood floor.

for a moment, the room stands completely, utterly still, silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the dying embers of the fireplace. everything is peaceful, the room sparkling from the christmas lights and the flickering, fading flames.

you smile, content.

the sharp, heavy banging of the clock striking twelve jolts you from your stupor, and as you glance back at it you can see the looming shadow of your uncle, smiling in the dim light. “uncle? what’s happening?” you try to ask over the din of the clock, but it feels as though your voice is getting smaller and smaller, the room beginning to spin in a dizzying display of christmas lights and shaky flickers. everything seems to grow larger and larger, the soothing voice of your uncle surrounding you at all sides. “relax, my child. your present reveals itself,” he says, a fond smile to his lips before he disappears into the shadows.

when you open your eyes again, the room is massive. the tree towers over you on one side, the grandfather clock looming on the other. for a moment, you think that you’re dreaming, shaking your head to clear it.

this time, when your eyes open, you’re in the middle of battle.

tin soldiers yell from all sides of you, slashing their bayonets fiercely into the darkness. dolls swing their fabric fists at an unseen enemy, discarding shoes and capes everywhere.

you also realize you’re naked, shrunk into a pile of your now too big clothes. you scream.

around you, the battle rages on, the enemy becoming clear in the dim lamplight; rats, dressed in military uniforms, fighting with rusted swords. you’re confused and terrified, watching as they fight in dizzying displays of violence.

a tin soldier strikes down a squealing rat, moving from your line of sight, and in the newly exposed space a familiar face emerges. you gasp, recognition flooding your features; it’s your nutcracker.

only now, your little nutcracker is taller than you, broad shouldered and snarling as he battles a large, fierce looking rat. it has a crown perched atop its unsightly head, the clanging of swords overpowering every other sound in the room. as you watch, the rat gains the upper hand, slashing the sword from the nutcracker’s grip - he is defenseless.

you move before you can even think, reaching down to pick up a stray doll slipper and lobbing it at the dirty rat’s head. you immediately regret that decision, the shoe smacking the rat directly in the face - and focusing its attention on you.

just as he’s stepping towards you, malice in his face, the nutcracker lunges, holding a sword to the rat’s neck.

“leave, rat. our battle will not end here,” he commands, voice rich and deep. it has the authority of a leader, the cadence of a king.

“this won’t be our last meeting, nutcracker. you will not win,” the rat growled, before letting out a shrill, low whistle; the fighting rats immediately still, before racing into a tiny, unnoticed crack in the wall. the leader shoots one last venomous, poison glare at the nutcracker, before following after them.

suddenly, the room is quiet, the dolls and soldiers regrouping and collecting themselves. you watch as the nutcracker makes his way through the mess, a smile on the - interestingly handsome - wooden face.

“now that, little ballerina, was quite brave.” in the lamplight, the nutcracker looks human, warm and familiar.

you manage to stammer out a weak “thank you”, shyly yanking up the collar of your sweater to cover your naked form. it’s more than a little embarrassing, meeting the very doll you’d ranted to a few hours earlier. you’re still not convinced this isn’t all a dream.

“i am kirishima eijiro, the prince of the southern isles. the creature you just saw was the rat king, forceful overtaker of the southern isles. my isles. he cursed me into this wooden form, to prevent me from taking back my throne,” the nutcracker explains, leaning down to gather a few stray garments. he hands them to you with a wry smile, giving a sly glance to your sweater covered form. you blush brightly, snatching the clothes and waiting for the nutcracker to turn around to tug them on. a silky, short sleeved leotard, silk shorts, and a tutu, all in a pretty blush pink. there’s even a matching pair of little pointe shoes, and you’re surprised at how well it all fits. you feels rather like you fit now, in this wild fever dream that has no end.

“how was he able to do such a thing? surely there’s some sort of….. actually, never mind.” you’re beginning to realize that nothing about this is normal, and you aren’t sure how to feel. the nutcracker sighs, running a hand over his face. weariness seems to haunt his every action, and your heart softens.

“i was a fool then, full of reckless youth and insufferable invincibility. i thought i could defeat him all on my own. my only hope now is to find the sugar plum princess, and enlist her help to break my curse. but in order to find her, i must travel back to my kingdom, and find the sugar plum fairy. she is the only one who knows exactly where the princess is. she also may be able to… fix this little predicament of yours.” despite the heavy words, there’s a teasing lilt to his tone, and you can’t help but find it endearing despite the circumstances.

for a moment, you’re filled with a flurry of panic, uncertainty. part of you wants to run, hide away in your bed and hope for it all to end. but you steel your nerves, shaking off the fear in your heart. you can’t show weakness now, not here.

“well, if she can make everything as it was before, i suppose we’ve got some traveling to do,” you say with all the confidence you can muster, holding your head up high. the nutcracker smiles, holding out his hand; you take it carefully, sealing your fate in this new adventure.

together, you both step into the crack in the wall, and you can only hope you make it home in one piece.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Wait For Me || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY:  “I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like.”

CONTAINS: descriptions and discussions of self-harm, references to suicidal ideation

It was gauche, Deirdre thought now, to come bearing flowers whenever she had something to apologize for. But the flowers were pretty, and rare, and only grew one place in the world---a place Morgan may not ever come to, though Deirdre ached to take her. The fae world she held delicately in her heart wasn’t friendly to outsiders. But it had saved her life, and it had clothed her, and it had given her the strength to come back home to the person her heart belonged to. And She’d make a place for Morgan there. Deirdre wore a stolen sweatshirt, about three sizes too large for her, and shorts that covered nothing. In her crudely bandaged hand she held a bundle of flowers from the mirrored district, some of which were like mirrors themselves with their reflective petals, others as bright and pale as the moon. And a few, from the Lydia tree, striking red against the rest. She groped around the large sweatshirt pocket for her keys only to remember that she’d lost them in the forest--right along with her phone. All she felt there was the crinkle of the articles she cut. And so, she stood awkwardly in front of her own house, like a stranger--a beggar. In the days of her absence, the fog of rage and grief had lifted from her mind, and left behind a hollowed woman. What pieces she needed to pick up, where she went from here, she didn’t know. But one thing had remained true, and she always knew the place to start remembering herself. Deirdre lifted her hand and knocked against the frosted glass of their door. In the cloudy, skewed reflection, she could see a face that hardly looked like her own under all of her injuries. Stiffly, she tried to adjust her damp hair to look more the way Morgan remembered it, even if the ends had been singed in the fire. She was more bandage than skin now, and had about half a dozen jokes about being a mummy she would never say.

Instead she stood there, and waited.

Nothing good knocked on your door in the middle of the night unannounced. After almost forty years grappling with a curse, Morgan knew this better than most. So she held no hope, no illusions of her world getting one stitch better when she opened the door. Then she saw Deirdre, or what was left of her. What precious bits of skin she could see were swollen and streaked all the wrong colors. Blood crusted the edges of her bandages, and in her hand… a fucking bouquet of flowers. Morgan took her in with a long, terrible look; she couldn’t hide how sick, how wrong Deirdre looked with the stain of violence on her in its stiff, crusty, puss tinted glory.

“What the fuck,” she hissed, her voice cracking with sobs. “What the fuck was that? What were you fucking-- What is this fucking bullshit, Deirdre--” Morgan wanted to shake her, scream at her, knock those flowers out of her hand, show her exactly how much of an insult they were. But the woman before her was Deirdre, broken and small and finally home. Morgan shook her head, still burning with rage, and flung her arms around Deirdre and dragged her inside.

Resolve cracked. All the fancy words she drafted in her head on the way back home crumbled against her quivering lips, and Deirdre let loose a volley of apology and sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” She breathed Morgan in, held her back just as tight, just as desperate. She threw her flowers aside, they were dumb anyways. “It’s the—it’s the way the mirrored district works; it takes time away and I just—“ She trembled against her love, pain flaring in the places she was hardest held, and in the sore muscles that begged for rest—for once. Deirdre ignored it all, eager to be with Morgan again. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve been so stupid. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you.” She kicked the door closed urgently with her foot, keeping steady as they backed up blindly into their home. After all this time, after all her thinking, the only thing she could manage now was apology. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips firm against Morgan’s skin, peppering her in kisses as she mumbled more sorry’s. “I know it’s not good enough,” she pulled back, “but I am, I am.”

Morgan’s sobs shook her body. This was everything she had craved for weeks, but like some starved human given a five course meal, she was throwing it all back up. Deirdre’s touch burned, her soft voice made Morgan want to scream, and she did: tired and frustrated and bleeding with hurt. “You’re sorry,” she said bitterly, hating how fragile her voice sounded. “Now you’ve decided you’re--” She shook her head, trembling so violently her spine would’ve popped if she were still alive. Deirdre was always sorry. What did sorry mean after six days? “Stupid? Is that the word you--No! It’s not enough!” She pushed one of Deirdre’s hands away, but didn’t move to separate herself. “What were you thinking, what even happened to you, what is this?” She gestured wildly to Deirdre’s latest injuries, her face crumpling as new details caught her eye. Morgan couldn’t help but reach out for her face, even just a little, just enough to brush the patch of bare cheek she could. She shook her head again, uselessly scrubbing her hand over her eyes. “No, why don’t you explain what you’re sorry for now and why you didn’t feel like you could tell me or how I was supposed to know on my own. Tell me. If you are half as sorry as you say you are, you will fucking tell me!”

Deirdre knew now to be less startled by feeling Morgan’s anger against her—it was startling, yes. Something that she never should have let fester to begin with. But it didn’t spark the same bubbling panic it had the first time, or during her moments of immeasurable grief. “I’m sorry…” she mumbled again, face fraught with apology and concern as she looked at Morgan. Her girlfriend lobbied several questions, all good, all she was more than willing to answer. She started with the obvious. “For leaving. For not coming back like I should have. For sending pixies off to deliver you a note. For the way I’ve treated you recently. For the things I’ve done to myself, with no regard for you. For thinking it would have been okay to die on that driveway, for wanting it. For forgetting how much I want this life with you. For not being here to help you too. For running off the first time, and the second time, and this time. For going off and doing these terrible, stupid things, and then leaving you to find out through other people, or not all. I—I’m sorry, Morgan.” Deirdre breathed, eyelids fluttering as she blinked back tears. “I was—I couldn’t contact you, exactly. But I should have come home first, I should have told you. I should have done a lot of things that I can’t change right now, but I’m here, and if you’ll let me...I want to make things right. Please.” She shifted, wondering if Morgan would let her wipe her tears away, and then deciding she would try it anyway. “Do you want to sit, my love?”

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at Deirdre, so desperate and pleading and soft. It made Morgan want to throw everything from the last two weeks away and forgive her so she could nest in her body. Deirdre wiped her tears and Morgan’s mouth fell in a silent scream. How could she skip to the end of this when she felt as raw and pummeled inside as Deirdre was on the outside? How long did she wait for her before she became pathetic? Morgan hid her face in her hands, nodding. She didn’t want to do anything, exactly, but she couldn’t stay standing in the hall. She stiffened her expression as best she could and led the way to the great room. She sat in the middle of the couch, hugging her knees. “Why should I believe anything you say right now?” She asked, her voice still wet and rasping. “I’m finally worth talking to, but why? Because I don’t understand. I would have done almost anything for you if you had just thought to--” Her voice squeaked with pain again. She shook her head tiredly. “I just don’t understand anything right now. What is this? What’s happening now?”

Deirdre fell beside Morgan, softly as not to disrupt the couch. She hovered anxiously beside her love, unsure how much affection Morgan wanted now, if any. She settled for resting her hand close to her, yearning for her touch. “I don’t know….” she confessed quietly. “I don’t know. And I know you can’t trust me but I can promise it. Everything that I just said, I can say it again as a promise. I mean it. And you don’t have to accept it, my love. I’ll still mean it tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day. I love you, I want our life together—I promise I do. And I’m sorry, I promise I am.” Deirdre breathed shakily, voice quivering. “You’re always worth talking to, you were always, I promise that. I just—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking right, I guess. Lydia died and in my head I knew everything I had to do. Torture, pain, death...for Lydia’s peace and her justice. I have to do it. But I didn’t want—I didn’t want to bring that to you. You said you didn’t want to be complicit in what Lydia did and I couldn’t make you complicit in my acts. I thought it was right—I was right. I thought a lot of things, I know, but I just didn’t know what to do. I want Lydia back so badly...I want a good death for her, still.” She reached for her girlfriend, hand pressed against her knee. “But then I almost died again, and these fae they—“ She swallowed. “I saw what they did for Lydia. And it was beautiful, and kind and all this pain and anger I have...it hasn’t brought me anything, and it hasn’t brought Lydia back and I haven’t done anything right and I...I’m so tired, Morgan.” Her hand fell down, grasping the air. “What’s happening is that I’ve taken too long to remember what’s important. The thing I’ve always wanted is you, Morgan. And whatever I need to do to bring Lydia peace...I don’t think it means hurting you. I never want to hurt you, not ever. Not for this, not for anything.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan slumped as Deirdre made her promises. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t who they were, but Deirdre wasn’t sick or choking on her words. They were true. It didn’t make sense, but she was speaking true. And the choice of what to believe, the woman next to her or the one she remembered, had been taken away. Morgan listened, weeping silently as she did. She understood these words, to an extent. She knew death. She knew loss. She knew bloodlust. (She was still trying to figure out what to do with her own.) And she knew that some pains demanded to take rule. But-- “But you did...” She said faintly. “You hurt me. And you never told me what I was doing wrong. You said I didn’t do anything but you wouldn’t even let me touch you at night towards the end, and then you just vanished! And then that...that note, that didn’t...what was I supposed to do?” She shuddered, whimpering. “I didn’t even do that to you when I died. I came back to you. I always came back. And I know you needed me, and she meant so much more to you than me, and I tried, I swear I tried. I wanted to be here for you! But you wouldn’t talk and I couldn’t do anything…” Morgan clutched Deirdre’s sweatshirt and tried to curl up tighter against herself.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong. You hadn’t. I promise. I—“ Deirdre grimaced, memory slotting into place. “I didn’t want you to see…” she admitted, small and broken. But she could show Morgan now, not because she had grown any less embarrassed, but because she remembered sharing herself with Morgan was a safe thing to do. And it was the least she could do now. “Hey…” When she peeled Morgan off of her now, she offered explanation. “I need to take off my sweatshirt, okay? I’ll show you. I just need to take it off.” And she pulled up the fabric, wiggling out of its cotton hold until her body was bare and open. Crudely done bandages wrapped around her abdomen, covering the iron stab wound that would’ve claimed her life, if Athena had been any less arrogant. But she gestured to the bandages around her back that wrapped around her arms and chest as the pixies found it hard to secure. They weren’t expert medics by any stretch, but they never questioned her. It was simply what fae did for each other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Morgan. I didn’t know how to say anything, I…” She trailed off, bitting down on her lip. “I’m sorry about the note, about whatever the pixies wrote. I should have just done it myself. I should’ve.” She sighed, and motioned that she was going to turn around now. Finally, with her back to Morgan, she looked over her shoulder and nodded. “You can take those off...I think all of these need to be changed anyway. But that’s—I was just trying to—“ Deirdre sighed. “I was scared, I suppose. I was hiding.” And underneath the bandages, she’d find the marks of a woman who had tried to seek repentance in an old technique yet found none. Where she couldn’t use her words, it was easy to turn to violence, even if that violence had to be leveled against herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Morgan searched Deirdre’s eyes as she spoke, desperate for some deeper affirmation. Are you sure I didn’t do anything? Are you sure I wasn’t being punished? But she had asked, Deirdre had promised, and what else could she plead for? Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s fingers as she stood. She couldn’t stifle her gasp as she saw how thoroughly wrapped in bandages her body was. Morgan meekly stood and undid the knots and unwrapped the bandages. The first few layers came off with ease, but as she got closer to Deirdre’s skin, the color grew brown, then red. There was a sucking sound as Morgan eased off the last layer, whispering, “I’m sorry, I can… I-I can…” Still half in the nightmare version of their relationship, she fumbled for the words that had been slapped out of her hands the most : help, heal, fix, soothe. But then she saw the ruin of Deirdre’s back and there was nothing left to say. Streaks of red sores crosshatched over each other so thick they swelled together in bloody spots in some places. Blood eeked out where the bandages had stuck. Morgan was silent for what felt like a long time, then at last managed, “May I get the first aid tub for you? I’d like to... you need to have these touched up for them to heal right, and you shouldn’t do them by yourself.” She stepped to the side and met Deirdre’s eyes sadly. They hadn’t solved anything yet, and she had more questions, but this much could be simple for them.

Though largely unaffected by the cold, Deirdre shivered. It was humiliating in a terrible way, but then, she supposed she ought to feel it. It was stupid in a thousand more; the desperation of a fraught woman. The only thing her pain had really done was change her body into one she hardly recognized. Deirdre looked up at Morgan, hoping to explain herself, somehow, not that there was much to explain. Instead she found her asking to get their first aid tub, and she shifted in her seat. “Are you sure you—“ she swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s okay. That’s fine, if you want to. You know you don’t have to, right? But yeah, it’s fine. More than. Um—“ In truth, she hadn’t wanted Morgan to leave, some part of her worried she wouldn’t come back. But Deirdre trusted and she nodded, and she hoped they’d be able to get to the thing she actually wanted to confess sometime before it was too late—though it always was too late, wasn’t it? “I’ll be here.”

Morgan held up a finger for enough. “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who’s found ways around honesty,” she said, a solemn statement of fact. “I want this. Thank you.”

It was a while before Morgan padded back to Deirdre’s side. She set everything down in a daze and gave her back another look, still struggling to process the violence on display. “I am going to be as gentle as I know how to be,” she mumbled. “But if anything hurts worse, you need to let me know.” She frowned, fighting the urge to kiss Deirdre’s shoulder with comfort and went to work. Her hands tingled. They seemed to crave giving the tenderness they were finally allowed just as badly as the rest of Morgan craved receiving it. She made tender caresses on the brown, ridge lined scar tissue of Deirdre’s old wounds. She was so soft the movements were discernible to her only by her eyes. After over a week of loneliness, there was novelty in care this exacting and relief in the concentration it required too.

“Of course I hate seeing you hurt,” she said softly into the quiet. “And this is...incredibly extreme. I know what fae funerals ask of you, but there are at least two different occurrences on your back. I’d like the story when you’re ready for it, but this feels like you went back for more just because it’s something you could do.” She continued in quiet, then, “It’s not like I don’t know you sometimes turn to self harm when you’re destabilized. You could just have said. I don’t want this for you, even now, but I’m not going to judge you for it. Just, please stop, my—” Morgan stumbled over the endearment that usually fell from her so easily. It would not come. She sighed, her gentle voice turning tired. “Please. Try your best not to anymore.” She applied salve to the cuts, then a fresh roll of bandages. “You still haven’t said what it is you’ve done. You didn’t do all of this to yourself—“ She came around briefly to look at Deirdre as she wrapped up her body again and gestured with her eyes to the rest of her injuries. “I need to hear what happened. All of it.”

Deirdre frowned, feeling the truth and harshness of Morgan’s statements—and silences—worse than any pain she had put on herself. Even now, she lacked the language to explain the thoughts in her head, the grief in her body—the intensity of it. But she would try. “Six,” she corrected. “Six times, I believe. From what I could remember. You see my family...as a way to...it just—“ She hissed, not from pain—Morgan was unbelievably gentle with her—but from trying to pick apart the things her family told her to make violence okay, an unbiased fact. “Atonement...is not found the way I used to think it was. But it was familiar, and for a moment, it felt like the right thing to do. I didn’t know how to tell you how much pain I was in but this is….I don’t know,” she sighed. “I suppose you know now.” Deirdre slumped, weighed by fatigue, guilt and remorse. She pulled at the bandages on her wrists; iron burns. Her only thought was that Athena could have done much worse, and that she probably should’ve. She reached down and picked one of the articles out of her sweatshirt pocket. Amanda’s face, smiling in black and white, stared back at her. She placed the clipping on the table. “The girl who killed…” she closed her eyes. “The warden who tortured Lydia was close to this girl. Like sisters, in a way.” She opened them and stared down at the headline. This was only the clipping from her disappearance, old now, she wasn’t sure if her murder had been reported. “I wanted the warden to feel pain, like I have. But she—“ she tapped Amanda’s face. “—was innocent, truly. And young. And against everything I believe...I killed her. I needed information from the warden, I needed...Fates, I don’t even know. But I killed her and she didn’t have a thing to do with it.” She reached down and pulled out two more clippings of missing people; Roger Johnston and Joseph Wood. Names she had to hunt down in her memory, faces she had to fight to remember as they were and not as she’d made them. “Those men too. For no purpose, in fact, not even to terrorize someone else. Just because I could...just because it hurt.” she turned back to her injuries, which seemed like too little now. “The warden did this. I’m alive only because she wanted me to feel pain too. That’s the cycle we’re stuck in...pain begets pain. I felt so much of it—I feel so much of it—I don’t know where it goes. But not there, not on them. And not on me...but then where else?”

Morgan finished wrapping up Deirdre’s back and clipped them in place. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over the spot and down her arm. She’d done a good job, worth affirming, and Deirdre’s body seemed to beg for comfort. “Sometimes the worst things we can do are ones that are most familiar,” she whispered. “But you can’t stay in that place, Deirdre…”

And then Deirdre explained how she had earned her injuries. Truly earned by the bloodsport rules of their world. Morgan dropped her hand and took the clipping, eyes wide with horror. The girl was young, practically Ariana’s age. She crunched it in her fist. “There really is nothing you won’t do,” she whispered. “She didn’t even know Lydia--none of them knew her, or so much as heard of her, much less had anything to do with what happened--and you destroyed them. Not even for fate, or for her. Just you. And I used to think you had more principles than me.” She looked away from Deirdre then, over at the walls where their skeleton paintings hung, the floor where the book of Mary Oliver poetry had fallen, the windows repaired and braced against their trauma, the snow globe (now just a tiny sculpture on a pedestal, without its glass dome) of a winter cemetery, a hope of a future that seemed to disintegrate the more Morgan watched it. “You know, that would’ve been a great question to ask the person breaking herself to try and help you. Before you destroyed yourself and everything you supposedly stand for. That would’ve been something great to figure out together.” She let out a long, shaky breath and shut her eyes. She couldn’t sit in their home and watch the life that had made her into a person again color with pain.

“I need you to swear to me that you understand that you are loved. Even now, you are loved. And none of this was necessary. You are the one who did this, to yourself and to us. You were loved through all of this mess, and a single word from you to clue me in could’ve made it stop. You are so loved, Deirdre,” she whispered, tears creeping over her lashes again. “But I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Deirdre closed her eyes, curling into herself. In her mind swirled a thousand explanations about the rules of the fae; how revenge worked. It didn’t matter what humans were trampled on the way, it didn’t matter how young they were. Lydia would understand, because Lydia was a fae just like her. But Lydia wasn’t here. “The warden took someone from me, I took someone from her. I should have killed her but I wanted pain…” she mumbled to herself, not offering her words as an explanation, but a trickled thought. She turned, and planted her feet on the ground, resting her arms on her legs. “It all seemed so clear at the time, all the things I needed to do, terrible as they were. Everything I was taught,” she sighed, shaking her head and pushing her inadequate explanation away. She couldn’t meet Morgan’s eyes, though she didn’t imagine Morgan was looking at her anyway. She knew what this house looked like before, like the set to someone’s life, but not hers. It was a home now, and she seemed to keep ruining it. “It would’ve,” she agreed, “in some other world, maybe I would have been smart enough to ask it sooner.”

The words that came from Morgan next were no surprise, she had imagined them on her way here. She had feared them. What would I do, she asked herself, if it was what Morgan wanted? She looked up and remembered the empty that her house once was, not a single book or decoration she cared about. No gifts, no cat tree in the corner. “If it’s what you want…” she began, “...then I won’t stop you. And I understand, I do, if it is. Because I love you too, Morgan.” She swallowed and turned to her girlfriend. “But I’m not giving up. When I said I wanted to be a better person, I meant it. When I said cruelty wasn’t a thing I wanted in our lives either, I meant that too. What I’ve done was wrong, and it’s not what I want. It’s never been what I’ve wanted. Because I am tired of it Morgan, these cycles of pain. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to hurt people like this. Not without cause, not like...not like their lives don’t mean anything. I don’t want that.” Deirdre tensed, though the desire to turn away flared up in her twisting stomach, she continued to look, determined. “But I do what I have to...sometimes. And most of the time I don’t understand what it is I have to do. I promise you that I will try, because that is what I want. But I can’t say this will never happen again, because I don’t know. My duty is to the greater good and I don’t—“ she swallowed. “No, there’s no greater good that involves death like that; senseless. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know. If trying my best sounds good enough to you, stay and I will give you everything I can. But if it doesn’t….then please, let me take my things out. You should have the house, it suits you. I can stay somewhere else.” She finally broke her gaze, unable to find resolve or foothold in the idea of leaving Morgan. She didn’t want it, she would have done just about anything to avoid it...but lying was not something she could do to Morgan. She could not make guarantees where there were none. “We’ll—“ her voice cracked. “—f-figure something out about the cats. If you...think it’s the best thing for you. I want your future to be good, Morgan. The best it can be.”

For the first time since Lydia’s death it wasn’t the world that cracked in two, but Morgan. Part of her still bled inside, hurt and twisted and needing validation as much as a way to punish Deirdre until things felt fair. Another burned to sweep Deirdre into her arms saying, okay, okay, we’ll be okay. She looked at her sidelong, taking in her familiarity: her sad brown eyes, her trembling lips, her earnest voice, pieces of a woman Morgan didn’t want to do without. But she had looked that way before, and then she’d done this. Morgan continued to watch her and continued to think. There was no way to guess what circumstances they would be faced with, what they would be pushed to consider. Deirdre was offering so many promises, but they brought so little comfort in return. How was she supposed to do this, knowing this woman could drop her and run? And yet…

“If we do this…” she said slowly, reaching halfway for Deirdre’s hand.“If we do this, we have to be different people. Being like this, treating me like this cannot be our normal. You need to tell me things even if it hurts. Before you get yourself into some deadly mess. I get wishing you could join the dead better than most. But I cannot watch you destroy yourself. This needs to stop. And however rare your connection to Lydia was, we are supposed to have long lives. We need something better than this for our grief.” She shifted her body, angling toward Deirdre. “And we can’t pop back into what old shapes we had. I know...there was a time when you were all I had to cling to in this world. You told me it was okay if I made you my sole anchor. And I was scared because it seemed unfair to put that weight on you. You already have so much to carry. But I did it. And because of that decision I am still a recognizable version of myself at all. But what I didn’t reckon on was…building my existence entirely on you meant that whenever you break or leave me, I beak too. Every moment since you sprinted out of our home and practically died in my arms on our driveway has destroyed me. I am nothing without you, the way we’ve been doing this. And that is not fair. And it is not right. I need to do that much differently, for myself, and for us too. We can’t destroy each other so fast with our mistakes. You’ve done a lot, and I think even the strongest version of myself would be wrecked by now, but I fell apart so fast, and I’m still really broken...” Morgan’s voice broke as she remembered screaming and wailing in Lydia’s bedroom. She shuddered, shrinking in on herself. “And, I don’t know, maybe if I was different, some of what happened could have been different too. Does that make sense, what I’m saying?”

Deirdre’s gaze fell, her eyes stuck on Morgan’s hand. Her own fingers twitched. She stared, wondering if it would be okay. She remained silent for a moment before she met Morgan’s hand the rest of the way, held firm in her grip. She looked up. “I think it makes sense. It feels like it does.” She drew her lip in, scraping it across her teeth. She would’ve liked to imagine that she could carry Morgan on her own, but it was true that her own stability had been threatened. She didn’t know who she was, and she couldn’t ask someone to depend on an identity that she wasn’t certain of. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, Morgan. I never thought…” She sighed her words away and slumped. “I wanted to be enough. For someone.” Deirdre turned towards Morgan, running her fingers along the fabric of their couch, the same motions of comfort she normally shared with Morgan. “I can do that. I can do better.” But she didn’t have anything better to build her life on; her duty was a demanding thing, the fae had rules that often created more ruin than she wanted. Morgan was her shred of happiness, and she couldn’t imagine finding that any place else. She couldn’t even imagine where to start looking. “Can I--can we hold each other? Can we be doing that now?” Her voice was a soft plea as she gulped the rest of her anxiety down. “It’s just--It’s been so long. I’ve missed you, so much.”  

“It’s not about being enough,” Morgan said quietly. “I need some-thing, stars only know whatever that is. And you are someone. My most important someone, whatever else happens. The someone who made me as alive as I’m ever going to be. It’s just different.” She let the thought sit between them and hoped it stuck. She wasn’t sure if she had enough of herself left to try explaining it another way. She ached like her bones were just waiting to turn into putty, and her mind, tortured by its restless shamble from one thought to the next, deflated.

At Deirdre’s question, Morgan slumped, shaking as a sob broke free. “Yes,” she said, her voice whistling shrill. “Yes, please. Please...” She didn’t reach for Deirdre so much as she tipped over and fell against her. Whatever resolve or pride she had left washed away in the tide her tears had unlocked. She clung to Deirdre, careless and full of need. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her neck and remained there, crying, until new words floated up and cracked through her throat. “I need to release you from the promises you’ve made tonight. I’ve already lost track of them and I don’t want you to be forced into being here.” She hiccuped a cry. “But I do need some, until I figure out how to trust you again. I need something until I’m a whole person again. I still need you…”

“I am a thin-ermng--” Deirdre mumbled, having just enough sense to realize what Morgan was trying to say, and how her self-deprecating thoughts didn’t play a role. She coughed. “I understand. That isn’t going to stop me from wishing I could be, though. I want the best for you, whatever I can offer and whatever I can learn to....You wouldn’t ask me to be something, I know, but I’m saying I would.” As silence drifted over them, Deirdre’s body began to quiver and her face contorted. She erupted in laughter, head raised to the ceiling. “Oh, Fates, that doesn’t sound romantic at all! That just sounds terrible.” She wiped away a tear, bubbling with a smile. Though the amusement was short lived, she offered the grin to Morgan, pulling her love tight into her arms. “I’ve forgotten them too, actually,” she chuckled softly, trying to hold Morgan as tightly as she could, with all the longing of the days she’d neglected. “But I’d be alright with that, all of it.” Working for Morgan’s trust again wasn’t as heartbreaking as she thought it might sound--to have lost it was terrible, was something she hurt for--but to work to love Morgan didn’t sound awful at all. She already did, and finding better ways to love was her honor and privilege. Horrible as it felt to have treated Morgan so poorly, loving her was no task at all---it was a matter of course. “I can work with that,” she smiled softly, “and that’s okay, whatever you need. I can do that. What do you want me to promise? I can do that now, put your heart at ease….I’d like to.”  

“I—release you—“ Morgan gasped, mumbling the words into her skin. “From every promise you’ve made tonight. I relinquish you.”

Time turned slippery as she cried, carried off by the current of her tears. After a while it wasn’t even one particular memory she was agonizing over, so much as her pain itself. Maybe if she screamed louder, it would spend itself, and the throbbing would end and her bones would settle. Maybe...

When she could speak more or less without gasping for air, Morgan said, “Will you promise you won’t leave me tomorrow like you have before? And promise you won’t hurt yourself on purpose until your body’s been completely healed for a week. Promise...p-promise me I’m safe with you. For tonight, for tomorrow.” She shivered and dug into Deirdre tighter. “I’m so scared,” she explained in a whisper. “I keep thinking the phone’s going to ring and you’ll throw me away and I won’t know how to get up this time. If nothing else, I need to know I’m safe here, like this, however we are, through tomorrow.”

For all the times Deirdre had held Morgan in her arms, there’d never been a moment so clouded by her own mistakes. Even the times before they started dating, sprung apart by Deirdre’s fear, it hadn’t felt so different. All Morgan wanted was to be with her, and though Deirdre wanted the same, she kept finding some way to twist it. She could’ve promised herself to Morgan for the rest of time and thought nothing of it, she could have sworn to stop tearing them apart. But these promises, just for tonight and tomorrow, were hopelessly Morgan—and heartbreakingly earnest. “I promise I won’t leave you, like I have been, tomorrow. I promise I won’t physically hurt myself on purpose until my current injuries have been healed for a week.” Deirdre shifted their bodies, just enough so she could look at Morgan. “I promise you’re safe with me, today, tomorrow…” she swallowed. The desire to say she would be safe everyday was strong, though it wasn’t what Morgan had asked—and it wasn’t something her girlfriend would feel comfortable holding in the form of a binding contract. Deirdre didn’t think it lessened the truth of her words though, even if she couldn’t say it. “Hey,” she cooed, momentarily lifting her hand away from holding Morgan to cup her face instead. “I lost my phone so you don’t have to worry about that part but how about this?” Deirdre smiled warmly, “I promise I won’t abruptly leave your side without telling you where I’m going.” She pulled her hand away, wrapping it back around her love. “I know that one’s a little bigger…” she leaned in and pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead. “But you can let that go when you feel like you can trust me again. Until then, for as long as you need it, you can keep that. And anything else you want me to promise now.” She smiled again; promises could be dangerous for a fae, deadly even. But she didn’t imagine these would be hard to keep, or something she’d ever break. It was fine, and even if it wasn’t, she imagined that they’d figure it out. “Is that okay? You can ask for more, my love.”

Morgan whimpered as Deirdre shifted to lift her head. The vulnerability her softness inspired frightened her. Her urge to surrender was almost instantaneous, she barely knew how to keep from hurling herself into this woman, so comforting and painfully familiar. Morgan’s eyes pleaded with hers as they met, clinging to the words spoken and unspoken. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. They couldn’t dare, even if whatever punishment fae magic might devise felt fair in this moment. But it was tempting, more than it had ever been before.

She was awed by the promise Deirdre volunteered. It was so kind, a gentle salve over one of the worst wounds on her heart. She itched to touch her face, to kiss her, and only just held back. “You don’t have to say where,” Morgan whispered. “I know sometimes you need to be away from me, or you don’t know where you’re off to. You can just say why, if that’s better. Either.” She hesitated, searching for any sign of reluctance in Deirdre’s expression, something to keep her back from hope. But there was only her tenderness, only her affection. “Thank you,” Morgan said, mouthing the words more than speaking them. She pressed her face back to Deirdre’s. She had almost forgotten the way her lips brushed so faintly against her skin and how much it felt like love. “Maybe after tomorrow,” she admitted. “We’ll have to see. But there are...I need to know some things, before I get too comfortable too fast. Even if I just want to lay down with you holding me...” If the universe was still in her, she would have reached for it for strength. But there was only herself and her want. Anything more would have to come later. “If I put you on my insurance, would you try therapy? I know we can’t talk about everything, but even just for methods around your self harm, or your idea of yourself, or us. I need to know if you would.” Morgan swallowed thickly. “I need to know if there’s anything else you’re keeping back from me. Because I can’t take more surprises right now, I need all of it, whatever’s left. And I know I can’t make you swear never to do this to me again, but you need to know there’s every chance we won’t make it if you do. I don’t even know if we’ll make it right now, but If you don’t let me stop you, if you don’t let me in enough to even try next time, we’re not going to get years you say you want. And I need...stars, I don’t even know. It feels like so much but I’m so tired… I wish I could sleep, I’m so tired.” She shuddered and clung that much tighter to Deirdre. “Tell me you love me again. Tell me it wasn’t my fault…”

“I don’t particularly think I’d ever want to be away from you…” Deirdre whispered with the same reverence as a promise. It wasn’t want that ever separated her from Morgan, though she knew she’d shattered her girlfriend’s trust. “Then: I promise I will never leave your side abruptly without telling you why and/or where I’m going.” She pressed her forehead against Morgan’s, slow and careful, offering just enough time for her to move away. It had been so long since they held each other, even longer since they’d kissed. But she didn’t dare close space between them as she once had; Morgan said it would be different, and while she learned just how different, Deirdre wanted to respect it. But even for all of the respect she wanted to summon, she couldn’t help the grimace that flickered across her face at the mention of therapy. The fae had their version of therapy, it involved mushrooms and torture, usually. “I went to therapy...actually. Group therapy, if you can call it that. It was…” she sighed; it was helpful, in a strange way. “Are you sure you want me on your insurance? I—well, you know money isn’t an issue for me...the only thing that would do is….well, it would be a commitment. Is that—are you okay with that?” Deirdre shifted, which in her position, amounted to wiggling stiffly. “I could go...yeah. I don’t know how much I could tell a therapist….I don’t know if they understand ancient banshee religious practices. But I would; I would go. If it would help, I’d do it.” And while the imagined embarrassment of having to sit across from a human and tell them all about how much she hated herself was a strange, stabbing kind of pain, it felt more like a step to her. She had tried being better on her own. She had tried it with Morgan’s help. If she could push her own pride aside and try it a little differently, maybe it would stick this time. “I….” Deirdre swallowed. “I’m sorry again, Morgan. And thank you...for letting me try. I love you. Everything that’s happened, the way that I’ve treated you, that wasn’t your fault. None of it has ever been your fault. I love you, I love you so much.”

Morgan soaked up the pressure of Deirdre’s forehead like fresh water. She still felt right. It was almost galling how much she could do and still feel so right. “You...what?” She asked, almost laughing with surprise. “When? Did you--group? Really?” Deirdre didn’t really strike her as the ‘play nice with others’ type. “Would you want to go again?” At the timid mention of commitment, Morgan rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I just mean--the American healthcare system makes enough money off of people without you paying out of pocket, first of all. And obviously someone supernatural would be ideal, maybe through some telehealth service since we probably won’t get lucky looking local, but for now, with what you feel able to talk about, I think it would be ideal. And…” She sighed stiffly. “Even if this didn’t work, I would want to help you. Do something for you. I’d want you to be happy and okay. So...it’s okay. No matter what happens, it’s okay. I’ll do this.” She offered a thin, sad smile, still in the process of reconciling the fact of her devotion with what they could make work in the wake of their mess.

Morgan sank back down against Deirdre’s chest as she made her assurances, sniffling quietly and nodding along. The thought of blame was the hardest to rewrite, and even as she felt the calm of Deirdre’s chest against her ear (no tensing, no gurgling, nothing that felt like a swallowed lie), she tried to replay their interactions and comb them for mistakes she could fix the next time around: when she’d gotten short and frustrated, when she fell to pieces, when she surrendered to Deirdre’s wishes after the first rebuff instead of the third. Maybe it was just that hard, admitting how helpless she’d been.

“It was...a thing for fae who don’t want to hurt humans anymore. They said…” Deirdre swallowed thickly, trying to shrug. “I think I’ll go again. They said they’d have pie for me this time. They only had donuts...which kind of suck as far as dessert foods go.” The food wasn’t the point, obviously, but as Deirdre navigated her own comfort with speaking of the topic, she found herself latching on to what was easiest to talk about; the food, the shitty chairs, the weirdly specific posters. “It felt nice,” she said eventually, “to talk to people like that. I kept thinking they would start laughing at me but they never did.” Deirdre shifted again, as if getting a better position on the couch would magically make talking about her feelings easier. She waited for her mother to materialize and chastise her for her behaviour, to say this was all some elaborate test and she failed terribly—there was always a breath held in anticipation for it every time she spoke of something forbidden. “I don’t think me not paying for therapy is going to ‘stick it’ to the American healthcare system.” She tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a shaky exhale. “If—if this doesn’t work out—which is…” A terrible thought to have. Exactly what ninety percent of her nightmares were filled with. The last thing she ever wanted to think about and even as someone who adored argument, it was a thought she felt horrified to entertain. “...a hypothetical I don’t enjoy considering. I don’t want to make anything harder for you. If it does...I can promise you I will continue to attend therapy, and you don’t need to have me stuck on your insurance. You could….save that for someone else, I suppose.” Or something. Deirdre didn’t want to speak more of it than she had to, but her mind had already worked out the logical steps they needed to take. Morgan would get the house, because she’d always wanted one; everything inside the house would be hers, save for Deirdre’s clothing and personal belongings; and Deirdre would continue to provide financial support, until the day she couldn’t. The only thing she hadn’t figured out was the cats, but every time she tried, her body was seized by sadness. And so, she left that one in the hypothetical space.

There were more important problems to solve, anyway. Like what to say now, if she needed to or could do more, what things had she forgotten to apologize for? It was a long list, when she’d taken mental stock of it, and she felt like she only spoke a fraction. But time, she realized, was what she had to leave the Fate of her most precious relationship to. She couldn’t force Morgan to love her like she had before right now, right away. She couldn’t soothe every issue with some promises just at once, like she hadn’t been gone for days. “Can I kiss you?” She asked quietly, blurted out as her mind drifted. “I know it’s been a while and I know I don’t—it’s okay if you don’t want me to. I understand, I can wait for...whenever you’re ready for that again. I just...thought I’d ask.” She flushed with guilt and embarrassment. “It’s fine if—you can just forget I asked. I’m sorry.”

Morgan couldn’t help the watery smile that spread over her as Deirdre explained where she had been. “You have a fae support group...?” She said faintly. For the first time this night, her voice lilted up with hope. She lifted her fingertips to tenderly brush along Deirdre’s cheek. The faeness of the group made the strange parts fit together, why Deirdre felt comfortable speaking at all, why she took the idea seriously in the first place. And it was why Morgan thought it might stick. Deirdre had a community. Maybe not a banshee community, but one who knew what it was like to be raised similarly, where wings mattered more than hearts. “That’s incredible. You should go, as much as you can. I’m so proud of you, for doing this for yourself.” She kept stroking her face, moving down to her jaw, as she thought about the rest of what Deirdre said. The habit was so compelling, she didn’t want to stop.

“I don’t want to think about there being someone else,” she admitted. “I don’t want someone else. I just…” Say these things to protect myself. Remind myself the woman who hurt me looked just like you. She grimaced, hoping that by process of elimination, Deirdre would understand. “We don’t have to keep talking about this in those terms, though. We shouldn’t. I don’t want to manifest that world. I want…” What she most wanted was for all of this to have never happened in the first place. She couldn’t quite visualize the steps between where she was and where the life she still desperately craved lay ahead of her: happy, vibrant, stable, and pledged to Deirdre. It was painfully ironic. Her whole life she hadn’t even dared to imagine that she could have anything so long lasting as to imagine stability. Having something good for a time, a year at most, was as promising as her reality got. And now that she could almost taste that new, better life, her foundations were in shambles. “...I want…” Morgan hesitated. Deirdre promised I’m safe. She promised she won’t leave. She promised, she promised… “I want this to stop hurting. I want us to be together without it being scary or hurting. I want to be able to hear you tell me something without having to question it. I want ‘us’ to mean something again.”

At Deirdre’s question, and the volley of insecure backpedals and qualifications that followed it, Morgan sat up in her lap. She looked long into Deirdre’s eyes, frowning with heartache at the swelling around one of them. These eyes knew her, understood her, pleaded with her. Even loved her. Morgan brushed back her hair, greasy and tangled. It was as though her grief had torn itself out of her heart and onto her skin. And somehow in the middle of that anguish, she’d had enough sense to try something more for herself. Her poor banshee was so strong. Even if her heart was stronger than she realized, it wasn’t used to carrying so much love or bearing the cost of it. Morgan’s lips trembled as she smiled sadly, then she reached up and cupped her face as gently as she could. “I love you. And I need some time. But you can have this--” She kissed Deirdre, tender, chaste and lingering. She parted, meaning to leave it at that, but the touch had only been a ghost of contact and that faint cotton tingle that was as close to softness as she would ever feel only made her body ache for what it had missed for so long. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes. If she gave anything more, the promises for tomorrow would mean nothing. Her heart would be sunken too deep and it would be so much harder to pull back if they fell apart too quickly. She didn’t even know what she would supplement Deirdre’s place in her life with. The only thing clear was her want, however terrifying, however unwise. Please help me, her eyes said. Please. “A-and...and now you can kiss me back. Just once.” She whispered.

“It’s not a fae support group...it’s a murder support group...in which we’re all fae.” But the more Deirdre talked about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. it sounded stupid when Sundew took her, it sounded stupid while she was there, and it probably would have sounded stupid to her mother. Did that make it good or bad? As she listened to the hopeful turn in Morgan’s voice, trying not to shiver under her feather-touch, she thought it might have been good. It might have been okay. But she closed her eyes, and there was everything else, everyone else. The idea of a fae that felt bad about killing a human was ludicrous. As a child, every sentence she uttered ended with a glance at her mother. She waited for the hum of approval, the hiss of disapproval; the direction she needed to steer herself. Morgan thought it was good, and Deirdre did too, but when left on her own, would she still look for her mother’s eyes? “They meet often...I can—I suppose I’ll join them.” She lowered her head, Morgan’s pride was not as intoxicating an incentive as her mother’s, but it was gentler. Embarrassingly so. It was the warmth it blossomed, the stirrings of tender thought—her self-worth did not conflate, but it fluttered. Like wings in her chest, waiting for the right breeze to carry them off.

“I don’t want to either. But it’s—maybe it’s something we need a plan for too? To make it less—“ scary? It would always be scary. Terrible? The terribleness of it would not lessen with carefully considered steps. “—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just thought I was being considerate, by offering. I can barely think about it. I don’t want to.” It occurred to her then that it would’ve been better to discuss a plan for staying together rather than parting. It was better to think about on all accounts, and more important. Those were steps she’d much rather lay out in her head, but they didn’t have easy answers—the solution was subject to the strange, volatile factor of time. “I’m sorry…” she said quietly in a moment, shifting closer to Morgan. “...that I ruined that. But I want us too, I want you to trust me again too, and I’ll work for it—I will.” She bit back a promise, though she would have offered them all out if she thought it would help. What good was a power like that, if she couldn’t even use it to properly explain to the woman she loved just how devoted she was? She was tired of saying she could promise things, if Morgan suddenly turned into such a creature that would bind Deirdre to her; she could do it. She wanted to just do it. But time—terrible, slow and inconsiderate—stood between her. She’d have to wait, for however long it would take. Each second, each hour, day or year—she would wait. “I am yours,” she sighed, “always.”

And she realized her mistake then, in asking for a kiss. Even when she could give them freely—a privilege she would remember to cherish—they were never enough. Too short. Too soft. Too hard, this time. Not right, that time. They were her favorite inadequacy; time after time she could try to get them perfect. Not enough love. Too much. She should hold Morgan tighter. She should kiss her longer. She never felt horrible for falling short, it was just a matter of trying again and again—some were good, some were great, some so instinctual she forgot them (those too, had their merits, she could kiss Morgan again, carrying the value of two kisses). But they were all strung together by a common thread; that she wanted more. Morgan parted from her and Deirdre chased her for the centimetres between—too soft, too short, not enough, come back. But this one could not be fixed with another, or another after that one. And Deirdre blinked, trying to reign her longing to no avail. She wasn’t so sure if she was looking at her desires in Morgan’s eyes, or Morgan’s own staring back at her. But she was such a terrible fool to think she could look at her, drink her in, and want just one kiss. The furrow of her brow alone demanded twenty. And her eyes—big, beautiful, blue—she wouldn’t even start to count how many they’d get in their name. Just once, Morgan urged her, and altogether, Deirdre crumbled. She pushed herself up, meeting Morgan’s eyes. She leaned in slowly, plagued by quivering breath. She held herself those missing centimetres away from Morgan, thinking there was something to savour in the lingering. But as she brushed her lips against Morgan’s, gentle even to her senses, she couldn’t kiss her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled there, voice heavy with longing. “I can’t kiss you. Not just once. I can’t do that. Not in...any way that won’t be worse for us.” She pulled back, meeting Morgan’s gaze. “I want you, Morgan. Not just once.” She dropped her head, ashamed by her own dramatics—by the ferocity of her love and affection, and all that it wanted. Her mind was still reaching for Morgan, her body trembled with the need to; it had been so long since she had to stop herself from offering affection, she’d forgotten what agony it was. She lifted her head. “I can’t help you,” she said, “I can’t not want you enough to just—“ She swallowed. “I’m sorry. Not just once. I can’t do it once.” Deirdre brought her fingers to her lips, the feeling of Morgan there was already gone, and they burned to be renewed. She’d have to live with it for now, she’d have to wait.

Morgan had nodded encouragingly at Deirdre as she leaned in. She was terrified of what this would do to her, but she ached worse for one more taste of their intimacy. Her hands had slid up Deirdre’s shoulders in expectation. She’d closed her eyes and—nothing.

Morgan’s wide eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “But—” Her voice cracked in her throat. She cut herself off, lips quivering, and listened. By the time Deirdre finished, Morgan’s body was just as tense with longing as her banshee’s, and her whole mouth trembled. Her hand went out automatically for Deirdre’s, ready to tear it away, to pull her right back in and show her what she’d really meant by once (so long as they didn’t fully part, it was only one kiss, right?) and soothe both of their hurts. But she stopped herself halfway, unsure now. “Worse how? Would it hurt…? Did it hurt before?” Had her kindness been cruel without her realizing? “I was gentle so you’d know I really meant it. So it would be just for you. I was scared, but I wanted to, and I wanted you to have it. And I thought that would be it and I’d be content, but as soon as I felt you, I wanted—” More. So much more. Enough to fill herself up and be sick on. One kiss had seemed like a balanced compromise, but maybe it wasn’t after all. Morgan shuddered and took Deirdre’s bandaged hands, looking earnestly into her terrible, pained expression. “I want you too…” She whispered.

“This is stupid,” she whimpered. “This is so stupid and unfair.” Physical affection had come so easy for them before. It was automatic sometimes, at others, as fluid and nuanced as language, composing poems on each other’s bodies of how much they loved and craved and cherished one another’s presence. “How do we fix this? How do we get to the part where it’s better? If you can’t...if even this isn’t good, we need to figure out something soon, right? We need...a plan, a-a rule, I don’t know. Something to hold onto.” She searched Deirdre’s eyes, finding her own pent up longing reflected back at her. She finally forced her lips to hold their place. “Aren’t you tired of hurting? Can you tell me what you need, what you think will help?”

“No, no! No, it didn’t hurt. That’s not it.” In her eagerness to dissuade Morgan’s worries, Deirdre wrapped her back up in her arms, in the same state that sparked the desire for more in the first place. “It was a good kiss, a really good kiss. That’s the problem…” She sighed, looking into Morgan’s eyes—big, blue, beautiful—and realized the number they would garner was indefinite. How did she ever think just one kiss would be fine? “Would you be okay with that? Would just one kiss be enough? Could you tell me you wouldn’t want more? If you can, I’ll do it. But if you can’t….then we’ve played this game before, Morgan. I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want you as badly as I do, I don’t want to pretend like I can give you just one kiss and move on with the rest of the day.” She pulled Morgan closer, sidestepping a kiss by pressing her lips to her cheek—the same way she’d skirted the definition of a kiss before. “You set a boundary for a reason; you want to feel safe, right? And you don’t right now, you said you don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that too and so on….and we don’t have to do this now. We can wait until you feel safe again, and it’s okay.” Deirdre smiled, gentle, though she pulsed with the pain of separating herself from Morgan. It was like she’d been peeled off, and half her skin was still stuck to Morgan—and she needed it back, she wanted it back, but she couldn’t take it. She knew the feeling well; the electricity that coursed through her body and the mind that throbbed with longing. She could work herself into a fever just thinking about it; those days, it had been so terrible...but it had been different. She felt strong justification in keeping her hands and lips to herself, now, she had no self-righteous idea to steady herself on. “It was selfish of me to ask, I’m sorry.” She breathed out, heady with the things she could not do. “I want you, Morgan, and I could have you right now that’s not the issue...but would it be okay for you? I don’t—kissing you just once is better than not kissing you at all, but I’m trying to do this right. For both of us.” Of all the things to feel nostalgic of, this was not one she imagined would ever flutter back across her body. “I am so tired, my love. Of hurting...of hurting people…all of it. But what I want is you, what I’ve always wanted is you. But I’ll be here tomorrow, and after that, and all of tonight too….and I want you, and one kiss isn’t enough for me and I’d only want you more. And I don’t know what to do, I don’t. But I can wait. I’ll wait for you.”

Morgan latched on tight to Deirdre as she was brought in and did not let go. “How could you do this? We can’t even kiss without hurting, how could you do this...?” She burrowed her face into the crook of her neck, pressing her lips earnestly to the patch of bare skin there. She trembled, trying to chase after the piece of her that had made this choice too. They were already hurt and agonizing and overthinking—wasn’t it silly not to get something out of it? Or was that just her imbalanced need, clawing for what it knew best? Was it the distance Deirdre had put between them playing cruelly with her body?

Whatever the reason, Deirdre was right. Especially because Morgan didn’t know the reason. How could she stop herself from making old mistakes? And yet how could she pull herself up long enough to do better if she didn’t take what she needed now? Morgan hung on tighter, nodding. At last she said, “Before, when we weren’t having sex for a month and two weeks, it was because you wouldn’t tell me how you felt. It was clear. I didn’t have to guess with myself whether it was time or not. If you told me and you wanted me, we could have that again. But I don’t know what the rule is now. I don’t know what to look for or wait for. I just know I want you right now and I’m so tired even more than I’m scared. I just want something good to hold onto.”

Morgan whimpered as she fought to steady her voice. She risked pulling back enough to see Deirdre’s face, so fraught and soft and horrifyingly hers. Morgan couldn’t figure out where the shift in her expression was, but she knew at once that this so familiar Deirdre wanted to be hers and all Morgan needed was to pick her up and say yes. Her heart would be impaled on another empty silence or dropped down a safety hatch that let her out of all her pain, all with one yes. It was that simple and that hard. “I can’t wait for you to not hurt me, it can’t be an absence. We need to make something, but—” But what the hell was that supposed to be? What did these other versions of themselves look like? “Is it when you’ve found a therapist? That could take ages. Is it when you’ve been to group for a few weeks? When I’ve balanced myself with something besides just you? Because I don’t even know where to start with that!I know...I’m the one who’s scared, but I don’t know when it’ll be better. I don’t know when it’s fine again and I don’t want to rush anything, I just want to feel something besides hurt for a minute, maybe five. Is that bad? Do we really just...have  to keep waiting, and hold each other because it’s the only thing we have left? Hope it doesn’t take too long?” As soon as the words left her, Morgan felt a sinking wave of realization: they very well might have to do just that.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…” If she once stopped to consider the repercussions of her actions, she wouldn’t have done anything. Amanda would be alive and Athena less heartbroken, yes, but Deirdre could’ve asked Morgan what good revenge looked like. Or...could she have? Maybe Athena was too young for Morgan too, maybe she didn’t see it like Deirdre did. The banshee shook her head, it wasn’t what she wanted to think about now, and it didn’t matter. Amanda was dead. She’d ruined the safety and trust she built with Morgan. “I’m sorry….” she mumbled. It wasn’t worth it, the things that she’d done. None of it was. “I can hold you tighter? Really tight. I can do that.” And she moved to try, except her arms locked at her sides and her throat seared. She tried to lunge out of the strange body lock, but her arms wouldn’t budge even as the rest of her body flailed. “Oh,” she slumped. “No I can’t do that….because that would be hurting myself….” But what was some muscle pain? Who cared if her body was already sore? She could do that much for Morgan, she always had, no matter the pain. She sighed and held Morgan at an appropriate level, enough that Morgan could feel it, but not so tight that Deirdre’s aching body would protest. “A week,” she mumbled, “seven days exactly. I’ll ask you how you’re feeling; if you feel safe now. If the answer is yes then...then it’s fine, we can have each other just like we want to. And if it’s not, then we’ll wait another week. And after another seven days, I’ll ask again. And if it’s still not, then we’ll take another week and so on until you feel safe, my love.” She looked at her, hoping the tenderness and sincerity was readable over the remorse that played in her eyes. “It can’t be a day….because there’ll just be more of this. But a week sounds good, I think. How does that feel to you? We don’t have to use anything else, just time.” A week felt both too long and laughably short, but even if it wasn’t by this week that Morgan felt comfortable kissing her again, then it might be by the next, or the one after that. And Deirdre found herself looking forward to the day. “I don’t know...whatever you need to feel to know it’s okay. If that’s being safe...or if that’s trusting me again...whatever it is, I can ask you in a week.” She searched Morgan for any hint that it was a good idea, or, at least, that her having stopped from kissing her was a good one too. It hadn’t felt right when she’d done it, but she was no stranger to the desperation that could trick Morgan’s mind. All she wanted to do was honour the boundaries Morgan was setting for herself; that wasn’t so bad, was it? “It didn’t last long…” she sighed, “the no-sex thing...we weren’t supposed to kiss either. But then we were, but it was supposed to be one or two...and then it wasn’t. And then it was everything else just shy of sex. But it was important to you, and if this is anything like that, then we should keep waiting. And I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you—for us. And I’ll try for it.”

“A week…until we check in and ask,” Morgan repeated slowly, her eyes locked onto Deirdre’s as if to ask, are you sure? It was fair. She would be the one to determine an answer, which was both a relief and terrifying. She could say fuck it right now and take Deirdre’s mouth with hers. They were both taut with wanting, they could take the relief for a few seconds, maybe a minute—until that made their bodies more glaringly aware of what else was missing.

Morgan’s features fell as she remembered the old no-sex boundary, and considered that even if Deirdre’s body wasn’t one walking wound, sex right now was just a fast track to a panic attack. It wasn’t just bodies fucking anymore, it never could be again. And the way she needed Deirdre in bed, the way she gave herself best, with her body in complete submission… Morgan felt like it would be another month at best until she could bear that again. “I remember,” she mumbled. “That one Saturday visit, I kissed you goodbye on your cheek and went into my car and cried all the way home. But then a few nights later you came to see me...and you were just so happy, like I’d never seen you before. I couldn’t bring you down from that when I could be a part of it instead. And I already wanted you so badly. I think it only took one kiss for me to sign off on a hundred. And the rest came after I was staying with you, I think. It was just so hard to be next to you, to lay with you without touching you. It hurt. I felt like I was giving in and maybe deluding myself into some terrible half-life with you. But it hurt so much worse, keeping everything back. That’s how I made those decisions.” Was hurt the only way to measure her life, even the things that were ostensibly good? Was she so curse fucked that even dead, she couldn’t touch anything without suffering having its way with it?

“I’m so tired of everything hurting,” Morgan whined, a child’s complaint. “I just want it to stop, just for a little…” But what was that quote her mother had liked? If you’re going through hell, keep walking? Morgan clenched her jaw and sank back down against Deirdre’s chest. This was really not a time she wanted Ruth Beck to be right. “Fine. You’re right. In a week we’ll check.” she said faintly. When her heart calmed and the ache had numbed her out, she would be grateful for the decision. Maybe. Hopefully. Morgan reached behind her for one of the blankets draped over the couch. “You need some rest,” she mumbled. Deirdre needed a lot of things, like a shower, and the rest of her bandages changed, but Morgan wasn’t about to walk another intimacy minefield tonight.  “Can we just stay here?” Can you just hold me? “Can that be okay…?”

���I don’t want you to make decisions out of hurt, Morgan.” But then what was this? What had she left Morgan to do now? Deirdre frowned; she knew that it wouldn’t be so bad to kiss Morgan. She knew that she was going to stay, and that she’d be here to build their foundation again, but Morgan didn’t. And was it wrong instead, to wield that longing and use it selfishly to fill the hole in her own chest? She wanted to take Morgan’s pain away; soothe her, hold her, love her. Was it wrong then, to give in if it was for those things? But it wasn’t her decision to make, she couldn’t pick what was best for Morgan. That had been her problem before, she thought silence would be better; she thought going off on her own and taking the weight of revenge would all be best. This was Morgan’s choice, and Deirdre wouldn’t take that away. “Back then, the only thing I considered was that I was happy, and that I wanted to be happy with you. I don’t think I even understood why you set those boundaries in the first place. But I’ve grown so much since then, and I know now.” And that made it worse, almost. She knew she didn’t want to kiss Morgan because kissing was fun, she knew she didn’t want sex with her because sex felt good—she loved her, and it was irrefutable now. “I love you,” she mumbled against her skin, staving off the searing desire to kiss her girlfriend. These were the kisses she didn’t even think about before, the ones that came by instinct, that marked her sentences and breaths—the ones she forgot about, and promptly chased with another.

Deirdre leaned up and pulled the blanket down with Morgan; wrapping one around them, and herself around the other. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” she smiled, “and can I hold you? Is that okay?” Though she asked, she already had been, and wasn’t sure she could even take not doing it. “Don’t say no to that one,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “If it’s true, don’t say no, not just yet. Let’s have this...for a little while...for as long as we can…”

Morgan heard Deirdre’s brave, tender smile in her voice and peeled her face back just to see it. A fresh wave of desire shook her. Deirdre looked so sure, so perfect, even with her body ravaged; her affection for Morgan seemed to shine out of every scar and bandage. Morgan’s eyes burned, finally out of tears but no less anguished. She strained up to bring their faces close and pressed her lips to her girlfriend’s cheek. “No,” she whispered. “I need this too. Please hold me. I’ve missed it so much. I’ve missed you loving me. I’ve missed you.” Her voice tightened, so Morgan left it at that, keeping her face pressed to Deirdre’s as her girlfriend settled the blanket around them. When the seconds seemed to stretch and her awareness of how close she was to the corner of Deirdre’s mouth made the space between them feel like pins and needles, Morgan gave a small affectionate nuzzle that granted permission for more of the same, and settled back against Deirdre’s chest. With her mental fatigue and heightened nerves, she wasn’t able to let her head find the old spot where it fit. She shifted and shifted again, and at last surrendered to the idea that near enough was good enough. She could feel Deirdre’s arms for however long she stayed conscious, she could hear her breath coming out of her wounded body, and as ever, she heard her heartbeat. Slow. So slow you’d think it had stopped and gone away, but perfectly in time, always coming back.

[docholligay]

Time and Tide

@amberlilly requested “Michiru realizing she loves Haruka.” This is me INTENSELY on my bullshit, and I hope you enjoy grabbing your closest dictionary, i got to use so many words I rarely get an opportunity to use, I love you Michiru. 

It is terribly odd how one’s life can change, and how you believe it to be in a single moment. But that isn’t how things happen, not really. It is only that in one single moment, you realize what has been true for some time. Love is not a strike of lighting, that is only true of fools and children. Love is the tide coming in, so slow and so sure that it hardly seems different from the last moment, and then you are underwater, awakened to the knowledge that the world is not as you last left it. That this harmless thing has come in and covered everything you knew. 

There is a fortress in France, where the tide runs in, and separates it from everything, and island unto itself, and this has been my experience of love. Perhaps a better person might be as a dock or some seaside restaurant, the water only filling the space that it was always meant to, and making it lovelier, but for me it has surrounded me fully. Such it is with all things that do not prepare for love to come, I suppose. 

Rest assured that any long philippic you might offer about the nature of my heart and all its empty and cavernous spaces is already quite known to me. I reflect on that now, so desperately loving her, knowing I do not deserve her. I look at her in the long, thin blades of moonlight that cross her body and know that I am owed every ounce of pain that my heart is served.

It wasn’t always this way. In the beginning, things were so much simpler. I am a spoilt child, and this has always been true, and I wanted her as one wants a doll or a pony. I am not accustomed to being defied, and I don't care for it. The moon had already given me my twenty lashes, and so it owed me a reward. If I was trapped in this fate, at least there would be a lovely bauble to call mine and mine alone. She was handsome, and she was tall, and she was bound to me whether she wanted to be or no. 

That was enough, then. I seduced her as I have plenty of other women, thinking only that she would be a lovely mark on my record, that her low breeding and total lack of polish would annoy my parents and give my friends a good laugh. She was slow to warm to me, of course, so shy and unsure in the ways of romance and seduction, even as she puffed her chest and played the big butch. 

Maybe that was the first moment, that first gentle lap of the tide, when she took off her shirt, and she trembled, and I saw how very inexperienced she was. Haruka. I knew I had said her name, before then, but that was the first time I had tasted it on my lips. Sweet as cream, delicate as rosewater. Unburdened of the layers she put on to protect herself form the world, she looked so vulnerable, so thin and bright, a string of spun sugar catching the light. I might have loved her in the first moment then. 

She loved me, certainly. Haruka would call it a curse, that she can give her love so easily, that affection touches her so deeply, that kind words write themselves upon the sand of her soul and struggle to stay as the waves of her own self-regard wash over them. She finds herself silly, I know, for her softness. I found her silly as well, I suppose, when she became besotted with me, while trying to hold herself at a distance, a dance for which she had neither the training nor the skill. I saw her immediately for what she was. 

I wish I could say this tempered me, that I found some humanity within myself where I did not wish to hurt her. It would be a lie, and I endeavor not, at the least, to lie to myself. I was pleased. Being raised in such penury, she would need me as much as she wanted me, once she became accustomed to all those finer things, I assured myself. I wanted her to be my lapdog, my toy, the clay upon which I could mold a splendid little thing for my own decoration and delight. 

I laugh at that girl, now. How foolish she was to believe she could be so near Haruka, and feel the weight of her love, and remain dry, and safe, and in control. You have never known a girl like this one, I would tell her. She is a beauty, and she will transform you, beast that you are, into something that can almost be called human. Something that can feel fear and pain, the very heart of love. 

Perhaps the tide of love came in at my ankles when she accompanied me to a gala, when she asked me to dance and waltzed, her frame beautiful, her feet light. When she beamed and told me she had found someone to teach her, and she’d been fixing up their car in exchange, and how she wanted to surprise me. She could learn how to be classy, she whispered into my ear, and she would do her best. Flowers slipped into a tiny bud vase, served alongside an evening glass of wine. Lovingly written billets-doux describing my hair and eyes and hands, artless and plain-spoken. That earnestness. What a cruel thing. 

But I was blind even then, to how I would come to love her. I have always thought myself intelligent, and perhaps this is a sign of my greater folly, to think myself so logical against the flood that comes for so many. Perhaps I can blame the moon even for this, for bringing me this vulnerability I for so long saw as peccant. 

Even now, it frightens me, to see how I love her. What a perfect little fool I’ve become, to love something that can be taken away. 

I am often asked, what made me love her, now that we have been together these few years, and I find myself ever at a ramble. I suppose I have not done much better here. I have outlined so many small things that drew me to her, little laps of water growing higher and higher, and I could outline a dozen more at the least, all in very florid and unnecessarily embellished prose. I am almost a Rococo caricature of myself, at times, and I suppose this is cross anyone who cares to read this will be forced to bear. 

But I can tell you when I realized that love. When I realized that life slips like water through one’s fingers, and that I could know fear. 

We were in some manner of battle. This, I know, begins so many of my stories, but it is impossible to take into account how many battles I have been in and chide me overmuch on the subject. We were in battle, and it was heated and difficult. Mina was on the ropes herself, and certainly you must know how irregular a moment it was for us all. She wanted to regroup, to rethink. She did not declare us beaten, for I cannot believe that Mina would ever draw breath and consider a battle she had not won finished, but we needed to take a moment and find our footing. 

Haruka hated herself nearly as much as she loved me. I am not certain this is the venue to describe all the ways in which she has struggled over the course of her life, trying to find a reason she was born. Perhaps it is enough to tell you that her own mother was unkind on the subject of her birth, and there was little in the way of anyone to dissuade her that it was true, and the improvident moon did not consider that such a girl might be the wrong one to put into danger. Handing her something to die for, to prove her goodness and worth by her willingness to be hurt, was always a foolish gamble. 

She did not wait. 

Haruka ran toward the enemy, even as Mina yelled her sign, and I was caught quite flat-footed. Haruka did little without my go-along, you must understand, and I was so arrogant as to assume that would always be true. That even in the heat of the moment, her deference  to me could overwhelm her desire to play the hero. None of us could catch her. She was determined to have the moment of surprise. 

I remember seeing her fall to the floor. I am, despite even my own protestations, not an unfeeling creature, and perhaps any of my comrades at arms, falling in such obvious pain, might have pulled at my heartstring. But I assure you it would not have caused the immediate flash of fear and pain, so like a dagger in my chest, sharp and cold, the very breath stolen from my lungs. For a few brief moments, I could not move. I was chilled by the knowledge of which I now had possession. 

I would die for her. Worse than that, I would kill for her, I would let every single soldier beside me, all the world, crumble to ash if it could spare her life. Haruka had found something to die for, but the moon had given me something to destroy for, and if it played the fool with Haruka it had done oh so much worse with me. 

I left the girls, then. I drew my dagger as if I were pulling it from my own chest and not the buckler that made up my mirror, and I did not look back. I heard Mina call my planet, too, curse me for my own special brand of cowardice. I cared not. Court-martial me, and put me to my death, but do not ask me to endure the loss of her. I had not known, before that moment, that I was such a fragile thing. That I could so easily be undone, the ice princess in the high tower brought low by the very idea of her plaything being wounded. Knowing that no longer was she the plaything, but the princess, and I her prince, her ardent defender, the Orpheous that would happily walk myself into Hell and Hades to be at her side. 

I may have made a miscalculation, but the enemy had, as well. For you see, I am a great and terrible opponent, when I have something to lose. It seems the enemy was as unknowing as myself, and they paid for it in blood. I never even noticed its death, too busy running to Haruka’s side. 

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Mina barked something to me about orders, but she could only say so much when my great foolishness had won the day. It matters little how one wins the battle, so long as you win. Haruka was hurt, and angry that I had saved her, and touched that I had wanted to, and afraid that she could never be worthy of that desire. She said none of these things, of course, but she has no gift of emotional legerdemain, and I could read it all so clearly. 

I knew fear. I have never know how to express that fear. To say I am afraid she will die is too simple and easy, for we all hope our nearest ones will live. I am afraid of so much more than than that. I am afraid that she will die, and so will every good thing in me, that the tide of love will recede and all that will be left is the exposed shipwrecks of what I am underneath it all. 

And yet, here in the night, writing this for whoever might care to read when I am gone, I will tell you now: I would make this Faustian bargain again in one beat of my heart. 

Love has made me a fortress, cut off from the land, but it has given the fortress a thing to protect besides itself. It has given me purpose. 

It has made something inside of me alive.

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam Chapter Four

A/N Thank you guys for all the kind comments! They really mean a lot to me and help motivate me to keep writing, hence why there’s a new chapter now 😉. Tagging @need-not, @emptymasks @thegirlisuedtobe @halewynslady @solattea @alice1nwond3rland @ladynephthyss

 The rain came down in thick sheets. It drummed on the roof, against the walls and the mullioned windows. Someone had opened the window of my room and the sweet, green scent of summer rain drifted in, pure and cool and cleansing. How easy it was, to sit quite still and listen to the water gurgle in the drainpipes, to smell the scent of the azaleas, and not think, not feel…

Mrs Danvers kept looking at me with those liquid eyes, my knuckles dimpling her cheek. Funny, how far she and I had come, and so suddenly, too. This time yesterday I had feared her enough to scurry through the halls of my own home afraid to make a sound, as if she was some sort of predator who would pounce and break my neck if I was not careful. Now, she seemed my only friend and ally.

“I can’t be with child,” I said, very calmly, very coolly. “You are mistaken, and Maxim is, too.”

“Then why the nausea, Madam, the loss of your appetite, your heightened sense of smell? And all the time you’ve been with us, you’ve only bled once.”

“How would you know?”

“Did you think I took no interest in the habits of my new mistress, in her health and wellbeing?”

I wished to go back to that state of numbness that had held me prisoner only moments ago. It seemed preferable to the panic that now threatened to engulf me. It made my mouth dry and my heart hammer. My frock stuck to my neck and back.

“You don’t understand. I can’t be, I mustn’t be…” I pulled my hand from her grip and pressed both palms hard against my eyes, watching sickly colours bloom.

Days before, I had pictured the children Maxim and I were wont to have one day, strapping boys with grazed knees and a penchant for sports and mischief. I had imagined them running through the halls of Manderley, leaving their things everywhere, tennis rackets and cricket bats, wellington boots, thumbed adventure books, leather balls. Most of all, I had thought of Maxim’s face as he beheld his sons, the pride and fierce love making him handsome. He would look at me then, that strong look softened, and he would put his arm about me and kiss my forehead, and I’d be so desperately happy I could choke on it.

Now, all I could see was that haggard, haunted look of quiet madness as he told me how he had put a bullet through Rebecca and had felt only triumph, the straying bitch at last brought to heel…

Mrs Danvers clasped my wrists and pulled my hands away. “What do you mean, Madam? Why mustn’t you be?”

It all moved about inside of me, twisting and turning, scraping my innards like a little sharp-nailed hand. It clawed its way up my throat, cutting it to ribbons, and it could not be swallowed down and hushed, it could not be denied…

Mrs Danvers rubbed the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs. “Why, Madam?”

“Because I shall never be free of him once I give him a child,” I whispered. We stared at each other, both shocked by my words. I had not known what I would say until it was said, and now it could not be taken back.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” I stammered. “I don’t know what I’m saying, Mrs Danvers. He’s my husband; of course I wish for us never to be separated….” But the words sounded hollow to me, and the rapid thumping of my heart screamed liar, liar, liar.

Mrs Danvers hardened. Gone was the soft, liquid look. “Of course,” she said, her voice that mechanical thing once more, stilted and lifeless, “why would you? Not even Rebecca wanted a divorce, and she cared nothing for him, despised him, even. You, who love him, who says he is your whole world, would not want to miss him, not even for a moment.” She stood and went to the window to shut it, the rain splashing on her hands and face. She did not come back to me but remained standing there. The windowpane reflected her face remarkably well. It looked pale, tight.

I felt as if I might cry. “Mrs Danvers,” I said, “Mrs Danvers, Danny, please.”

“Please what, Madam? What do you want? You still don’t know, do you? To have his child, to be free of him, to be a perfect little wife, to be another, to love him, to love me. You can’t make up your mind.”

“Please don’t,” I whispered.

She turned round, pressing her hands hard against her ribs, curling slightly forward, as if in pain. “They found her boat, but you knew that already, didn’t you? They found her, yet all Mr de Winter could worry about was you, your little sickness, your delicate condition. Sometimes, it’s as if I am the only one who wishes to remember her, the only one who truly cared. He doesn’t even speak of her.”

“Oh, Mrs Danvers,” I whispered, “you wouldn’t like him to. I promise you, you wouldn’t want to hear what he has to say about her.”

Two spots of colour burned high on her cheeks. “Does he call her names? Does he rail at her, denouncing her for a whore and an adulteress? Does he, Madam?”

They came again, those traitorous tears. They stung, burning hot. I nodded feebly.

She laughed. “Well, then he hasn’t forgotten to be jealous, has he? Men! When they look at women, they only see whores and saints, and like nothing better than to tear a woman down they lifted up. Trust a man never to see a woman for what she really is.”

I thought of my father, of his warm-heartedness, his laughter and love. “No, Mrs Danvers. They’re not all like that. Most men are normal.”

She laughed again. It sounded like keening. “Perhaps, but that’s the worst of it, Madam; how are we to know who is and who isn’t? Safer to assume they’re all pigs.”

I was tired as a dog, all wrung-out. “But they aren’t, Mrs Danvers, truly they aren’t. I’m sorry you think they are, but that isn’t right and it isn’t healthy.”

“It isn’t right?” She tore at her cuff, pushing the fabric up to her elbow, and held out her arm to me. With a finger she traced the scar there, the neat purple line in her flesh. “You’ve wondered how this came to be, didn’t you? I shall tell you. I went to care for Rebecca when she was seven. Her mother had died when she was born, and so a nurse had taken care of her all her life. Now that she was seven, it was time for a governess, and I was employed. I was twenty-one; my employer, her father, a man of forty-six.”

She kept moving her finger over the scar, rubbing it red. “I found out the first week that he had wandering hands, and within a month, that his hands were not the only things doing the wandering. I wished to resign then, but he wouldn’t give me a proper reference, and without one, I was worth nothing. And there was Rebecca, of course. Such a charming child. The longer I stayed, the more I loved her. The more I loved her, the harder it was to leave. Her father’s… ministrations were never quite bearable, but I grew used to them. They had to be borne, for love of her.”

Still she rubbed, harsher now, her clipped nails leaving white streaks that flushed crimson. “And on and on it went, until one day when Rebecca came home early. I never knew if she suspected what her father and I did; he made sure she was not around when he paid me his little visits. Rebecca was supposed to be riding her horse, but the animal had thrown a shoe and so she’d returned earlier than expected. Sixteen she was then, with all the wit and beauty of a woman twice her age.”

Mrs Danvers smiled at the memory. It was a fragile, broken thing, this smile of hers, and it cut me deeply.

“We didn’t hear her. How could we, over his groans? But in she came, dressed in her riding habit. I didn’t know she was watching us, not until her father screamed and rolled off of me. She had struck him with her riding crop, and she kept striking at him, over and over again, breaking his skin and drawing blood. He nearly lost an eye. In the end I had to intervene; she was so wild, I thought she might strike him dead if I did nothing. I had to restrain her.

“‘You won’t ever lay a finger on her again,’ she told her father, ‘do you hear me? She’s mine now.’ He laughed through his tears, as if it was all a great joke. ‘What, do you want to fuck her yourself?’ he asked, so she hit him with her bare hand. Afterwards, she took me to her room and helped me clean the gashes she’d made, and then I was safe. So you see, I know men are not all wicked, but you’ll forgive me for not taking any chances.”

How could I ever tell her what Maxim had told me?

I went to her and stilled her scratching hand. She had broken the skin, and little beads of blood welled up. I put my mouth to the soft inside of her arm and sucked at it, fighting through the nausea to lave her poor skin with my tongue. “I’m sorry you were hurt,” I murmured.

Her hand curled against her ribs, pressing hard against her stomach. “I miss her so much I sometimes wish to destroy myself,” she whispered.

If anyone deserves to know what happened to Rebecca, it is Mrs Danvers. She’s the only one who truly loved her, I thought. Rebecca, with her brain and breeding and beauty, her wit and charm. Nothing of that had mattered in the end; she had died like a dog at the hands of the man who had sworn to love and cherish her.

If I did not tell her now, I feared I never would. I had to tell her, even though it smote me.

“Mrs Danvers, I must tell you something, something that Maxim only just told me.” My throat was still painful from where she had bruised it last night, pressing my face against the sheets as she made love to me. I swallowed thickly; the lapping at her skin had made me salivate. I kept kissing the sore spot at her arm, postponing the moment I had to talk, until she took hold of my chin and made me look up.

“What must you tell me, Madam?” she asked softly.

“It’s about Rebecca. Maxim told me…he killed her, Danny. Maxim killed Rebecca.”

[advernia]

fic: chart the stars onto your skin

— they'll never disappear or fade completely, but they're still beautiful nonetheless. - queen of hearts/alice the second.

1: here you go + a happy new year to you, anon! ٩(^ᴗ^)۶ i'm definitely up for some romance, but hopefully this is romantic enough for your tastes! (゜▽゜;)

childhood.

His mother wore gloves: they’re made of fine silk and would reach up to her wrists, color a pristine white or a deep black depending on the occasion - they were form-fitting too, so if one would take a moment to peer well; it could be observed that her fingers were long and slender, her palms rather short, and wrists a bit thin.

For as long as he could remember she would always wear her gloves till day turned night, and rare was the sight of her without them on - so when, for some reason, she had to slip off a glove from her hand; he stares: he stares at the sight of her bare skin that looked fair and unblemished like porcelain, at the smooth palm and knuckles without so much as a trace of a single wrinkle, at the conical dainty fingers with each nail well-shaped and unpainted. 

.

.

.

The setting for his first dance was the Civil Center’s gardens, and his partner was a Marquis’ daughter who wore no gloves - despite both of them being the same age, he notes that her hand was smaller than his own by a noticeable margin. Her complexion is tan and clear, the palms of her hands and the pads of her slightly stubby fingers soft to the touch, her nails long but smartly shaped.

He maintained a careful grip on her hand throughout their dance, even if he could feel her hand gradually become clammy against his halfway through the song.

.

.

.

After his first dance he spends a great deal of the event humoring requests or offers for a dance, and while there were unique differences to every hand he touched, he eventually arrives to his own generalization of what a girl’s - a lady’s hand was to be like -

- they are small and dainty with skin soft and smooth, as if he were holding something delicate in his grasp.

And anything delicate meant that it was fragile, so as a young boy and as a proud young noble, he takes it upon himself to treat every lady he would meet with great care.

                The first time her mother makes a homemade cake, she’s determined to stick to her mother like glue.

Her father wouldn’t allow that, though - he teasingly reminds her to do chores before spending all day in the kitchen again, and even her mother pipes in by saying ‘no cake if you don’t do your chores’. Not wanting to miss a detail of cake making but also pressured to fulfill her responsibilities, she vehemently tells her mother to work as slow as possible before dashing out of the kitchen to start her duties: making her bed, sweeping the house and the yard, then finally tending to the garden. 

In her haste, she forgoes wearing gloves while weeding and as she pulled at a stubborn clump of weeds, she gets pricked by something and she yelps - her father comes running, inspects her muddied hand. Nothing’s bleeding and she isn’t crying, so with a relieved grin, her father urges her to wash her hands immediately.

She nods and rushes into the house.

.

.

.

Her father allows her to skip garden duty so she’s able to watch and assist her mother in making the cake - as their creation sits on the oven to be baked, her mother frowns when she admits that her hand got pricked because she forgot to wear gloves while weeding.

As a girl, you ought to take good care of your hands, her mother chides with a lilt in her voice, if they have too much scars, you can’t get married!

Far too young and impressionable, her eyes grow wide and teary as she lets out a whiny screech -

But I wanna get married!

                                youth.

Jab, strike, parry.

One, two, three. 

There was not a single thing elegant about prolonged hours of grueling training - all it brings is an inordinate amount of sweating and a painful degree of exhaustion, but he had to think beyond that: not only was he part of a prestigious noble family that carried generations of proud crimson blood, but soon he was to shoulder the title that his family was chosen to bear.

It’s the greatest honor, the foundation of his life, and his destiny ever since he was born.

But with honor came worth: bruises, scars, and callouses could litter themselves on his flesh for all he cared, but never again would he allow himself to be questioned and stepped upon by any man or woman, constantly underestimated and ridiculed for being a little boy born with the fine features of a doll.

His body may look like porcelain; but his determination, strength, and pride were far from fragile.

If he needed to put every single ounce of effort he could muster into shaping himself as someone who was undoubtedly worthy, then so be it.

                One chance. 

Make or break.

She breathes in the air of sugars and honey, of hostility and pressure - eyes are on her, but they aren’t of her parents or the people of her village: they’re all new and appraising, most of them sneering and dismissive. The scrutiny grows stifling as each second passes by, but she had to stand her ground - this could be her first and last opportunity, so she might as well give it her all.

If she would succeed, it meant that her tireless toil and persistence have finally paid off - whether they liked the thought or not, she proved herself worthy through a live demonstration her skill, and they would have no choice but to acknowledge what they’ve seen with their own eyes.

And if she failed, well… at least she put in an effort rather than bowing her head down immediately.

She takes one last glimpse at the bare skin of her palms and fingers before stepping forward. 

                                independence.

Her mother’s crying and some of the village kids are, too. Meanwhile her father’s laughing as he carries her bags, and the rest of the villagers try to hog her attention as much as possible, congratulating her with beaming smiles and showering her with wishes of good luck.

A carriage arrives, just as promised - an old man steps out, dressed sharply yet with a kind aura about him. He smiles when he sees her, she does the same as she performs a curtsy.

“I hope you’ve prepared yourself, young lady,” his voice is low and raspy, “The road to your dream is not easy, and it will be much harsher simply because you are a woman - are you prepared?”

He extends a hand out to her, in the notion of a handshake. For a moment, she simply stares at the unexpected gesture as her hands and palms twitch uncomfortably, but then she shakes her head and meets the man’s - her master’s - gaze.

“I am,” she declares, an open hand reaching out to meet his. 

                They come in droves like they always do: dressed in flowing finery, adorned in sparkling jewelry, and drowning in perfume.

One of them feel particularly brave and while he’d give her that, there was absolutely nothing else to speak well of: she wore her makeup too thick, her hairstyle not to his tastes, her scent insufferably cloying, her gown lined with too much sequins and flashing an amount of skin inappropriate for a lady of her noble station.

She bats her eyelashes at him slowly, action perhaps meant to be seductive but only proving to have the opposite effect on him. Still, this was a formal occasion and she was a Duke’s daughter, so perhaps he could afford humoring her… if only for five seconds at best.

“No amount of words can express how wonderful it is that you were anointed Queen of Hearts this day,” she says, words lathered in honey, “If it is to your liking, I humbly offer myself as your dance partner for the ball tonight, by chance that the spot by your side is still available.”

As if it were the strawberry on top, she offers a saccharine smile - and his response is to openly scoff.

                                present.

The problem with her is that she has the most peculiar of tendencies that always manage to catch him off guard, a notable example being how she would occasionally brush her fingertips against his skin so tenderly, gentle warmth and short nails trailing and tracing the beginnings and ends of the paths well-worn scars have carved into his flesh. Her fleeting touches would make shivers run up his spine, tingling and yearning for more than just brief contact.

He doesn’t need to tell her how or why each scar had made its way onto his hands, his back, his body - not all of them have grand stories behind them and the worst ones were made when he was at his most vulnerable, states and phases that were already years behind him but still fresh in his memory. But when she does ask him about his wounds with a pensive expression crossing her face, nails lightly dragging against the mark of a certain scar repeatedly; he finds himself talking, and in a dispassionate manner to boot.

It’s simple, actually. He, who had been weak and bullied as a child was saved by the person he would eventually call his King, and from that point on he strove to be better, to be stronger in both body and mind. Eventually he succeeds and triumphs against all odds and adversaries to emerge victoriously as a competent soldier and a rightful Queen for the noble Red Army.

The difficult memories were still raw around the edges, but there was no use in getting worked up about things of the past - the old scars and bruises were never aesthetically pleasing and maybe he could’ve done something to lighten their traces on his skin, but he wasn’t particularly ashamed of his wounds since they were, in a sense, proof of all his hard work and effort.

Each time he would tell her another piece of his struggle she would look at him quietly, eyes filled with a compassion he sought for but never received during those hard times. When he was finished relaying his tale, no words would escape her mouth but instead, she presses a kiss on the scar she just learned about; lips firm and familiar against his skin.

Did she believe that by doing so, the pain would fade away?

But it didn’t hurt anymore, and he swore not to allow himself to be hurt that way again - but why is it that whenever he would watch her caress his wounds, he feels himself to be bleeding and his heart at the verge of tears, suffering like the little weak boy he used to be?

It’s no consolation, she whispers with her breath warm against his skin, but I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.

He says nothing and instead wraps his arms tightly around her, burying his face onto her neck and breathing in the scent of sweets; the scent of home.

                It turns out that he’s been meaning to ask about her hands ever since their first date.

She doesn’t resist as he pulls her hands towards him, unraveling her fingers to reveal her palms. The skin there is far from dainty, and he’s sharp enough to tell that it didn’t end up that way just because she was used to doing manual labor: even if in excess, that kind of work couldn’t result in the skin of one’s hands looking like it was fused together, forming lines and patches of rough uneven flesh a pinkish red shade. 

He fusses over it a bit, stating that if ever someone from of the Land of Reason was responsible for her scars, they would have hell to pay… but the real reason isn’t anything serious at all. The way she sees it, she was responsible for her own scars the moment she decided to become a confectioner: the profession dealt with candy and it was at its easiest to mold when hot, so any confectioner simply had to endure handling candy at such high temperatures if they wanted to shape it with ease.

Funnily enough, her first attempt at making candy made her mother cry more than she did - the scalding heat eating away her hands was incredibly painful, but the sight of her mother treating the burns at the verge of tears felt a million times much worse.

Smiling wryly, she also tells him the words she threw away in order to follow her path:

As a girl, you ought to take good care of your hands - if they have too much scars, you can’t get married!

She blinks when he lets out a laugh, and he surprises her even further with the look in his eyes as he stared at her palms: he doesn’t look at them with narrowed eyes, visible scorn, or immediate distaste. If she had to describe his gaze she would say that it was kind, even more so when he raises one of her hands to his lips, raining down such feather-light kisses on top of her scars.

When he speaks, his voice calms the familiar unease that tugs at her heart -

Perhaps that’s true: no matter how many marks brand your hands, a man who fails to appreciate your scars also fails to acknowledge the lengths you took to achieve your dream - he’s simply a fool that definitely doesn’t deserve your hand.

Oh, she muses but doesn’t say, for her mouth has just hung itself open. Her heart suddenly feels like it’s soaring as it echoes his words, years of uncertainty and criticism becoming lighter - and with that feeling, tears start forming and flowing out her eyes unbidden, and she can’t stop them from creating the tracks that run down her cheeks. 

Why are you crying? he asks with a voice so gentle, she could forget that he was sort of chiding her. She lets out a breathy, shaky laugh in response but the tears don’t stop coming; blurring the silver luster of his hair, the spun gold of his eyes, and the ivory of his skin into a jumbled mess of colors.

Softly, oh-so-softly, he sighs - he doesn’t let go of her hand as he closed the distance in between them; moving his face even closer to kiss her tears away: he starts from the tip of her chin then moves up to her left cheek and then plants a soft peck to her eyelid, doing the same motions for the right side of her face.

She’s still crying when his lips find hers, and in that moment he lets her have a taste of the happiness in her tears.

                                future.

Her ensemble comes with gloves: they’re made of fine silk and they reached up to her wrists, color a pristine white that complemented the pastel pink hues of her gown. They were form-fitting and if one took a moment to peer well, one could see the delicately embroidered butterfly stencils dancing about the back hand surface of the gloves.

She’s about to slip one on when he takes hold of her wrist gently.

You don’t need to wear them, he tells her with certainty. 

Are you sure? she asks, worry in her eyes. I’m okay with that, but we’re going to meet your parents and I don’t think they’d be pleased to see -

He cuts her off by pressing a swift kiss to her lips, tasting a bit of strawberry coming from the rouge she applied. 

What they want to see doesn’t matter in the slightest. I need them to see you and accept you for who you truly are - that’s how I fell in love with you, after all.

Jonah quickly turns his head away from her gaze, but she was able to catch a glimpse of the faint blush that colored his cheeks.

Feeling a blush spreading onto her cheeks as well, she laughs as she reaches out to slip her hand into his, taking comfort in the familiar feel of worn scars and callouses against her palm, her fingers, her fingertips.

.

.

.

The silk gloves lay forgotten on her vanity as they leave the room, neither of them looking back.

                2: when alice was introduced as a confectioner in the game’s prologue, i remembered yakitate japan’s monica… i tried researching about candy-making and stuff and i'm not actually sure if confectioners really have burnt hands due to holding extremely hot candy but! alice having scarred hands has been an hc for me ever since! 3: i pointed this out in my lance fic but in 19th century london, women commonly work in textile factories / mines / commerce / farms. supervisory roles & specialized professions (doctors, lawyers for instance) were closed off to women since they were seen to be skilled jobs. so realistically speaking, alice must be pretty lucky / talented to be employed in a confectionery and at london’s best to boot. 4: in addition, alice is assumed to be around her 20s and around this age, women usually busy themselves with getting married / finding a marriage prospect rather than getting employed. alice must be seen as unconventional in the eyes of london society, huh? ɖී؀ීϸ

[maraistyping]

A tale of winter

There are always those kind of stories, the tales of heroes and villains in constant battles where more than just the evident is at stake, with the innocent victims almost joyful and carefree in both, spirit and personality, along with the brooding master mind painted with dark colors that can only strike fear in the souls of the living.

Then there are those, with storylines not so different yet not so similar either, whose age has become impossible to calculate since they have been told generation after generation nonstop, each one of them showing their own telling of it like a proud banner that held more meaning than strangers to it could possibly imagine, tales written and rewritten constantly, over and over again, whose details have been slowly worn off, the lines of their limits now blurred beyond repair every time one even dares to think about it since in most of the occasions memory deserves as much trust as a thief in the night.

This one in particular is one of them, a story that has been twisted since the beginning of time around campfires to nurse children to sleep, a tale of love that brought a lot of complications since the very first beginning, one that had traveled across the globe without a care in the world, on that you might recall as a whisper in the night: the tale of the appearance of seasons, the start of the winter.

It had all began during a sunny day, early in spring, the soft chorus of graceful birds crawling through the air, sweet nightingales adorning the sky free of gray clouds with colorful feathers of all shades and shapes, creating a moving rainbow that seemed to follow anyone who were to step under its shadow, and, underneath of the marvelous painting the nature seemed to make out of pure joy, there laid a beautiful forest full of light that certainly made contrast with the figure of dark robes that was currently making its way across the green fields, which seemed to waver in cold without a second thought in mind, threatening to wilt until they were all nothing but mere shadows of what they all once were, an empty shell void of any hint of life whatsoever.

The young looking man paid the soft whimpers of the flowers no mind as his black cape passed through them all, surrounding them with layers of eternal darkness before quickly vanishing as if it had just been a thin surface made of nothing but ghostly smoke, reappearing again no more than a couple of seconds after it had gone missing, apparently ready to hit another being with a wave of cruel frozen air.

He passed a hand along his black hair, gracefully moving some locks off his face, bringing down some fallen feathers that had been comfortable on his head, left there by some careless creature because of the mischievous acts of the howling wind around him, part so common to see on cheerful birds that had simply shrunk in between his fingers as soon as the skin of his palm had touched it. That was part of the reason for why he disliked stepping into the Overworld, it remind him of how he didn’t fit it, of how he was better off without any of the living creatures around that would only die at his feet as soon as the brown eyed was near enough for them to feel the aura of destruction that always accompanied his imposing presence.

If Nico would have been able to avoid going to the meeting that was taking place on Mount Olympus, he definitely would have chosen to not go, he knew when and where he wasn’t exactly wanted anyway, but the other deities had wanted to talk about how all the realms were doing at the time and, him being the Lord of the Land of the dead, meant his presence was more than needed. He was certain the so called reunion was nothing but a plot for the others to observe his movements, he knew the rest of the gods didn’t trust him at the same level they all trusted each other, he was the odd one after all, the gloomy one who had the world of the already deceased as his domain.

Always the odd one out, the unreliable one than more than just an individual being would think more than twice before trusting. Unpredictable. Lonely. Cunning to an extend that the world around him didn’t matter, taking and taking away from both sinners and saints without any kind of consideration whatsoever.

He let his glance wander around the environment he was in, boredom present on his brown eyes, which more likely held more life than his actual body, one that only indicators that showed he wasn’t completely dead on the inside. The scene surrounding him was not something he hadn’t seen before, watching the life running away from his own person should be a scenario he had gotten used so long ago, one would think that were to be the case at least from their certain point of view…but they were wrong, there was no way to do so, the black haired would know considering all the endless centuries he had spent trying, avoiding considering how life would have turned out if the fates hadn’t been after him since the very first beginning, always favoring his other relatives in a way he could only dream for himself.

So now there was him, his dark robes waving calmly due to the soothing action of the wind, the iron armor his cape of shadows hid from time to time shining with a shade of red as thick as blood, heading to what would be the most annoying hours of the decade. Nico absently played with the silvery skull ring that had found its perpetual home on one of the fingers of his right hand, sometimes he just enjoyed the feeling of comfort that its surface seemed to bring him whenever the hurricane of wild thoughts that was constantly haunting his mind became too dark, not that the effect was completely unexpected, the original owner had had a major impact on the black haired male. He reserved a special place in his heart for her, no one could ever replace the sweet and caring girl with stars on her eyes, that kind being that shared very reassembling features with his own self. Because that would give enough clue of how his sister was irreplaceable.

He would have to admit, he had been distracted, so lost on the echoes that bounced against the walls of his head that he had lost his grip on reality, the one that he considered particularly hard to hold on in the first place. Maybe if he had been focused enough on the world around him, he would have found it strange that there was a young, delicate vine colored with green leaves slowly making its way towards him, not wilting in the slightest, remaining youthful and beautiful even when it made contact with his ice cold skin.

It was unexpected, to feel the unperturbable life force of the newborn plant, stubbornly holding onto the right to live in a way he hadn’t seen ever before from a minor form of intelligence. A lot of things happened later that he wasn’t entirely prepared for, happenings he wasn’t ready for, in particular considering how fast everything occurred. It only took a couple of seconds for the grassy plant to seem to fully grow, small flowers starting to decorate the length of its body, showing off the potential it held on the inside, its graceful tactics.

Watching the flowers bloom was a spectacle on its own, if he were to be honest, the way the petals opened slowly to reveal an interior with more colorful brightness than the outside was something he really couldn’t put into words. Maybe that was because of how rare it was for him to see something like that, even when in a respectable distance, seeing it all from that close…was not what he would consider usual.

And so there he stood for what appeared to be hours, maybe years even, he wasn’t entirely sure, when time does not affect you in a way mortals would think of normal, the concept itself was bound to simply lose its meaning. His brown eyes focused its attention on the delicate, fragile looking sprouts, his glance analyzing every single one of the movements of the young living beings with dedication, a little side smile slowly appearing on his pale expression as some of them seemed to let out silent yawns, letting the center and core to be seen by the outside world, which they greeted with a fine powdery substance that quickly invaded the air around him, sneakily making its way to his nostrils until he couldn’t caught on any other smell but the sweet fragrance of spring.

The rest was pretty much a blur, he stopped registering everything whatsoever, the brightness of the sun slowly became dull, the green color of the forest became a grayish shade, everything started to become more and more meaningless. The lack of importance was not overwhelming though, he couldn’t care less, not when the soft cloud of pollen nursed him to sleep, something he hadn’t wanted to do so badly since so long ago that he found it impossible not to give in, the soft lullaby was calming in so many levels that he found himself unable not to obey to its wishes.

He welcomed darkness with open arms.

[michaelmalloryfanfic-blog]

fic update: o thou, destroyer named - chapter vi

they are like two wounded animals, circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first

. millory outpost 3 au .

post links: chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter iv // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

ao3 links: chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

summary: aka part 2 of chapter 5 we're finally leaving Outpost 3 yall!

Mead hears the girl screeching about needing help but doesn't heed her call at first. Her boy had not been overly transparent about his plans for the girl but it might as well be excruciating torture. But the girl keeps screaming. She keeps pleading for help and, if only to offer assistance to Michael, Mead seeks her out. The darkness is nothing to Mead. The outpost layout programmed into her head makes find the girl easy.

It takes her almost no time to find the right door. Behind it she can still hear the girl, no longer screaming. She's whimpering and begging for help. Mead sneers and weighs her options. There’s no sound from Michael, just the girl, whining for all she’s worth. Does some weeping idiot really warrant her risking

"Please,” the girl says from the other side. “We need help."

We. Now that does warrant further investigation. She enters. Mead is no stranger to blood, to viscera. So the sight she sees when she opens the door is about as shocking as a clear sky in summer. The room is dim. She spots them down the barrel of the antechamber, ensanguined and tangled together.

Michael’s head and shoulders are resting in her lap. He’s curled into her, arms clasped around her waist. Mallory has folded herself over him, his face cradled in her arms. A tender scene had it not been completed covered in blood and the look of absolute terror on the girl’s face when she looks up at Mead.

“Oh fuck,” Mallory breathes. “Thank fucking god. Please help, he’s crushing me.”

"What have you done?" Mead hisses.

She has murder on her mind and a violent intent driving her as she approaches. A piles of black clothing sits discarded besides them, all ruined. She observes the situation before deciding the best thing to do is take care of Langdon before anything else. She would deal with the twit once her boy was secure.

"I didn't do anything,” she asserts fiercely which is rich coming from someone pinned beneath a fully grown man and covered in blood. “He isn’t dead but he's lost a lot of blood. He needs medical attention."

The girl continues to prattle. Mead had known of Mallory Wilson, just another Grey sucking on the teat of the Cooperative’s generosity. Before her great epiphany of who and what she really was, Mead had reserved all the malice and disgust she could muster for the Greys. They were pathetic, skittering things who no better than the dust that accumulates in the corner. Now that she’s fully realized, Mead finds the concept of the Greys just plain wasteful. They were more trouble than they were worth.

“Oh will you shut up,” Mead snaps and the girl is mute. “Blood loss didn’t do this.”

No, it would take more than a little bit of anemia to lay her boy low like this but magic is a rubber-band of intent. Pull too hard, aim it in the wrong direction so that it cannot follow through and it will snap back. Intent needs a place to go and if not the intended target then it will find some place else to lodge itself like a knife lodges itself into flesh, usually its source.

Mead is careful when she reaches her arms beneath Michael’s shoulders and behind his knees. It is nearly comical, the idea of this little old woman sweeping a fully grown man like Michael Langdon into her arms but that is exactly what she does. It takes some cajoling. He is stuck to the girl, arms locked around her middle but with a few tugging and deft maneuvering, she gets him up to his feet. He swoons and sways a first, leaning into her shoulder. His breath on her neck is shallow. As Mead steadies Michael, Mallory tries to stand but has trouble. The feeling is only just returning to her legs, uncanny pinpricks of feeling all down her skin. Eventually, she gets to her knees.

“Is he - will he...be alright?” she asks as she brings one leg forward, leans her weight on it and pushes herself up.

Mead glares at the girl as she wobbles on her feet. Mallory is winded and messy. In Mead’s eyes, she’s a loose end, a liability. It would make far more sense to end her now

"Just get the hell out of here!” Mead barks and Mallory is more than willing to fuck off.

She would have too, unsteady legs and all if not for dissent from Michael.

“Don't go, Mallory,” he keened; his head is still bent below his shoulders but his voice is clear when he pleads. “Don't go."

Later, Michael will deny this and neither Mead or Mallory will disagree with him despite knowing contrary. For her part, Mallory never forgets. She will always remember, his golden head bent low and his voice trembling like a leaf. At the end, she remembers always how sad she feels for him in this moment.

“Fine,” Mead says because even as a cold, unfeeling automaton, she cannot help but indulge the boy. “Get his other side and help me move him.”

“And get his clothes off the floor,” she adds as she turns to escort Michael out.

Mallory scrambles, her feet slipping over the mess on the floor. His jacket and shirt are stiff, saturated as they are with dried blood. Making an effort to be gentle, she folds each article over her arm and rushes out to take

His head lolls to the side and finds the side of her neck. He breathes something into her skin but even as close as they are she cannot make out what it is that he says. Still, she shivers. The warmth of his breath, the moisture of it causes her breath to catch in her throat. Her heart beats so loudly she thinks he must be able to hear it.

And he does. He hangs on to the sound of her heartbeat in his state like a life raft.

Suddenly, Michael’s world sits on a horizontal axis. He feels but does not comprehend where he is in space. He knows not the time. He hears but cannot see.

“I don't - understand , Ms. Mead. Any of it,” Mallory says, her voice shaking but clear.

Michael wonders if she’s crying. He had felt her tears on his face when she had held him like a babe.

“You don’t need to understand. Accept that there are things beyond your understanding and move on,” Mead says.

Her voice is low and severe and Michael can hear the mechanism of her voice. A slight hum runs under the sound of her voice like a hornet is lodged in her chest. The air feels so full. Full of the sound of the hornet in Mead’s chest. Full of his own magic, his own intent shooting back at him with a force that would have killed anyone else. It presses down on him, squeezes until he is slipping back into himself. He hates that panic rises in him as he goes down. He hates that he parts his lips and whimpers. Most of all he hates that he seeks out something to hold on to, reaches for anyone, anything.

Her hand is in his, fingers interlocked. Did he find her or did she meet him halfway? He tumbles back under, falling into himself. The pressure of her hand in his is all he feels before oblivion.

Michael wakes to her face, pale as a ghost, above him. She looks a mess, staring blankly into nothing. All his hard work to boost her vitality seems to have been for nothing. Her eyes are shadowed. Her hair, still in that ridiculous bun, is tousled and dull. He can feel her, winding round and round within her mind. Always running away from him in there. Her bottom lip is caught in her teeth, she worries the soft flesh. In her stocking, he notices a long run that extends almost the entire length of her left leg. Michael reaches out to finger the shock of her pale skin beneath the charcoal grey of her tights. She jumps at his touch.

“Keeping vigil at my bedside, Mallory darling?” he croaks.

When she stands and makes for the door, he snatches her right hand in a crushing grip. Pain twists her face and she instinctively tries to pull her hand back. He squeezes harder.

“What? Worried about your ticket to the Sanctuary?” he goads.

Michael Langdon is decidedly easier to manage when he’s unconscious. He had been a thing of beauty even in his fragile state, perhaps even more so because of his fragility just seconds before. He is still bloody, dark circles shadowing his under eyes but there is beauty in that too. She and Mead had brought him back to what must have been his room. Mallory takes note of the laptop that sits on his desk, how it still hums and every so often the fan whirs.

“What? No, I have to get Mea-”

She pulls back again. She squirms as he presses into her mind trying to find any soft spot to poke at. She pushes back but that only serves to stoke his cruelty. He presses down harder, feels her mind bow just a little under the pressure. Mallory gasps, her free hand shooting up to her temple.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her palm presses into the skin of her temple, eyes are squeezed shut.

It’s your own fault; you keep trying to run from me, he thinks.

“You should be worried,” he snarls. “If I die, so do you.”

Again, she tugs at their hands but this time with less conviction.

“I don't - “ she begins with her eyes still locked on the door.

He squeezes his hand again and she winces in pain but that does the trick. She turns her attention to him. Getting a better look at her now, Michael realizes that despite her outward appearance, this the most sober and clear-minded she’s been since she died. Her eyes, though shadowed, are clear and her gaze straight-forward. She’s still confused but no longer delicate.

“I don’t care about the Sanctuary. I don’t even think it exists,” she scoffs and rolls her eyes but then she pauses and frowns. “I didn’t believe you when you said you came here to help us. I thought it was bullshit the whole time.”

She holds his gaze and he expects tears, for her to break down again, or at least for her to look away but her eyes remain dry and her gaze never wavers.

“Then tell me, Mallory. What do you believe?”

“I don’t believe in anything anymore,” she whispers.

“Mallory,” he chides. “Don’t lie to me. You can lie to the world, lie to god, lie even to yourself but never to me. Tell me . And be honest this time.”

“I was being honest.”

“Then be more honest.”

She licks her lips and Michael can't help watching the slow, careful movement of her mouth. What belief does she have? She never believed in god. Faith and spirituality had always seemed so superfluous. She has no job and even her status as a Grey that had at least provided her with some semblance of purpose was gone. So what does she have left to hang on to. Not even Death remains. She shivers thinking of that pitch black place. Her memory of it stark now that she isn't puking her guts out. It had been utter emptiness, darkness stretching in every direction for eternity but at least it had been an end. He has taken even that from her.

“I believe...that everything has gone to shit. It's a wasteland up there but it was a wasteland down here too. And now...now it isn't even that. It’s just nothing. And even if the Sanctuary exists, even if it's full of food and people and light, I know that deep down it’s a wasteland too.”

She’s leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees, hand hanging limply from her wrists. Her shoulders sag and lowers her face to her forearms.

He takes her hand in his again but this time he is tender like when he had placed it in the crook of his arm before. He laces their fingers together and pulls her closer. Mallory complies, leaning into him with another sigh. She sighs so much his sad, doe-eyed doll. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around her neck. His thumb presses lightly where her pulse thrums beneath the skin. This time he moves his hands downward. The skin stretched tightly over her collarbones, the dip of her clavicle. Down the center of her, his hand slips to her sternum. He thinks of the thing just below.

“I like it when you're honest. It makes it easier to see that empty heart of yours”

She flinches back at the mention of her flaw. Didn't he already warn her? Did she think he wouldn't notice? Death had not taken anything from her but rather had made it apparent that there had been something missing all along, his broken little machine.

“Oh don’t look so ashamed,” he says and releases her hand. “It’s one of your best qualities.”

Michael feels suddenly rejuvenated. The air around him no longer presses him into his bed. He rises to lean back onto his elbow. The scratchy wool blanket that had previously covered his torso slips down to his waist. He notices that he too is blackened by dried blood. The door creaks open and Mead stands in the doorway.

“The Sanctuary exists,” he mumbles offhandedly. “You'll see it when we get there.”

Mead hears their conversation from down the hall. Even when they whisper, she can hear them. Before the realization that she was not human, Mead had simply attributed her excellent hearing to a combination of a high aptitude for attention and a natural ability. It is amazing how much you miss when you’re busy adhering to a false standard. In her mind, the mind the Cooperative had programmed for her, she could have only ever been human but now her programing demands that she adapt to the new information.

“It’s one of your best qualities,” Michael says from inside his room.

Mead stands outside and from here she can monitor his vitals. He’s managed to bounce back in a matter of hours what would have taken even the most powerful witches and warlocks weeks or even months. This information, which she had not even conceived of just hours before, is so readily available to her now. Anyone else would possibly be destroyed by the realizations that Mead has been faced with over the last 24 hours. Most would probably choose to look away rather than see what she has but Mead has no choice. She must always look forward.

She enters the room and finds them in a staring contest of sorts. From the smug smile on Michael’s face, she can tell he has the upper hand. His eyes flick to her but only for a second before dropping back to the girl.

“The Sanctuary exists,” he says, gaze trained on Mallory. “You’ll see it when we get there.”

He waves Mallory off and lowers himself onto the bed. His eyes slip closed and he folds his hands just below his chest. He would looks like the perfect embodiment of peace and relaxation, if not for the blood in his hair. Mallory rises from her seat, a look of confusion muddling her features. Even the sight of Mead, suddenly in the doorway and wear a look of utter distaste, cannot shake the girl from her bewilderment.

“Dirty again,” Mead clicks her tongue. “Go. Make yourself presentable.”

She nods and begins to leave but pauses to glance back at Michael. She’s still confused but there’s something else in Mallory’s gaze that Mead cannot identify. But the moment ends soon enough and the girl is gone into the darkness.

“These sheets are ruined,” Michael mumbles, eye still closed, hands still folded.

Mead approaches with a slow, measured steps.

“I’ll deal with them once you’re clean.”

He nods and rises to sit, swinging his legs over the side. The effort breaks the placidity of his features. Though he is all but fully recovered, body still aches. He moves gingerly, carefully. Even in pain and filthy, he is still so beautiful, her golden child. Can a machine be programmed to love? To adore? These are questions that have no answers. All she knows is that her world has shrunk to the length and width of the young man before her. Eventually, he rises from the bed and makes his way to the next room over.

Steam rises off the water of the bath she’s prepared for him. It takes some effort to peel the rest of his soiled clothes from him. When she moves to help, he waves her off. He lets of a great sigh as he lowers himself into the tub. He dips his head down below the surface of the water until he his fully submerged. He stays below for nearly a minute before rising. Mead turns and makes for the door but pauses when he speaks.

“Stay,” he says. “I need help washing my hair.”

He leans back into the curve of the tub, hair still dripping red slopping over the edge of the tub. Mead rolls up her sleeves and sets to work. Once she’s finished lathering, he lets her dip his head back and pour warm water over his head from a small bowl that she had set besides the tub previously.

“Do you remember who I am?” he asks her.

Do you remember who we used to be? How we used to be? You meant everything to me. I have never loved anything or anyone better than I loved you.

Mead fills the bowl once more and pours.

“Do you want me to be honest or kind?”

“Honest,” he says without hesitancy. “Tell me all of it.”

Another bowl of water before she speaks again.

“I am an android who looks and shares many characteristics with a woman who was named Miriam Mead. I am called Miriam Mead as well. And while I do not have access to the memories of the original Miriam Mead, many of the feelings and emotions that Miriam Mead’s memories evoked were used as groundwork for my current personality. I don’t have your Mead’s exact memories but I have impressions, bits of code leftover to help make sense of contradicting stimuli. I know that there was a boy that meant everything to Miriam Mead and I know that boy is you and that you loved her also but I am essentially not that version of Miriam Mead. I am only what I am.”

He nods slightly but beyond that he gives no other indication of wanting to speak further. He slips further into the water until his chin brushes the surface. There are no more questions. The water grows cold in the silence and when the cold becomes unbearable, Michael rises and exits the bath.

They don’t speak again until he’s ready to dress. He lets her dress him.

“What is the status of our extraction?” he says evenly.

She works on doing up his shirt as she answers.

“I’ve informed the Sanctuary that Outpost 3 has been prepared for decommission. They have given an estimation of five hours until extraction.”

Next is his jacket, it is simpler than the other pieces he’s worn before and less formal.

“You informed them to be prepared for for three travelers.”

She pauses in her work, smoothing her hands over his shoulders then dropping them to her sides.

“Three...yes.”

Why she pauses, Mead cannot say.

“Is there an issue, Ms. Mead?” he says evenly.

He turns to glance over his shoulder and his gaze is like fire. If she could feel pain, perhaps she would have balked.

“Yes. The girl. She should be dealt with. Her presence is a hazard and was not part of the original protocol. She is a liability that serves no purpose.”

“None at all?”

He turns around to face her fully now. His face impassive but something more behind the eyes. Even as cold and mechanic as she is, his golden figure, clad in all black, looming above her with a dark look in his eye makes Mead hesitate.

“She’s a distraction.”

Michael sighs, rolls his eyes. He shrinks back, suddenly just a boy again. He goes to his desk and settles on his chair.  

“Of course she’s a distraction, Ms. Mead,” he says. “Look around. This world is over, the sky is ash, the earth is spoiled. It is a world emptied of all things and I am its king. All that’s left are distractions.”

Mead remembers moments like this with Wilhemina, so many moments over the last year when her former mistress had been brought so low that she physically bowed beneath the weight of her failures. Mead had learned quickly that it was best to leave Wilhemina to her own devices during these moments. The shame of her weakness being witnessed was worse than solitude. But instead of leaving Michael alone, Mead approaches despite all memory telling her that she should go. In a human, this is called instinct but machines have no such mechanism. It is a ghost in the machine, perhaps the ghost of the first Miriam Mead that motivates her forward.

She approaches him slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. Her hands fall heavy on his shoulders. He can feel the whir of her, the literal machinations of her mind clicking into place. It is a heavy reminder that this isn’t really his Mead. She is a culmination of points on a plane, a gathering of data, numbers, polymer. Still, Michael finds some comfort in her gesture. Satisfied that his expectations have been understood he stands and continues to dress. Mead stands aside and does not offer anymore assistance.

“You were right though, Ms. Mead. She may prove to be hazardous yet,” he says. “I know what she is now.”

Somehow Mallory manages to find her way to her room in the darkness but as soon as she gets there she realizes that there is not much there. Her room is practically barren. There’s her bed that sits in the far right corner, the head of the bed and its side pushed flush against corner. A small closet sits on the other end of the room at the foot of the bed. In it hangs one last set of Greys, a single candle that’s been burned down to a length of only a few inches. At once, she grabs the candle and searches the front pocket in the apron of her dress. Finding in the pocket a small cardboard box, Mallory lets out a small sigh of relief.

Taking the candle and box with her, Mallory goes to sit on her bed. The metal frame creaks beneath her meager weight. She places the candle on the scratchy wool blanket and begins to work the lid of the box off. The box is small, only about five inches by five inches. It must have been used to hold a necklace or some other such tiny trinket before. Over the past year, Mallory had been prone to pilfering small items and she would keep them in her little box. She opens the box and within it there are four items, four tiny crystal, a short, irregular piece of charcoal, a small sprig of rosemary, and a box of matches. All of them stolen, all of them the only things that truly belong to her anymore.

The first thing she takes out is the box of matches. The matches had been issued to her back when she had been given her status as a Grey. Greys were expected to light any and all the lamps in the outpost and put them out as needed. But when Mallory had received that first box of matches for some reason she had hidden it away in the apron of one of her other dresses and claimed that she had lost it. She had received quite a verbal lashing from Venable and Mallory’s rations had been cut for three days but after all that she had for the first time since coming to Outpost 3 something of her own. And now the box of matches sits in her little box, still unopened.

The seal on the box of matches breaks easily under her thumbnail. Even in the darkness of her room she notices the blood caked under them and is suddenly aware of how her clothes are also caked in dried blood. She slides the box of matches open, takes a single match out and strikes it on the red phosphorous. The flame jumps to life and Mallory quickly drops the box of matches and grabs the candle. She lights it on the first try and her room is dimly lit.

Mallory lets the candle burn for a little while before turning and climbing further onto her bed. There was a slight ledge created by a square depression above her the head of her bed that had been cut into the wall. Mallory let a few drops of melted wax drop onto the dusty stone and then placed the candle on it to keep it in place. With her room at least a little lit, Mallory clamors off her bed and stands to get a better look at herself. Seeing the bloody state she’s in yet again turns her stomach and she begins to strip and did not stop until she stood before her bed in only her underwear.

Still standing, she begins to remove the other items in her box. She removes the four tiny crystals first. When she, Coco, and Gallant had entered Outpost 3, all of their personal items had been confiscated. This included their clothes, any jewelry or accessories, even their phones. Coco had put up such a fuss when they had taken her phone, a tacky bedazzled monstrosity that would have been cheap too if not for the fact that it had been inlaid with Swarovski crystals. Coco had screamed and practically assaulted the poor sap who had been ordered to remove the phone. In the fray, no one but Mallory seemed to notice the four crystals that fell to the floor from the phone case. Before they had been ushered further into the outpost, Mallory had quickly snatched the glittering jewels up. She had told herself that it was so she could return them to Coco but she knew even that that was a lie. Mallory would fall asleep many a night with the feeling the crystals’ sharp edges digging into the skin of her palm, forming dark impression where they cut into her.

She holds them in her palm again. This is all that remains of Coco now. On her way back to her room, Mallory had also stopped to check in on the other woman’s rooms and found it entirely devoid. Not only had Coco’s personal affects been taken but the bed had been stripped, mattress removed.

“I miss you,” Mallory says to four shining crystals but they seem unconvinced.

“I miss you,” Mallory says to the empty room and her statement feels just as hollow.

She says it again trying with what feels like Herculean effort to sound more sincere, more honest like Langdon had told her to be. She says it again this time, tears well up in her eyes but not because of Coco. She’s frustrated because no matter how she tries, Mallory knows that she doesn’t miss Coco. What she misses is having something, anything from her old life to hold on to. Coco was a selfish, petty, empty bitch but she was the last living connection to a time when Mallory felt like she knew what the hell was going on in her life.

There had been a time when Mallory felt like there was more between she and Coco than between an employer and employee. At the beginning of her employment, Coco had been almost pleasant and there was something oddly nostalgic about her to Mallory. There had been some comfort in being near to Coco like remembering something that you had forgotten for years. Even as the relationship began to sour and Coco became crueler and more vindictive, there was still that familiarity that existed between them a belonging that Mallory could neither explain nor abandon. And Mallory thought that perhaps Coco had felt it too because no matter how many times she had threatened to fire Mallory and ruin her career, Coco had never gone through with it. She had always kept Mallory tied to her side.

Mallory doesn’t miss Coco but Mallory but she misses something . Mallory longs for something she cannot name. For some reason, her thoughts suddenly turn to Langdon and the feeling his hand over her sternum. His skin against hers had been so warm, blooming across her chest almost exactly like that feeling she had when the candles had lit on their own before. She shakes the memory off and instead unpacks the rest of the items within her box and places them in a neat row on the shelf besides her candle. First the crystals, then the sprig, the charcoal and the matches.

Still clad only in her underwear, Mallory lies down in her bed. Above her head is the flame and the only things she owns in this whole ruined world. The air is frigid and makes her skin raise with goose pimples but she doesn’t get under the covers. She lies flat on her back and closes her eyes. Mallory chooses the cold. She’s had her fill of warmth and fire for now.

The sound of her door snapping open jolts Mallory into consciousness. She had no way to know how long she’s slept but her candle has burned out. Mead stands in the open door way, in her hand a lamp.

“I told you to get clean,” Mead grumbles. “Just get dressed and come to the decontamination area.”

Mallory has no time to respond as Mead quickly turns and leaves. The door is left ajar and Mallory can see from her place on the bed that the hallway lamps have been lit. She dresses as quickly as she can, grateful for the clean set of clothes in her closet. She still feels the grime and filth still on her but the fresh clothes provide some relief. She turns to the ledge where the crystals, the charcoal, the sprig and matches still sit. The open box is still on her bed where she left it. Mallory pauses but before even a minute can pass she turns and leaves. The door to the room where all vestiges of her old life are is left ajar.

When she arrives at the decontamination area, Langdon is halfway in his suit already. Mead stands aside and eyes Mallory warily from her place besides Langdon. Only one other suit has been prepared. A cold stab of fear strikes her. Two suits and three people, she takes a step back. She should have known. She should have known .

“Well come on,” Langdon says as he zips up the front of his suit. “If you don’t hurry, I might decide to leave you behind.”

He motions towards the other suit.

“That one’s yours. Get it on,” he says as he picks up his helmet. When she doesn’t move he adds, “ quickly .”

Mallory moves at his insistence but she isn’t very good at putting the suit on. It’s  heavy and she’s only ever worn one once. Mead steps forward and helps her. Once the rest of the suit is on, Mead secures the helmet on to Mallory’s head. Her vision is significantly restricted. Mallory can only see ahead of her now. Mead pushes forward and Mallory begins to walk. Ahead of her, she can see Langdon. He continues upward.

There is a sudden pop of air as Langdon releases the sealed door above them and the cacophony of the outside world comes rushing in. Even through her bio suit she can feel the cold of nuclear winter beat against her body. The suit keeps out the radiation, but not the cold, not perfectly anyway. Wind howls. Dust and mist whips around them as they break through the surface of the Earth. She watches as small pebbles roll across barren ground carried by the strength of great, rambling gusts.

Curiously, Mead follows them out into the open air. She wears no suit but seems not to care. It is she who takes the lead, walking out beyond the bleak, cylindric maze of the outpost’s outer walls. He seems to sense her question because he turns to her and follows her gaze to Mead. She fees rather than sees him smiling behind that mask of his.

“No more pretending, Mallory,” Langdon says, his voice garbled by his mask, by the wind, by the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels of two black SUV’s emerging from the toxic mists into sight.

Three figures, cloaked and hooded, move through the mists outside of Outpost 3. They form a tight formation, one leads, the other two flank the first. The black, marble door yields easily to them with a wave of the first figure’s hand. They are a dark flood sweeping through the pitch black halls of Outpost 3, decommissioned only a few hours earlier. Eventually they come to a wide open room with a fire pit, long since gone cold. The first figure removes her hood to reveal a woman, blonde, with eyes that had not always matched so well. The other two follow suit.

Cordelia Goode, Supreme of her generation, heir apparent and blood to Prudence Mather, gives her command and all yield to it.

“Find our sisters.”

[cienie-isengardu]

Through the Eyes of Reptile

The first time when Reptile heard about Erron Black, he was still loyal servant of Shao Kahn, and on Emperor's order, a trusted assistant of Shang Tsung as well. Syzoth's job have never been easy. Partially because no one liked to be spy on, and partially - if not usually - thanks  to monstrous shape of his face, the tailed body covered with a nauseated green husk and a smell that apparently was so horrible that no one wanted to be around him for longer that it was necessary. As far as Syzoth could remember, the smelly, ugly creature was how people called him since hatching from an egg. He had get used to it, more or less. Not really to the insults itself, but to be insulted at every turn.

People were always mean, it was in their nature to ridicule and torment those that didn’t fit into their concept of world. The reptilian warrior believed in that wholeheartedly, because it was easier to hate them than think that maybe they were right; that he really was just an ugly monster of long forgotten race. People liked to destroy the weak ones, but Syzoth wasn’t weak. He was the last of Zaterran race, the sole survivor while everyone else were merciless slaughtered or hunted down and sold as slaves who have worked to death, or were bred as a not so good but exotic food for the richest. Syzoth survived ages in Shao Kahn’s closest circle - if Emperor’s court didn’t kill him, then insults alone would not kill him either. He was survivor above everything else… but mockery hurted all the same.

And so, more often than not, he lived in the shadows, invisible yet watchful, always ready to protect his masters… or to strike them down, at the first sign of disloyalty to Emperor. Shao Kahn didn’t know mercy and so none of his inferiors did know it either. There was no use for friendship nor for affection in the court of the Emperor. Everyone was enemy, one way or another. Everyone wanted the power and prestige just for themselves. So hungry of Shao Kahn’s approval, of chance to prove their worth, of respect and awe. Syzoth wanted it no less than others. Being useful to Emperor was the only thing that kept him alive for all those long, miserable centuries. Syzoth was so useful, so trustworthy that he was given to Shang Tsung, as a skillful spy... and no less as pet.

The sorcerer from Earthrealm was a powerful being; cunning, confident, ruthless and ambitious man to be wary of. He was also old. Not like Edenian elders though - Shang Tsung’s body was wrinkled by age, sharp eyes almost as white as his long hair. The human looked fragile, especially when compared to Emperor’s other champions. So breakable in contrast to the four-armed Shokan prince Goro and noble born Sheeva or Kintaro who towered over him like a mountains; to the centaur Motaro, whose whole body was of the muscles as steel. Even to Edenian princess Kitana and her bodyguard, Jade - both beautiful and no less fast and deadly. Yet it was the Shang Tsung that Syzoth instinctively knew to be careful around. The man smelled of magic, dark and dangerous, and sharp like hidden blade only waiting to taste blood. Syzoth knew who the man really was, of course, but it was no less shocking to see the old fragile human to change in the blink of an eye into a youthful man with an acute smile, into black and yellow cobra whose beautiful scales glittered dangerously in the sun, into pretty woman that could break someone neck with her delicate hands, into  jaguar, so royal and mystic, into innocent child with big, bright eyes. Even into an ugly reptilian like him.

No gender, no race, no body shape was obstacle to the dark magic wielded by Shang Tsung. Knowledge of that made Syzoth both amazed and terrified. The old sorcerer could take any form, speak the human and monster languages alike, be whoever he wished to be, hidden in shadows and in plain sight, safely tucked under fragile and beautiful and coarse and monstrous look… and could even steal your soul - all memories and will and fears - if you weren’t careful around him. Shang Tsung indeed was a powerful sorcerer and shapeshifter Reptile had never met before.

Surprisingly for a human, the man was quite polite too. Even to Syzoth, what in itself was an alien concept not only to reptilian warrior but to everyone else as well. Syzoth didn’t understand humanoids too well but could tell easily when they disapproved of his natural smell. Shang Tsung was one of few people that did not call him smelly; even if reflexive disgust always showed on the man’s face, for a few seconds, until neutral expression didn’t camouflage grimace for good. The man did not speak about Reptile’s smell, did not shun away from him in disgust, like others always did. The nauseated green husk did not scare Shang Tsung either. Quite opposite, the sorcerer seemed to be interested in its color and shape and Reptile in itself. An unique creature of forgotten race to study and learn about, that Syzoth was among other things for the old fragile looking man.

Every once in awhile, Syzoth overheard Emperor’s champions and even simple household probing the sorcerer for reason why he bothered to be kind to smelly monster like him at all. The old man always smiled then - politely, of course, yet with some predatory sharpness hidden well under courtesy - and kept saying how look may be misleading.

In a way, it made a lot sense. Being underestimated had it own perks. Like Syzoth, Shang Tsung was really good at adapting and surviving no matter what.

Over the ages, Syzoth came to like working with Shang Tsung. They didn’t become friends - friendship was a foolish concept for the weak and desperate and none of them were either - yet they fell into comfortable symbiosis. The sorcerer provided the protection while Syzoth was his eyes and ears in the shadows. Reptile accompanied his new master almost everywhere. To flesh pits, a dark and smelly of blood and death place that brought solace for the sorcerer and yummy food for him, to courts of powerful kings and queens of all races united under Emperor’s regime, to all Earthrealm’s nooks and crannies, from secluded beautiful places to overpopulated, gloomy cities.

There, Syzoth met many of Shang Tsung’s favorite mercenaries. Most came from Lin Kuei assassin clan - and between them, man called Sub-Zero was the most favored one. Rightfully so, Syzoth admitted to himself bitterly, because the ice warrior was unlike the other assassins. Ruthless yet cunning, a natural born killer with unquestionable strive for perfection. The assassin had narrow, emotionless eyes and unnaturally pale, frosty skin and in humble opinion of Reptile, absolutely lacked social skills. In Lin Kuei gear or not, there was something about the man that always made Syzoth want to become invisible, to hide and hope to not draw to himself unnecessary attention. Sub-Zero smelled of cold heart, danger and indifferent death. And yet, sometimes, the self confident smirk was warmed by hint of amusement and curiosity, when Shang Tsung time and again called the assassin to do his bidding. The service of Lin Kuei of course always came with price - Syzoth knew very well how possesive Shang Tsung was about his precious, ancient scrolls and manuscripts full of mystery knowledge and secrets of martial art. How hard it was for him to part with them and yet every one of them was a small price to paid for service of Sub-Zero.

More often than not meeting between the cold-hearted killer and the ancient sorcerer felt to Syzoth less as bargaining about right price for needed murder or stealing important informations and more like… well, he didn’t have idea what. Shang Tsung and Sub-Zero seemed to love poking and pushing each other with little, unimportant yet somehow essential details. To seek the weakness in other, to exploit, to outsmart. Yet their meetings didn’t feel like rivalry - not like the one between Shang Tsung and the other sorcerer, Quan Chi, with whom rarely old man agreed on anything at all. Nor felt like there is any need of plotting and counterplotting in case of backstabbing. Their meeting felt… interesting; weird but somehow nice. Shang Tsung’s smell for sure told Syzoth he enjoyed them beyond pragmatic reasons.

But Sub-Zero had his own missions and orders to fulfill and sometimes he simply wasn’t interested in Shang Tsung’s additional requests. There were rules that Syzoth did not know nor understand, but ice assassin’s reasons were his own and the sorcerer didn’t push the matters, so Syzoth didn’t try that either. There were many other killers and mercenaries; Shang Tsung had a long list of those. The reptilian warrior met or at least heard of them all. It was his job to keep tabs on sorcerer’s doing, after all.

Erron Black was one of many assassins working for Shang Tsung over the years. The human himself didn’t make any big impression on Syzoth; just a man sticking to old days who loved money and shooting people more than anything else. Yet Reptile never questioned his master’s decisions, even if Shang Tsung seemed to like Earthrealm's mercenaries more than those from Outworld (Syzoth never spoke of that, but he always wondered if Shang Tsung, as human, felt so alone - and different - between the rest of Shao Kahn's servants; if working with people from his native realm made him feel a bit less lonely. If regular meetings with Sub-Zero were more for his own amusement than a real need of assassin service. It was too personal thing to ask, so Syzoth never have asked). At that time Erron Black was just a name for Syzoth so he didn't care about man's reputation - or life - at all.

There was tenth, the last Tournament to worry about. Earthrealm was about to cease to exist soon. Shang Tsung and Erron Black and the Lin Kuei were meant to be all but a relics of the past. Just like Syzoth was all his life. None of the men seemed to be bothered by that though.

[resshiiram]

The Stars in the Night [Saito Hajime x OFC]

 A promise is a promise. Here is that long awaited one-shot with Saito and Miki. So, I would like to thank @nalufever for kindly cleaning this up a bit last night. Also want to tag @annahakuouki, @saitoswife, @lescahiersdesable, @hakuyamazakisensei and @eheartangel. Enjoy. (:

Word Count: 2,364

Miki sat in silence as she gazed at the night sky, mesmerized by the beautiful stars. It was a rather pleasant summer evening and after everything that had happened, it was nice to be able to just relax.

“Care if I join you?”

 The quiet, familiar voice pulled Miki from her stargazing, turning she saw Saito standing behind her, calmly observing her; he was dressed casually, wearing a simple yukata. His long hair was tied in his usual side ponytail, draped over his shoulder.

Miki gave Saito a small smile. “Of course not.”

 Saito stepped over without a word and sat beside her, folding his hands in his lap.

“The stars are magnificent tonight, are they not?”

 “They are. I haven’t seen this many in a long time.”

 “Yes.”

They fell into silence for a few moments until Miki sensed Saito’s attention was on her, yet he turned away as soon as she returned his gaze.  

“Something wrong?”

 “Nothing is the matter. It’s just that this is the first time I’ve seen you in a lady’s kimono. You look…quite stunning.”

  Miki quickly turned her attention back to the sky as well, hoping that it was dark enough to conceal her blush. “Thanks….you don’t look bad yourself.”

 Saito only hummed in response and the pair again lapsed into silence.

Once she was sure that her face had regained its usual color, Miki peeked at Saito and acknowledged him.

“Hey, Saito.”

 “What is it?”

 “I’m…I’m glad you decided to join me. This is nice.”

 Although Saito hadn’t turned his attention from the stars, she could see the faintest trace of a smile appear on his lips. “I agree.”

Wordless, Miki gazed at Saito, enthralled by the striking man beside her. She was an Assassin, trained to hunt and eliminate, so the feelings that he arose within her were…strange. Nonetheless, Miki found herself relishing them.

Whether or not her feelings for him were requited, it felt nice to have a reason to simply exist besides her place in the Brotherhood and her family’s legacy.

Saito suddenly became aware that Miki was looking at him and brought his attention to her, his troubled eyes meeting hers.  

“What are you thinking about?”

 Miki swallowed, her heart hammering. “Oh, I’m…it’s nothing…”

 Saito was clearly not convinced and he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder. “If there is a problem, Miki, I would like to know about it. Otherwise, how would I be able to help you?”

Both the kind words and gentle contact caused Miki’s insides to melt and she reached to place a hand on his; Saito looked stunned for a moment, but then his features softened.  His unusually tender expression gave Miki a rush of confidence and she closed the distance between them, prompting Saito to tilt his head quizzically. His eyes shot open as she eased her way onto his lap and she could feel him tense beneath her. Miki bit down on her lip at his reaction, staring at the ground awkwardly, feeling her cheeks burning again.  

It had been a bold move and his reaction shouldn’t have surprised her, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Miki was about to get off Saito and run for her futon in shame, but was stopped by an arm slipping around her waist,  holding her firmly in place. She timidly brought her attention to Saito, who was pointedly looking at anything but her; through the darkness, she was barely able to see the red tinge on his face. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Saito swallowed and acknowledged her in a nigh inaudible voice.

“Please stay.”

 Miki’s lips curved into a bashful smile and draped an arm around his shoulders to support herself better. “Okay.”

She nestled deeper onto Saito’s lap and he responded by awkwardly resting his chin on her shoulder, their faces so close that their flushed cheeks were touching; even this feather light contact was enough to cause a storm of butterflies to erupt in Miki’s stomach. She slowly shut her eyes and released a breath of contentment, savoring the warmth of Saito’s body and the proximity between them. Saito eventually reached for her hand hesitantly and took it into his own, bringing it closer to he could inspect it.

 “I never before noticed that the Order branded your finger with their insignia,” he said quietly.

 “Yeah, it symbolizes our loyalty to the Brotherhood. Although the Hidden Blade of the Levantine Assassins required the finger to be amputated, so it could have been worse.”

 “I see. I find your Order to be quite fascinating.”

 “You do…?”

Saito began gently caressing his thumb against the faded burn, making Miki’s heart rate increase. “I do. Although if I may, I have a question.”

 “Um, go ahead.”

 “What exactly is it that your maxim means?”

 “Oh, you mean ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’?”

 “Yes.”

Miki bit on her lip as she pondered the answer to that question. “Well, it was said by Levantine Assassin Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, that to abide by the maxim, once must transcend the illusion that is the world and come to understand that laws arise from reason, rather than divinity. And the Italian Assassin Ezio Auditore once explained it by saying ‘To say that nothing is true, is to realize that the foundations of society are fragile, and that we must be the shepherds of our own civilization. To say that everything is permitted, is to understand that we are the architects of our actions, and that we must live with their consequences, whether glorious or tragic.’ Personally, I believe it’s something that we all have to strive to find our own meaning for.”

Saito hummed before replying. “Very interesting. Your Order is indeed engrossing. However,” he brought her hand to his mouth and lightly pressed his lips to the brand, “I find you to be absolutely majestic.”

 Miki’s eyes widened and she squeaked, hastily burying her forehead into Saito’s shoulder; she mumbled incoherently as her cheeks reddened considerably, making a soft chuckle rumble through his throat.  

“You don’t…mean that…”

 “Miki, you know that I speak the truth. Would I have told you that if I did not believe it to be true?”

 A wave of warmth rushed through Miki at Saito’s words and she hesitantly lifted her head from his shoulder. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

 The 3rd Unit captain’s lips curled into a small smile and he squeezed her hand ever so slightly, placing another tiny kiss to her finger. “You have become quite important to me, Miki.”

 Miki’s breath caught in her throat and she tenderly rested a hand on his cheek. “Saito…”

Saito blinked, clearly caught off guard by her unforeseen touch, but he was quick to melt into it. He lifted up one of his own hands to place it on hers, his grip around her waist tightening. The pair silently enjoyed each other’s presence for some time until Saito acknowledged Miki. “…I have a confession to make.”

 Miki quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 Saito’s expression turned strangely diffident as he averted his eyes, focusing on some point behind Miki, and his cheek warmed beneath her hand; it was a moment before he swallowed audibly and inhaled a long breath.

“Miki…I have had intense feelings for you for some time.”

 It took a second for Miki to fully discern what it was that Saito was saying, but then realization dawned on her and she felt her heart skip a beat. “Saito, are you saying that you love me?”

Saito’s flush deepened, the tips of his ears starting to turn pink, and he nodded awkwardly. “Yes, I am. Very much so, in fact. I was terribly upset when I returned from the Guardians of the Imperial Tomb and heard that you had departed. I found myself longing for your company and although I understood that it was because of your duties, I could not help but feel that I had done you wrong somehow. But then you returned to my side, and the solace I felt at simply seeing you again…even though it was selfish on my part, that was the moment I knew that I never wanted to be without you again.”

He paused briefly to gather his thoughts before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper at this point. “I wanted to come to you sooner, but I was convinced that you were…” Saito was seemingly unable to finish and his voice trailed off, but Miki had a feeling she knew what he was going to say.

 “You thought that I was in love with Souji.”

 “Yes…”

 Miki smiled at Saito lovingly and caressed his cheek with her thumb. The gesture coaxed him to return his attention to her, and even though he was still clearly flustered, his deep eyes bore into hers.

“While Souji is indeed my closest friend and is very much irreplaceable, Saito…you’ve had my heart since the day I met you. Absolutely everything about you had me utterly captivated, from your graceful swordsmanship to your composed disposition. I just…I love you so much and I promise you, I will never leave you again.”

No less than a thousand different emotions crossed Saito’s face at her admittance and he quickly cupped her face with both hands, delicately massaging the corners of her mouth with his thumbs . “Miki, if I would have realized…”

 Miki‘s lips quirked into a small smile. “Hey now, you weren’t the only oblivious one here.”

 Although Saito’s lips curved into a half smile, his focus had drifted to her lips; Miki felt her breath hitch as he leaned in, their faces so close now that she could smell him on the night air and feel his hot breath against her face.

His voice was trembling when he addressed her. “May I kiss you?”

 Miki softly touched the tip of Saito’s nose. “You didn’t need to ask, Hajime.”

At the sound of his given name, Saito’s eyes grew wide and his entire form went rigid. He then brought his lips to Miki’s desperately, almost as if her use of his name had awoken something inside of him. Miki automatically melted into the kiss and began caressing the patch of skin left exposed by his yukata. Her touch caused Saito to shiver violently and he breathlessly pulled from the kiss, his eyes shut and his lips slightly parted.

He caught a hold of Miki’s hand with one of his larger ones and held it flush against his chest. “That feels…fantastic…” Saito’s lips then recaptured Miki’s before she could provide a response, an arm snaking around her neck to bring her deeper into the kiss. Miki reciprocated eagerly and combed her unhindered hand through his indigo locks, very lightly running her tongue against his lips to test the waters. Saito, however, inspired sharply at the action and hastily broke from the kiss; Miki again felt her cheeks burn up, this time from shame, and swiftly turned away from him.

She really should have known that trying that would make Saito, who was clearly inexperienced with romance, feel uncomfortable.

At long last, Miki ventured to take a peek at Saito. If it was even possible, his face was even redder than before and he looked self-conscious about what had just happened. Miki sucked in a stuttering breath and reached for him timidly.

 “I’m sorry, Saito. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

 Saito shook his head and delicately taking a hold of her hand, brought their intertwined fingers to his mouth and touched his lips to them. “It’s fine, Miki. I’m simply not used to this kind of thing, so I ask that you give me some time.”

The corners of Miki’s lips curved into a smile and she leaned in to brush her lips against Saito’s. “For you, I’ll have all the patience in the world,” she whispered.

 Saito gave Miki’s hand a small squeeze as he reciprocated her gentle kiss. “Thank you, Miki. That means a lot to me.” He then placed one more brief kiss on her lips before saying,  “Shall we get some rest?”

 “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

Miki carefully climbed off Saito’s lap and stood; she reached for his hand, which he accepted, and helped him to his feet. The pair slowly made their way back to their quarters while loosely holding hands, a comfortable silence between them. Saito gave her a tiny smile when they arrived. “Well then, I believe I’ll see you in the morning.”

 Miki nodded and leaned over, quickly pecking Saito’s cheek. “Of course.”

 Saito’s smile grew ever so slightly and he gave her a small bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”  

 He then turned to leave the room, but Miki stopped him. “Hajime, wait!”

 Saito glanced at her over his shoulder. “What is it?”

 Miki swallowed, obviously flustered. “You uh…don’t have to leave…do you?”

 Saito’s eyes grew wide and he flushed. “Would you rather me not leave?”

 Miki looked away from him, her cheeks also turning pink. “I mean…you don’t need to stay if it would make you feel uncomfortable…but this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shared a bed…and if we’re a couple now, I just figured…”

 Saito approached Miki and lightly placed a hand under her chin, enticing her to look at him. “Miki, I am truly honored that you would consider us a couple. If you truly want me to stay with you tonight, then I will gladly do so.”

Miki smiled at Saito shyly. “I’d like that very much.”

 Saito leaned down and pressed a small kiss to Miki’s forehead. “Well then, after you.”

 Miki flashed Saito a grin and then lowered herself onto the futon, rolling over to the side so Saito would have room. He inhaled a long breath before hesitantly joining her. Miki was quick to nestle herself into Saito’s side and he responded by awkwardly placing an arm around her shoulders. The two lay like that in silence for several minutes before Miki spoke quietly. “I love you, Hajime.”

 There was a moment of peace between them, and Saito responded, his arm around Miki’s shoulders tightening. “I love you, too, Miki.”

[marginalgloss]

faux pas

Stefan Zweig belongs to that narrow category of authors who, once wildly popular, have since lost the majority of their audience for oblique reasons. In his case ‘popular’ is probably worth qualifying: he sold a lot of books, and his work was adapted into dozens of movies, but he never seemed to achieve much in the way of serious critical admiration. Even today you don’t have to look far to find those who can’t stand his stuff: Michael Hoffman provides a pretty entertaining picture of his legion of haters, even as he takes his own hatchet to Zweig’s back catalogue. And yet, outside of lit crit, his work has quietly garnered cult status. Wes Anderson cited Zweig as a key influence on one of his best pictures, The Grand Budapest Hotel — naturally Amazon now lists The Post Office Girl as the author’s ‘grand hotel novel’.

Beware of Pity was the only full-length novel released in the lifetime of its author, who was otherwise mostly known for novellas and stories. Published in 1938, it is set in the world of the Austro-Hungarian Empire prior to the First World War. A reader might initially take this as a signal that they are headed for a tragic romance in a world of faded glamour; or that they might find something like Joseph Roth’s The Radetzky March, so concerned with family, history, time and tradition; or perhaps an ornate modernist puzzle box, in the vein of Ford Madox Ford’s The Good Soldier. But what we get is a sort of strange psychological thriller that takes the skeleton of a romance, dresses it up in mid-century anxieties, and sends it off to its inevitable doom.

A young lieutenant, Hofmiller, is invited to a party held by a rich local businessman named Kekesfalva. Hofmiller comes with intentions: he thinks he’s in love with one of his daughters, Ilona, who is very beautiful. At the party, out of a misplaced sense of responsibility, he goes to Ilona’s younger sister, Edith, and asks her to dance. 

What Hofmiller doesn’t know is that Edith is paralysed from the waist down. There is a scene: she is spectacularly, violently upset, and so he flees, and for a while thinks himself a pariah. But for her father, this is a sign of the young officer’s interest in a girl who previously seemed beyond all assistance. Hofmiller’s apology soon turns into a sort of friendship — and, perhaps, a courtship. Or at least that’s how the family see it.

Zweig does nothing with subtlety or understatement. Feelings are writ large on every page, and almost every character is prone to ad hoc monologues on the state of their heart. Edith is prone to passionate bursts of impatience towards her condescending family and servants. The Lieutenant is, in person, the model of restraint; but as our narrator (recounting the story in retrospect) he turns every mistake, every misunderstanding, into an emotional catastrophe. And similarly, every moment of beauty is rendered lush beyond the point of absurdity. Here he is observing Edith:

‘It is wonderful to be close to the sick when they are asleep, when all anxieties lie at rest inside them, when they have forgotten their frailty so entirely that a smile sometimes settles on their half-open lips like a butterfly setting on a leaf — a strange smile that does not really seem their own, and will be banished as soon as they wake up…What strikes me most are her hands, lying crossed on the rug, long hands with shadowy veins, fragile joints and pointed, bluish nails — delicate, bloodless, helpless hands, perhaps strong enough to stroke small animals, pigeons and rabbits, but too weak to hold and grasp anything firmly…And I am almost repelled by the thought of my own hands, firm heavy, strong and muscular hands that can control the most intractable horse with a pull on the reins…’

These long, ruminative paragraphs go on for what seems like forever, and at times it is easy to see why some find Zweig insufferable — as Nick Lezard points out in the introduction to my edition, such is the relentless mental churn of the prose that finishing the book is akin to emerging from an ‘emotional tumble dryer’.

Hofmiller’s fixation with Edith is founded on what he calls pity, but it is a more complex kind of pity than simply feeling sorry for her. His idea of her revolves around her status as a victim. She is stronger than her appearance would imply; but whenever she makes this strength known, his response is to retreat in horror. 

The image of the fairytale princess in the tower is perhaps too generous. At least the princess was admired. He doesn’t see Edith as a person but as a sort of mechanical doll which sometimes takes on a humanity too much for him to bear. Her feelings are something to be managed. She cannot be embraced; that would be against nature. She must be contained.  

In this regard, Hofmiller is aided by Dr Condor, a physician from Vienna who has been attending to Edith for years. The family hope she might someday walk again, but Condor is steadily equivocal on the subject. Condor might perhaps be one of the most mysterious, unreadable character here; he is initially mistaken for Hofmiller as a charlatan, and though his talents are soon proved to be very real, we are never entirely allowed to forget that he might not be entirely altruistic. Influenced by emerging theories of psychoanalysis, the novel provides a compelling view of patient-therapist relations in which it’s never quite clear who is looking after who.

And the one thing which therapists must never do is the only thing offered as a cure for Edith ��� for her heart, if not her body. Condor urges Hofmiller to at least contain her misery for a while, until she can again be assured that her physical condition is intractable. But she will not be contained. 

There’s something ghastly about Hofmiller’s description of the moment in which their engagement becomes apparent, when he sits with the family, truly part of them for the first time:

‘I was God that evening. I had created the world, and behold, it was full of kindness and justice. I had created a human being with a brow that shone pure as morning, and eyes reflecting the rainbow of happiness…I was God that evening. But I did not look down remotely from a raised throne on my words and deeds, I sat there, kind and affable among my creations, and I vaguely saw their faces through the silvery mist of the clouds surrounding me…’

He feels as though the family worship him for coming into their lives; for playing the role of saviour to Edith. But then, just as he is about to leave, Edith makes a final unexpected gesture of emotion — she staggers from her chair and tries to embrace him:

‘…Her knees gave way as if at the stroke of a scythe. She fell with a crash just in front of my feet at the hard tiles. And in my first horrified reaction I instinctively flinched away, instead of doing the most natural thing in the world and going to help her up…

‘…I knew the poor girl would never get better. The miracle she had hoped my love would perform had not happened. I was not God any more, only a small, pitiful human being whose weakness did wicked damage, whose pity had disturbed and destroyed her…I felt afraid, dreadfully afraid of her pleading and then greedily demanding eyes, afraid of the impatience of her wild heart, afraid of someone else’s unhappiness when I could not assuage it…’

We knew that it would come to this; in a few pages that false romance is swept away and we are left with fear, anxiety, and the mortal terror at the essential alienation from one’s fellow man. Or at least that’s how Hofmiller feels about it. There’s something appealing in an existential way about his open-hearted confession — but at the same time, what Hofmiller does is entirely appalling. Condor tells him as much: to abandon Edith in this way, when he knows she’s had depressive and suicidal tendencies, is essentially a death sentence.

‘There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak and sentimental kind, which is really no more than the heart's impatience to be rid as quickly as possible of the painful emotion aroused by the sight of another's unhappiness, that pity which is not compassion, but only an instinctive desire to fortify one's own soul agains the sufferings of another; and the other, the only one at counts, the unsentimental but creative kind, which knows what it is about and is determined to hold out, in patience and forbearance, to the very limit of its strength and even beyond.’

What Hofmiller feels for Edith never moves beyond the first kind of pity. He feels something tender at the notion of her suffering, but he is horrified by the actuality of it. The second kind of pity is ultimately characterised by love. But to love would require Hofmiller to conform to something he can’t control and doesn’t understand. How strange, then, that he ends the novel by submitting himself entirely, as if to prove he could: he accepts a transfer to the front lines of the First World War.