#tw self-loathing

[idontknowanametouse]

TW: intrusive violent thoughts, explicit violence, self-loathing, thoughts of self-harm

Xiao has intrusive thoughts. They're always about it harming others, specially people it cares about. It might have thoughts about snapping Ganyu's neck, stabbing Zhongli in the back and more like that. It's very common for them to come before karmic pain, but it's not exclusive for this moments.

Whenever Xiao has this thoughts, they hurt and make it feel guilty and have even more self-loathing. Many times, it considered hurting itself as a kind of "punishment" for having these thoughts.

When Zhongli adopted Qiqi and it started interacting more with her, the thoughts began to come, with thing like tearing her body apart. That made its self-loathing get worsened and it told Ganyu about the thoughts, for it thought that this was a sign that it was a monster.

Then, Ganyu told it that she, too, has intrusive thoughts, specially about harming herself and how distressful they are to her. She tells Xiao that it's okay and that this doesn't make it a bad person. She tells Xiao that if it wants to, they can tell to Zhongli or someone else. It says that it wants to keep it between just the two of them for a while. She understads.

[oswaldxmarks]

Bad Decisions || Shadow on the Moon

Characters: Oswald Marks, Menodora Butterfly-Johansen @menodoramoon Date: 2 October, 2024 Summary: Moon asks Oswald over to discuss and end the affair. Content Warning: Depression, Self-loathing, Maladaptive Coping, (Vague) Suicidal Ideation, Adultery/Infidelity, insect mention (a pretty constant thing with Oswald tbh), swynsmut Read here on Ellipsus or under the cut **this one is somehow longer than the last, at a whopping 20k words**

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

He hadn't really expected the 'we need to talk.' text from Moon. It had been a bit, and he honestly thought she would just never bring it up again. Sweep it under the rug and smile like everything was fine like she seemed to do with everything else in her life.

Oswald had enjoyed their last visit to Moon's. Ozzy enjoyed it too. Maybe more--in a different way, of course. Oswald remembers getting back into his apartment, and as soon as the door was shut, the shadows were down his arms and he could hear the sounds of insects echoing in his head. He stayed conscious a little longer this time, saw a few more of Ozzy's actions. Almost like he was practicing. Seeing what abilities he could call on. Seeing how far he could push Oswald's body with his powers. Until Oz found himself no longer present in the moment and would wake up hours later when all his energy and Ozzy's had been spent.

Oswald would tentatively try to suggest storing the power they gathered from the sins since they didn't have a constant influx of them anymore. Ozzy would wave him off and tell him he had no idea what he was talking about. That it wasn't his place to comment on how Ozzy used the power. He would go on about how it was helping them--both of them. And then he would wake up more and the line would blur again. Ozzy would just become another part of him, the voice that narrated his thoughts, his subconscious mind.

Oz waited a little longer than he had the last time Moon had texted him to come over. He didn't want to seem too eager or anything--not that this was that kind of message. It was early evening when he stopped by, knocking lightly on her door.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

'We need to talk.'

Simple text. Just to talk. Neighbor to neighbor... About a thing that happened... That should never have happened.

Menodora hoped that they could let it go. But... An affair was nothing that she could easily let go.

Actually, it had been eating her up from the inside. Devouring her nerves slowly...

She needed it addressed... Their addresses... Down the hall.

Her mind drifts for a moment..

No, what she needed was to be able to stop thinking. About this, about everything.

Moon needed things to go back to as close to normal as they could. As close to normal as she could patch up. No more sobbing and crying to her neighbor about things that didn't concern him. No more being oblivious to his obvious flirtations. No more giving in to younger men's pretty words.

She was going to fix this somehow. Starting with just a talk to stop this.

So… Hair half-pinned back. Blouse, buttoned. Tucked in. Cardigan. Skirt...

Moon could do this. She waits half the day for Oswald to text her back. Or knock. Or call her.

It ends up being the knock. And with that, she pads lightly to the door and opens it, with a formal smile as a pleasant greeting. She steps aside, allowing him in, before shutting it behind him and immediately going to get them drinks from the kitchen.

This was going to go as smoothly as possible. She's willing that to be the case.

"It's a bit early for cider," Moon says pleasantly, "but I knew you liked autumn so I knew I had to come up with something. I thought of blood orange spritzes."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She opens the door with a pleasant smile. He returns it as he enters, his hands clasped behind his back. So far she’s going with the pretending nothing has happened attitude which, fine. Denial is a popular coping mechanism. The guilt and shame has been eating away at her insides, though. That much he can tell.

“Sounds wonderful,” he replies, slipping off his shoes, watching her go to the kitchen. So far everything felt familiar, them coming over for drinks, Menodora playing hostess.

He doesn’t follow her to the kitchen, though. Give her space, he thinks. So instead, Oz goes to sit on the sofa. Waiting patiently for her.

“Sounds like you’re fully stocked up on drink ingredients,” Oz calls, trying to make conversation. “You make me feel like I’ve gotta step up my game.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She could do this. End things. Or end this line of thinking...

Moon brings them the drinks, fancy glasses and all. Everything about the environment is meant to be cozy. It's meant to inspire comfort in a way that was more friendly or familial. Less of anything else.

"I hope you like it," Moon says. "I just happen to accumulate a lot of ideas, which means accumulating a lot of ingredients. It's executing the ideas that's the tricky part. If you know what you like, then there's no need to go all out."

Moon's glad she does that. Impulsively buys ingredients... If she didn't, she'd have nothing to serve. She hasn't left her apartment and she was struggling to find an autumn drink.

"Anyhow," she says, sitting a respectable distance away. "I suppose we need to talk about what happened the other day."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

He smiles as she brings out the drinks, thanking her as it's handed to him.

"It sounds good and looks even better," they say, taking a sip. It is good, they do have to admit. "Well so far every idea I've tried from you has been executed perfectly."

Oswald watches as she sits. She supposes they need to. Had she finally come to her senses? Maybe a bit. Maybe just enough to know it needed to be addressed.

"I suppose we do," he replies, setting his drink down, shifting to face her. "Which part would you like to discuss?" there's the start of a grin at the corner of his mouth. Obviously he knows, but he wonders how she'll phrase it. He wonders what about that she could possibly need to discuss--the aftermath, probably. The consequences. Or perhaps the thing most present on her mind was how she kissed him when it was all said and done. It was little things like that people tended to focus on more, he's realized.

And for the most part, Oswald has an idea of how this conversation will go. Still, he's curious to hear what she has to say.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Which part?

Wasn't there only one part of this, at least worthy of talking about? She looks slightly confused when asked.

The fact that she participated in an action she should not have participated in was enough, wasn't it?

It was her fault, after all. She was the one who had failed River. It wasn't as if Oswald was obligated in the same way. He could feel whatever it was that he wanted to feel. She couldn't stop him.

Menodora was the one who is meant to hold up her commitment to River. She needed to just... End this so she could talk to him. Profusely apologize. Deal with the consequences, whatever they might be, of her actions.

Saying it, though, was difficult. Starting the conversation behind the fact that one needed to be had ...

"The part where we had a casual affair?" She says, blushing hard. Though, there are no pink diamonds showing. "What do you mean?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She's confused, then blushing. A casual affair.

"Ah," he nods, "Oh, I figured it was about that. I just wasn't sure if it was about it as a whole or a specific part." He leans an arm casually against the back of the couch.\

"But, yes. That. What is it you wanted to talk about with it?" Oz asks. "Just the fact that it happened? Because, yes, it did." And there's nothing they can do to change that. "Or, sorry, I'll stop asking questions and I'll just let you talk. How rude of me." He picks up his drink, taking another sip. All of this is casual to him, it seems. This conversation. The affair. Was it really an affair to him? He supposes he would be implicated as the affair partner.

"Please, say your piece; I promise I won't interrupt."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Why make her say it, then? Moon frowns, slightly. Only slightly. This needed to go well. She really didn't want to feud with her neighbor, and she really wanted this over with. A proper ending that is properly over.

"The fact that it happened?" Moon says, still not sure what it is she should be clarifying. "I mean, yes. Yes, it did. I suppose I just want to address the whole thing?" It's a hazarded guess, because she's trying to put the right words together and is failing.

She had practiced scenarios of questions to herself, including possible things Oswald might ask. It turned out it was for nothing, apparently, seeing as Moon was stuck with the first question she didn't plan for. And a very easy one at that.

"Listen, Oz, I just think... It was my fault. Alright?" She takes a deep breath, trying to say what she rehearsed and getting lost along the way, "You're very charming and it was very kind of you to try to help -- and you did, for a moment -- but I'm married and I can't do that again. I don't know what I'm going to tell my husband, or how. But I just--... we can't. Thank you so much, I know you offered it at anytime, but we just shouldn't."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

He nods. The whole thing made sense. He can see why she’d want to talk about it.

She’s clearly trying her best. It almost seems like it’s hard for her. Because it’s awkward? Or something else.

She calls him Oz again, he notes. Before it was always Oswald. Always so formal. But they’re well past formalities now. She’s definitely not saying it all like someone who wants to end it. She says they can’t. They shouldn’t. She thanks him, though. Calls him charming. Says it did in fact help. She also calls him kind for helping, which is a little funny to him. To be called kind for eating her out on the floor. That was definitely a new one.

But do you have to tell him? Really? he thinks. Why tell him anything. Her husband didn’t have to know. And, really, how strong of a relationship could they have. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt wanted by him.

“I get it,” he says with a small nod. “It’s not something we should do. I’m glad that I helped, and I hope in some way I can continue to help.”

Oz drums his fingers against the couch for a moment. “If I’m completely honest though, I will miss it.” A smile, his fingers moving slightly closer to her side of the couch. “Helping you in that sort of way. Really, it was just nice to see you in a way where you weren’t trying to impress. You were just you. Not a portrait of who you’ve been told you should be.”

There’s a moment where his mind drifts, ever so slightly. To who he should have been. To who he never got to be.

Twenty years is a long time. But being twenty is too young to make decisions you’re never allowed to know if you regret.

His attention is back to Moon after less than a second. These thoughts didn’t stay. They weren’t allowed to take purchase in his mind.

“But, regardless, I do want to help you with your troubles. So as I said before, give me a better way to help, and I’ll do it.” Oz grins a little. “Because truly, Menodora, the last thing I want is to hurt you or make you uncomfortable.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She's happy she's said it, happy he understands. That's settled. It's over. she relaxed, goes to take a sip of her drink, only--

Only it's not over.

Oswald mentions that he'll miss it and Moon has to keep a straight face and nod. She takes a sip of her spritz, trying not to let her gaze drift. Only she has to wonder exactly what he means by-- "I'm always me, I don't know who else I would be."

Moon does her best to withhold a frown. It brings up more thoughts for her. More overwhelming feelings for her to be set adrift by... She was always this same person who was rubbish at balancing all these different parts of herself. She went by different titles even, when fulfilling these roles. She needs to be better at bringing them into one. Into herself. Into just. Being. Her....

She's shaken from that repetitive pondering by Oswald's follow up, and she shakes her head. "I really did mean it, Oz. I don't have a better way. I don't know how to ask you to help, or if I should. It's complicated now. It always will be."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

"You are always you," he says. "But sometimes it feels like there different masks you wear, and it's nice seeing you unmasked, so to speak." He shrugs a shoulder. "But, no, you're right. You are always you, and I'm glad to have seen different facets of you. And I'd love to get to know each one better." Countess, mother, wife, neighbor, mess.

Oswald nods slightly. She doesn't know. He doesn't either-- not that he's thought very hard about other options. "I mean, you're not really asking if I'm offering, right?" he says, shifting a little closer to her as he sets his drink down again. "But, yeah. It's definitely complicated..." But you've already done it once--the damage is already done--why not just sink deeper? "But, I mean, what's not complicated in life, right? Everything is complicated if you think too hard about it."

Oswald looks at the table, at his drink. Playing it slightly dejected, but not in an obvious way. Because that's all this is to him, right? A game. "So... if there's really no other way you can think of that I can help you, then what does that mean? We... go back to being strangers who pass each other in the hall sometimes? I don't love the thought of that. Of not being able to come here and try your mixed drinks or baked goods, or to just talk to you about whatever." He glances back to Moon, reaching like he's going to put a hand on her, but thinks better of it, resting it on the couch between them.

"And if that does end up being the case, let me just say. Moving here has been an experience, and you've made it a much better one than it would've been otherwise. You're a very special, beautiful person, Menodora, inside and out. And I hope others--" it's said in a slightly pointed way, specifying one person in particular, but one he wouldn't name just in case bringing him up killed the mood even more-- "appreciate that in you. I hope they see all these different facets too, and appreciate every single one of them. Because I meant it-- you deserve to be wanted."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Masks, hats, faces, facets. Whatever it is, it's all these other parts of her that don't ever feel like her. She has to wonder if Oswald does have a point. Is there a version of her hidden under all of that that she doesn't even recognize?

Menodora figures that the person she is when she's with River should be the closest to an unmasked her. However, since being in Swynlake, she wonders if it's the version of her that speaks with Tófi. The one that openly admits her wants and fears and shares history that may have become warped over time. What version of her does Oswald see, besides an absolute disaster of a person.

Things Oswald must think: That there's no way someone like her would have ever been a decent Countess. That there's no way she could ever be a decent mother...

They already know where she stands as a wife.

Moon has to imagine this is what a break up would feel like. No, wrong. that's not good. Moon has to imagine this is what a break up might feel like if the situation was entirely different. This was nothing. This was a one-time mistake between them.

"I don't know," Moon answers honestly. She doesn't think she wants to go back to being strangers, but what is the alternative? Do they stay friends? Friends who, at one point, had an affair? In a way, Moon wonders if being strangers would be better... could she avoid the problem if she avoids him? But when she looks back at him, she realizes that she will miss him, too. Maybe not in the way he says he'll miss it, but she would miss having a friend to talk to. One that already knows the messier side to her life. Cassandra knew... somewhat. It was different. Moon cared so much if Cass thought she had it together. Cass had gushed over Moon's fairytale life... why ruin that?

He reaches for her and her pulse jumps. His hand falls between them and Moon tries to relax a little bit more.

She needs to not be so on edge. Everything was fine.

Oswald explains and Moon tries to keep a neutral ear. She just needs to nod and smile and not feel her heart race when she thinks about the way Oswald says that. The way that it brings River to mind... with both her guilt about what she'd done to him and her frustration about what he'd said to her. And then there's that nearly four year history coming to the surface, with everything that happened with Stella.

Her life had been deteriorating and she'd felt so sorry for everything, so desperate to win River's approval back. She figures he's the level-headed of the two of them, the really level-headed one. Menodora could be overly pragmatic, but that wasn't being truly level-headed. River balanced things well when he needed to. Moon wasn't good at that, obviously.

Still, Moon felt angry sometimes at how small she'd been feeling. How deeply she wanted River to appreciate her back. She had done what she thought was best and River felt it was wrong. And, as selfish as it was, sometimes Moon wishes River would stop trying to defend Stella and just hear what Moon was saying. Did he? Or did he just not care for the magnitude of what was at stake.

He married her, knowing what role she had to fill. Knowing what role she already did. Stella would be much the same, the two of them had talked into the early hours about exact that and---

She's too lost. She looks up, realizing she hasn't said anything. Gods, how long has she sat here, just thinking... What was the last thing Oswald said?

"I'm.... I'm fine," she says, after another moment. Her echoic memory is filling in what it was she was missing. "Thank you, Oz. I'm glad you think so. I think I am," -- (Appreciated, that is) -- ",it's just difficult being long distance. Sometimes those feelings... they can be difficult to translate. I'm sure I was being dramatic before. I'm sure River and I have had some good times recently, it's just hard to remember when all your time is spent away from each other."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

If he did one thing, he at least made her think. Perhaps not about him or what happened between them, but about something. About everything? She’s lost in thought for a moment, maybe two.

She doesn’t know what they’ll do. What they’ll become. His expression is a touch solemn. And there is a bit of him that would be sad to lose having Moon be a constant in their life. Maybe not in a deep sense.

There’s more time she thinks. She claims she’s fine. That she thinks she’s appreciated. They nod.

“I can imagine the long distance makes things complicated. Especially when the one time you get to see him, things don’t go quite as well as you’d hoped.” Oz says with a nod. “Yeah, sure. You must’ve. I mean, I feel like those sorts of moments would stand out more being separated from each other for so long. I can’t imagine having a partner that I only see once every six months or so and that when I do get to see them it’s, well… forgettable. Or painful. That… it sounds damaging.” He shrugs. “But hey, I’ve never had a long distance partner so I guess I don’t really know what that’s like.”

They let out a small sigh, looking out into her apartment for a moment. Thinking. Observing. “It just sounds lonely, and it’s easy to give in to temptations and desires when you’re lonely. Sometimes a soft touch is all you need, and it can hurt worse when the person you want it from most refuses you.” He’s not referring to himself. He’s referring to her and her husband and her uneventful visit. “So I hope you’re right. I hope you have had some good times and that things are fine. Because I really don’t want to see you suffering, Menodora.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Moon's quiet. Oswald comments on the distance of her relationship and Moon just listens. His words strike at insecurities. Moon fidgets.

"Relationships go through phases, Oswald. Sometimes, some rough patches are longer than others. I expect it will get better when I move back. I'm sure the stress of keeping up with the estate by himself is no easy feat."

Moon's trying. She really is. Honestly, she thought this would be easier. She thought she could just bring it up and say it was done and they'd shake hands and forget it.

It's terribly naive of her.

"A long distance partner with a daughter and also a title. Those things make a world of difference."

Oswald looks over the apartment. Moon... Does the same, if not to just evade Oswald's eye. His attention.

She bristles slightly, at the idea of giving in to temptation. Sure, it's something that she did. She didn't like phrasing it that way.

Moon inhales. Looks at her hands.

"Sorry," she murmurs. Though, what for... She doesn't know. And then, because she can't help it, Moon says: "He really is the nicest person. River is. And I know I didn't give you that impression before, only letting you glimpse an argument. He's sweet, he cares. Things have just been tense since I had a falling out with our daughter. It's made everything a bit more tense lately."

Moon laughs a little. Shakes her head. She wasn't going to tell Oswald any of this, but he seemed insistent on helping. And them being strangers again seemed like the least desired scenario...

"It's not our daughter's fault, don't misunderstand me. I understand her frustration too. I just haven't been able to figure out what I'm supposed to do. Star deserves the whole fucking world and River deserves the sky and I can't help think that I just can't be what either of them need. Not just what they want. What they need. I think I'm the problem, I think I always have been. I don't need you to tell me I'm not, I just... I don't know."

Moon picks at the hem of her sweater a bit. "It was easier to allow a lapse in judgment because you made it very easy to not feel judged. I'm grateful for that. I suppose that is what I was needing. A friend."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

All he can really do is just nod along to that. Anything he might say would be moot since she’s already aware what kind of relationships he tends to have.

But it really does sound like she’s trying to convince herself of that.

That’s she’s fine. That these things would be fine.

Though, a thought does come to mind, “I thought the Commission was helping with that as well?”

“Yeah, I guess those things do,” he nods again. Her daughter is here, isn’t she? They’d fought. So whatever conflict she had with her, her husband must be more on the daughter’s side for it to have caused that much of a rift—a years long rough patch.

She apologizes and he doesn’t know what for. Then she describes her husband.

“How long is ‘lately’?” Oz asks, curious. She said it’d be years before. He’s just putting that reminder back in her head.

She talks about her daughter. Their conflict—vaguely. It’s rarely the child’s fault, he wants to say. But he worries if he does he’ll sound a little too much like her husband.

Oz inches his hand a little closer to her, still not touching. “Well, I think you know me too well, because I was going to tell you you’re not the problem,” he chuckles lightly. “It just sounds like you’re stressed and they done see where you’re coming from. You’re doing everything you can.” Was that true? Hell if he knows.

“I would never judge you; one because I feel like you don’t deserve to be judged as harshly as you judge yourself, and two it’d be a little hypocritical of me. Because I’m sure I’ve got a whole laundry list of things you could judge me for.” More than he’d ever admit to. “And I’m more than happy to be your friend, Menodora. I just like being around you, in whatever capacity you’d like.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She frowns slightly. "They are. Somewhat. River and The Commission are having... Difficulty."

Because River finally spoke up about their tendencies and Moon couldn't help with any of it. Sure, she received the Commission's complaints for River's grievances, but it wasn't Moon's place to dismiss him.

Mapping out the family complications would be a small effort. Moon thought she could avoid some of it with a hand wave, but it seems perhaps not.

Lingering thoughts cling to her conscious, even as she's just trying to have a conversation with Oswald.

"Oh. Lately is..." Years. Oh. "On and off for a while," Moon settles on. Though she's becoming a bit uncomfortable with the reminder. How long has it been since she wasn't so apologetic in River's presence. She should be sorry, but at the same time, she questions it...

"You're biased," Moon says. "Maybe you're just too fond of me to see the harm I'm causing." It's said like a joke. It's more than that. They both know it. He's just nice to her. She wonders if she even deserves it. A little bit of kindness was fine, but was this an enabling amount?

She's so...

God, there's a sudden pain in her chest. She thinks about her last week with River and how they two of them barely spoke a kind word to each other. Moon should be kinder. The situation was impossible.

What was River going to say when Moon admits to this? The reality of the 'realness' is crashing against her. She'd put herself through the hypotheticals of talking to Oz. Now she had to do that with River?

She's spent the last two days alone, finally got what she wanted, which was closure on this, and now she doesn't know what to do. Or what she wants next...

That's it.

"Hmm, that's sweet of you," Moon says, pulling lightly at a loose sweater thread. "I guess I made a big deal about this when I didn't have to. There I go, being dramatic. I really appreciate you, Oz. I just wasn't sure what to do about what happened. I'm... not usually like this."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

“It sounds like they also took that out on you,” he says. “With the, you know, giving you more to do here. And causing difficulties when you were there.” She had been vague about what went wrong so he’s filling in the gaps himself. Probably not well.

He nods sympathetically. “On and off,” he repeats. “And when you left again, where were you with that?” He knows where she was. If things were good, nothing would’ve happened.

He shrugs, “maybe I am.” Oz grins. Then, in a slightly gentler tone, “and I am fond of you. But that probably isn’t why; I mean, then they wouldn’t be feeling that way, right—your husband and daughter should definitely be more fond of you than I am.” Plant more seeds of doubt, make her see that perhaps her family doesn’t care as much as they should. Is that manipulative? Yeah, but he’s going to act clueless about that fact and is just trying to be a good friend.

Oswald knows he shouldn’t continue to push this or to continue pursuing Moon in this way. He should just let it go entirely.

But the more doubts she has, the more she feels disconnected from her family, and the knowledge that he’s still there, the more likely it is that something could happen again.

“Hmm, well, you’re easy to be sweet to,” he chuckles lightly, tilting my his head to the side a bit. Sweet of him, sure. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, yeah. That’s like, well—not saying anything about us—but that’s one of the benefits of like, casual ‘relations’, as you put it,” he grins a bit, “none of it has to be a big deal. Because it’s just casual.” He shrugs. “It’s okay, though. It’s hard to know with things like that sometimes. It’s hard to know how people will react to things.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Did they? Moon doesn't think so. Totally. It was... Only fair, wasn't it? She'd taken off her responsibilities for a year. River had endured Hekapoo and Rhombulus enough, it was Moon's turn...

"It's my responsibility in the first place, not his. He was kind enough to bear it for a year, I shouldn't ask for more."

It was how she felt about it. Especially after River told her he barely tolerated The Commission.

Just did it for her sake. For Mjaunie's...

She exhales quickly. Almost a laugh. Wry. Or somewhat dry. She found it funny, almost. "Well, I'm sure you could figure the state of our relationship," she says. She shakes that off. "No, it was my fault. I just... I handled things badly. He had every right to be frustrated."

(That's what she should say, right?)

Something jumps. This sensation in her chest. It's a crushing realization. Yes. River and Stella should both be fonder of her than Oswald. But... They knew her better. He was just some friendly stranger from down the hall. Her family knew too much about what made her a damaged person. And the damage she could do to them. They weren't as fond of her because she had already hurt them, she expects. Love only tethers so much. And love isn't an obligation. It isn't some magical 'heals all wounds' because love isn't enough.

Oswald... Didn't carry that same fragility. Their proximity didn't mean the same thing. If he wanted, he could walk out right now, entirely untouched by the harm she could do.

Moon... Digs her pinky nail into her palm for just a moment.

"I really don't know how you do that, Oswald," Moon says. "Have relationships like that. Or, just relations. Is it that easy? I mean, I seem to feel everything so strongly." She pauses. "Casual just feels wrong. How do you not get attached to the people you have relations with? How are you not already attached by the time you--"

Her thoughts spiral slightly.

"Sorry, I'm really not trying to be judgmental. I just don't think I understand. I've been married for thirty-three years, not once did I think-- or consider-- what we did. But it happened. And I don't even know why it did, why I let it. I like you, Oswald, but not in that way. I didn't-- I don't--... How do you do it and not care desperately for your partner? I don't understand it. Maybe my feelings are just too big but I've been thinking about it since it happened and I can't let it go. Why I did it and how it happened and I haven't been able to decipher what I feel about you because the answer should be friends and I think it is friends and that just feels... Incorrect. At least for what happened."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Well, at least she laughs at it a little. Though, sometimes you have to so it doesn't hurt so bad, right? He chuckles a little, because he definitely could figure that out.

She says its her fault, that he was right to be frustrated. "What makes it still worth it, though? If every time you see each other lately you're just frustrated with each other. That sounds hard; it sounds lonely." Oz wonders. And perhaps it is a bit genuine. Perhaps he is genuinely curious why you would stay with someone who is constantly frustrated with you, who hasn't been intimate with you in years because of it all? For prestige? To save face? At a certain point wouldn't you realize it wasn't getting better? Wouldn't you start to spiral at some point?

Perhaps Moon has reached 'some point.'

There's a rush of guilt through her, briefly.

They tilt their head for a moment as she questions them. How do you not get attached to the people? How was he not attached?

She spirals on in her thoughts, questioning how and why--on both their parts to be fair to her--and it's not something he's ever considered too deeply. Why doesn't he get attached? Had he ever gotten attached? Did he--

Thirty-three years with one person--that's only eleven on us.

A heaviness drops into his stomach for a moment. Had he ever wanted to connect on a deeper level? He didn't know. Someone made sure of that.

"I think... it's just what works best for me," they say, voice unintentionally a little quieter. "And I never said I don't have any attachment. Clearly I have some attachment for you, right? I still want to be around you. If there was no attachment, I'd just leave as soon as the 'benefits' were off the table, right?"

He's thinking too much, he's trying to figure himself out too much and that's not going to work. Not here, not now. Not ever.

Oz shuts his eyes for a moment, thinking, then looking at Moon. A grin slips across his face. "No, you're not being judgmental," Oswald says with a wave of his hand. "And, it isn't to say I don't feel those things strongly, they're just... different things. Not always, like, love, but... excitement, or lust, or comfort, or... I don't know. Sometimes it's just a nice way to feel close to someone." He shrugs a shoulder, then raises an eyebrow slightly. "But to be honest, I've been thinking about it since it happened, too," probably for different reasons. But he's going to roll with it for now. "Sometimes feelings are hard to decipher. That's why sometimes it's nice to shut off those kinds of feelings and just... go for what feels good? And it's not for everyone, I get that. And maybe you were right when you said I'd meet someone wonderful some day, but..." They shrug again.

"It's also a good way to figure out what you like and don't like in a relationship. To experience things in different ways--different perspectives, so to speak," he has to hope that the thought of that is enough to stir more curiosity in her. Because if she'd been with her husband for thirty-three years... had she ever had another partner before?

"Because I like you, too, Menodora," Oz makes a choice. Maybe one he shouldn't for her sake, but he does. He puts a hand on her shoulder, catching her eyes. "And that's the other thing--not having to figure out the labels for it all. Maybe we're friends, maybe we're something else that we don't know the name of," he says in a low voice. "And we get to figure out what that is together."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

It was lonely, wasn't it? Moon's smile is a pained grimace. "He's a good man. He doesn't deserve the things I put him through. What he knows about and... Doesn't." She doesn't look at Oswald when she says it. "And we've had so many good years. It's like, when I'm in Mjaunie, I feel a little crazy. Like I turn back into someone I don't want to be. It's funny. I almost never want to be me anymore. I'd rather pretend to be someone else."

...

Moon does regard him with a respectful curiosity. She does like hearing his thoughts, even if she doesn't understand them.

She supposes he has a point. He likes her well enough, it seems. "I don't know. It could be a plot for my mixology and baking." It's meant to be lighter, but she thinks it comes off awkward when the words leave her tongue. She looks down. "But no, I understand. That would make sense. In fairness, I had rejected you before and you hadn't left. That should have been an indicator."

So his attachment to her was friendly. Alright. She supposes they're neighbors, though. It made sense not to want any animosity there.

He thinks for a moment, absent from the room. Then looks at her. She's glad Oswald doesn't find her judgmental. It would be hypocritical of her to question his sexual tendencies when hers seemed to be so loose. Weak willed.

She hates herself.

"And you felt that for me?" Moon asks, somewhat perplexed. She doesn't know why that's surprising to her. Maybe because things had been so tense. Because she had felt unwanted.

Because she didn't want to address it but there it was.

Was River happy that she and her neuroses were miles away. Did he miss her? Or the idea of her when she was gone?

Oswald wanted her. Or pretended to, at least. Would that be better?

She could handle him pretending. She can handle the memory. She just couldn't handle the rational thought of what she'd done.

Stop. That.

Her wandering mind when it came to them. There was no them.

But Oswald had been thinking about their affair since it happened. He doesn't explain how or why.

She's quiet. She wonders what her life would be like if she was courted be anyone else. By that charming, upper-class pseudo-prince that her Aunt Etheria --not a real aunt but an auntie of sorts--preferred. Or anyone else that she seemed to feel affection for...

What would it have been like to not love River Johansen...

Lonely. Sad. Depressing, probably.

Subconsciously, she has to wonder if she'd be any worse off now. In her post-affair descent.

He rests a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes catch his. Her nerves leap, jump at his touch.

We shouldn't figure it out. We shouldn't do anything together but just talk, she thinks. But there's something about him that makes her heart melt. And she hates it. And herself.

But not Oswald. He meant well. It wasn't his fault that she was feeling either indecently or some other rising emotions.

The loneliness she often felt was all consuming. Oswald made it more bearable.

His low voice sends a shiver down her spine. She remembers that voice, that intonation.

"What else could we be?" Moon asks, curious. "Besides neighbors?" But her voice is wavering slightly, and it's obvious that nervousness is back. "Oswald, I-- I can't give in again. It's not right."

But there's a feeling of dread for a moment. What if he left? Then... she'd be alone again, holding all those secrets in her. Compartmentalizing feelings that were too big for her boxes.

She feels a slight burning under her finger tips. An itch. A desire?

She's not meant to feel that. Supposed to feel that... She tries to squash it down. Not look at Oswald. But his eyes are so captivating.

"It's funny. You're the only person I feel comfortable talking about all those problems with. My marriage, etc. You know I'm not perfect and it's freeing. Maybe you're right. Maybe everything is a mask. Which version of me is it that you like best, Oswald? I can't decide who I should be for you."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She wants to pretend to be someone else. That admission was more than he’d gotten the first time he offered that to her. An escape. A chance to be someone else.

And she says they had good years together, her and her husband. But it’s past tense.

He chuckles lightly at her joke. “It could be, but I don’t know if I’m that good of an actor,” he grins. “But those things are definitely a plus.”

And she says she understands. And he does hope she does. That somewhere in him Oswald felt a fondness for her however slightly that Ozzy didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t complain about it.

“I mean, as I’ve said a few times, I think you’re an extremely attractive woman, Menodora,” he says with a smirk. “I don’t know why it seems so surprising that I’d want you.” Perhaps it’s the tone of the conversation that has him being a little more brazen with his word choice.

When his hand is on her shoulder they feel it. That jumping under her skin, however quick a zip it was. Desire.

What else could we be? but she answers herself by saying they can’t. It’s not right. Not that she doesn’t want it, but that it’s not right.

“I suppose it’s not,” he responds in that same tone.

Oz gives her a soft smile, “I’m glad you feel comfortable around me.”

And she’s presented him with a choice. Of who she should be for him. And there were all the right things he should say. And the wrong thing he wanted to say.

“I like all the versions of you I’ve met,” they say. Then, his hand tightens slightly on her shoulder and he leans a little closer, his voice low and breathy, “but if I’m completely honest, I really liked the you that was moaning my name.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Oh. Oh. Her cheeks immediately borderline glow. It's mostly the bright flush, but there's just a prick, for a second, of that magenta light.

"Oz," she half-warns, but it's only so confident. So committal.

She hates herself. She hates the way his words allow her to melt slightly into herself. She hates the way she's weak to them and actually feels a tingle under where his hand tightens on her shoulder.

It's with an aching realization that she understands now. She wants to. She wants to let herself go, melt between his hands. Fall apart under his touch... She can't even tell fully if it's about Oswald. She imagines it must. She wouldn't fall apart so easily under a stranger's touch...

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

Her mind is a runaway train. This conversation, which was going so well, has completely turned on her. All it took was a few affections from Oswald.

She's so weak, it's pathetic.

Moon opens her eyes, eyebrows knit. Pondering his words. Scolding herself for feeling anyway. Enabling even the thought of her and him and---

There's a slow, shaky exhale as Moon comes back into herself.

"Oswald, I don't know what to do. Everything about this... It's wrong, isn't it? That's why it has to end?" She looks at him. Reaches over, rests a hand on his face. It's so light. It's so delicate, almost afraid that real contact might harm either of them. Her own voice is soft when she searches his expression. Then, an admission she doesn't know why she says. The moment it leaves her lips, she is mortified. But the words linger in the air. "I'm perplexed by my feelings. How can I want something when I know it's wrong? It feels irrational and illogical. Futile. Oz, we can't."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

There’s a quick flash from her cheeks. And his name, warning but not. But there’s that feeling. Of wanting. Of longing. Lust and all the guilt that comes along with it.

She puts a hand on their face. It’s wrong, she says. They move their hand to her face, resting it low so his fingers fall against her cheek and under her jaw.

An admission comes next. She wants this. But it’s wrong. “is it really so wrong if you want it? Is it any more wrong that you going another year feeling alone and uncertain? Is it as wrong as holding out for someone who may have lost that desire long ago?” He moves closer, their foreheads almost touching, just so she could feel his breath on her skin.

“Menodora,” he breathes. “It feels just as futile to fight it.”

We can’t.

“I’d say we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but we both know we want to,” he grins. Besides, the damage has already been done. Why not just live in sin now that you’re marked with that scarlet letter.

“Don’t worry about anyone else. Just do what you want.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

But... "Wanting something isn't enough," Moon says, a quiet whisper. "Wanting something doesn't make it right."

But there's the comfort of his fingers touching so lightly against her face. There's the way he moves closer, she fan feel him so close to her. The way they're close enough that his forehead lightly brushes against wisps of her hair.

Another year.

That's right. She's here another year. She's here another year and it'll be somewhat lonely and very alone. She thinks about the past two days that she's been in her apartment, alone. Feeling sorry for herself but also working through her feelings towards the trip.

River asking what the fuck was wrong with her that she could say such things to Stella. That Moon wasn't saying the right things but how was Moon to know what Stella wanted.

Oswald didn't accuse of her being cold. Oswald...

She feels a compulsion. She feels a fear. What if he's right? What if things are careening towards over? What if Moon does get back and River's made up his mind that things were ended and he was only hoping to tell her in person.

There's part of her that hopes that's not true. There's part of her that knows he said he'd always be there for her. But it's so hard to rely on her memory.

"That's the issue. I'm meant to think about everyone else. Oswald, it's not as easy to just think this is about what I want." She draws away only slightly. Just to be able to look at him properly. "I'm a figure head, too. I can't slip up like this, not again. I allow myself to reflect badly on Mjaunie. And on River. That's unfair."

What does she want? She wants to not be alone. She remembers after that fight in the halls.... How River had stayed in a guest room after that last fight with Stella. It started a trend... a pattern she couldn't end.

"There are so many reasons I should be saying no, but I can't bring myself to say that either. Do you think things sound over? Do you really see me as that lonely?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

It doesn’t make it right. What would make it right? Not that he cared about the wrongs and rights when it came to her marriage and the lines that they were crossing here. But in her eyes. What would make it right.

His touch does seem to soothe her though. She feels a responsibility to think about everyone else. Not herself, though. It doesn’t sound like it. “Then let me think about you,” he says softly, catching her eyes as she moves slightly back. “It doesn’t have to leave this place. These apartments. Nobody else has to know. It won’t reflect on you at all if no one sees.” He brings his other hand up to her face, lightly touching the loose bits of hair that frame her face.

She asks him a question that he genuinely doesn’t know the answer to.

The thing he does latch onto is the fact that she can’t bring herself to say no.

“I don’t know,” he’s honest. “It doesn’t sound great. It sounds like it’s just for show.” Oz tilts his head to the side slightly, examining her more closely. “I don’t see you as lonely, but hearing what you’ve been going through, hearing how you feel… you sound lonely. But maybe you’re not, maybe I’ve been wrong. I don’t want you to be lonely, I wasn’t trying to say that you were. But if you are…” their eyes scan her face, dropping to her lips for a moment as their hand runs lightly down her neck to her shoulder. “If you are, I’m here.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

'Then let me think about you,' he says. Moon looks like she's going to say something, but doesn't. That's... how River had always felt.

She remembers, a long time ago, him being angry at the Commission on her behalf. It's a memory she's long buried, but slowly, it bobs to the surface. Flashes of him, 24, angry that they had asked Moon if she was planning on having a child after all.

They'd been trying... Moon had nearly burst into tears at the Council Table. Even though she insisted it was her own fault, River wouldn't have it and comforted her. Told her to focus on her, to not allow the Commission to make her feel so small.

Then why does she feel small whenever she thinks about that argument with River? Maybe because she's 'changed' as he'd said. She bites the inside of her lip for a moment.

The more Oswald speaks, the weaker Moon's resolve becomes. She doesn't know why she's even entertaining this idea. From him. From her. Oswald's other hand brushes against her face. Instinctively, she turns her face just slightly. Leaning into the touch.

It felt right. It felt wrong. It felt right.

She hates herself.

"I don't--..." But Oswald runs a hand down her shoulder, and Moon inhales. Deep breath. She feels the lightness of it and it sparks something in her. She feels... something. Shame? Shameless? Both at once. Warring over which would win.

It doesn't matter. The catalyst would be the same.

She tilts her head back slightly, causing Oswald's fingertips to drag lightly as she moved.

Moon was lonely, wasn't she? A fact she didn't want to address. Even if she filled her time with people she cared about and who cared for her, there was only so much of herself she trusted them to know. Oswald didn't know her either, but at least she could pretend.

She could pretend things were different. She could hold onto that thin attachment he had for her. That could be enough. That would be enough.

Moon hums for a moment, thoughtfully. Debating. Teetering on the edge of acceptable thought. She's lonely. He's here. She hadn't realized how quickly her heart was racing. From what? Her thoughts? Or the pleasant sensation of Oswald's touch on her...

Why was it so easy for her to shed the truth of propriety? Of honor and faithfulness and... Maybe River wouldn't care. Maybe River would be happy. It gives him a reason to put Moon at fault should anything happen. Maybe this would be a favor to him...

Moon could shed a tear at that.

"It won't leave these apartments?" Moon asks... because it really does feel hopeless right now, doesn't it?

Everyone would be angry with her, not tell her how to fix it... she has to change. But if she doesn't know what's wrong, she can't fix it. She has to understand things that no one will explain to her. They call her perfect, then point out her flaws. They want her to be perfect, and she never will be.

It should make her angry. She should be frustrated. At this point, though, it just makes her feel helpless. And sad.

She could sob over this. She doesn't, but she could. If she thought about it long enough, she knows the tears would flow.

What happened to her? In the past year, she's cried more than she has since... maybe since Stella was born.

Other mothers, the few she saw, called Moon's depression a symptom of post-partum. Really, that's all it was. Moon wasn't depressed, she couldn't be. What did she have to be depressed about? Then? And now?

"I--"

She can't look at him as she waffles on a decision.

Moon doesn't know what she wants now. It's not River versus Oswald to her. It's the idea of holding out for something that maybe was futile.... maybe her marriage was over. Maybe she'd do River a favor and end it faster... maybe... maybe she just shouldn't be her. That's what Oswald was offering her. And escape from herself. She should just take it... she should let herself go...

"Oz..."

A splinter. A crack. She glances away, towards the ground. Contact lost...

"I should... probably draw the bedroom curtains..."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She leans into his touch and it sends a chill through him. That unearned feeling of triumph. Something he didn’t deserve. Something he shouldn’t be a part of.

And yet.

And there are the feelings. From him. From her. This desire for closeness. Sometimes Ozzy wonders if Oswald didn’t get held much as a child and that’s why he’s also so willing to be touched. Or maybe it’s because it’s the only time he still feels human? Who’s to say, really. It probably wasn’t Ozzy’s fault though—he wouldn’t take the blame or let Oswald think he should.

“It won’t leave,” he promises in a breathy tone. “If we see each other outside of here, we can just be friends. Or strangers—whatever you’d prefer. But in here, we can be whatever you want.”

Her head tilts, his finger move down to her neck. He leaves them there, lightly touching her neck, feeling her quickening pulse. His senses are alight, his pulse rising to meet hers.

He’s moved a little closer. She breathes his name, glances away. His hands fall away from her. And for a moment he thinks this might be her putting her foot down. This might be her just saying no. But instead…

There’s a rush through him as he leans forward, pressing his lips to her neck, “you probably should,” he breathes against her, his arms going around her as his own desire grows. As he’s let off his leash.

Oswald would never think of Moon as prey, but in this metaphor—in Ozzy’s metaphor—all humans are prey. And Oswald is his loyal hound, ready to bring their sins back to his feet.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She's... going to hell for this isn't she? This bit of her that continues to make poor choices. Who indulges far too much in the things she shouldn't. She feel weak to it. She feels pitiful and pathetic...

But his lips are on her neck. And if she is going to hell, could she not enjoy the fantasy that someone loves her? Or simply wants her?

Why on earth would Oswald want her? It's a fair question that echoes in her mind. He could have anyone, she's sure. He's young enough, charming enough, attractive enough... He had called her attractive but Moon doesn't feel like it. She's fears tired and weary. From life? From everything.

Still, his lips are pressed to her throat and her pulse races.

She savors that feeling for a moment before resting her hands gently on his chest, stopping him momentarily. Just... before it was all so spontaneous. They were on the ground already. It started as a hug. It devolved.

What she was doing now, she thinks, standing and making her way to the bedroom, was more deliberate. It wasn't getting lost in a moment it was seeing the moment coming. Manifesting it. Allowing it... she's--

She doesn't watch to see if he follows. She doesn't even turn to him as she's pulling the bedroom curtains shut. She could still say no. So far, now was only a kiss to her throat. But... she wanted more. It's selfishness, that's what it is.

Moon is a selfish person. It tracked, though. That's what the general consensus was. She was cold, cruel... not a fit mother. Clearly not a fit wife...

Gods, what is she doing...

She's quiet. She goes to sit on her bed, inviting him to join her. The bed is perfectly made, as always, even for the fitful sleeper that she could be...

Her room's quaint. Impersonal. It's got a closet full of secrets and marchesa dresses, a vanity, and a queen sized bed. Light colors with blues mixed in. It's very cool. With the curtains drawn, it could be the middle of the night.

She flashes him an apologetic smile. Her hands hover over the top button of her cardigan... and she says, with almost an embarrassed tone, "Just promise me it's not because you feel sorry for me. Please. I don't know if I could bear that."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

It’s probably good she stops him. Because he had no qualms doing this on the couch. Her hands go to his chest and there’s a warmth that spreads across them from where her palms rest.

She’s up and she makes her way back. He follows close behind, watching her draw the curtains, watching her go to sit on her bed.

He shuts the door behind him. Sure there’s no need to, but he has a feeling she’d prefer it that way. He’s already undoing the top few buttons of his own shirt, looking at her hands hovering s.

“I promise it’s not because of that,” he says, sitting on the bed. “I’m going to be honest with you, Menodora, if I felt sorry for you, you probably wouldn’t see me again.”

Oz’s hands are on the sides of her face, pulling her close before pausing. She hadn’t wanted him to kiss her before. Not there, not on her lips. But that was so it didn’t feel so real, he assumed. And this time they’re on her bed.

But he still pauses, their noses brushing against each other, their breath on each other’s faces. His hands slide down her neck, her shoulders, to find hers at the buttons on her cardigan. His fingers work around hers, undoing the first one. T

heir lips hover near hers. This is the only moment he’ll really take pause before an action, because she had asked before he not kiss her there. He does let his lips press lightly on her cheek, just above the corner of her mouth.

His fingertips press lightly at the base of her throat, where her collarbone dips. The other stays at her face, going back into her hair.

He feels that buzzing in the back of his head. He feels the heat that spreads through his body. “I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you,” he reaffirms again “I’m doing this because I want to. Because I want you.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

His admission is a slight relief. If this had been out of pity, Moon may have just dissolved. There was very little she could have handled about that scenario. It might have pushed her too far.

Oswald holds her face and she's forced to look back. He brings her closer. Moon can't tell if her heart is racing or if it's stopped.

He grazes his nose against hers. His hands move down her arms... Moon swallows. Tries to steady her breathing. She feels his lips nearly on hers. He kisses lightly above. She smiles, the corner of her mouth meeting where his lips rest.

Moon loves that. She shouldn't. But she does.

He's unbuttoning her cardigan now. Fumbling slightly, but managing. He lightly touches where her skin was, and the wisps of her hair.

Does Moon want to kiss him back? It was just one more thing, wasn't it?

He tells her that it's not because he feels sorry for her. He tells her that he wants her.

Someone wants her... That feels nice.

Moon hums as she feels the way Oswald's hands graze against her. She kisses him lightly back. They can't avoid it forever. Or maybe they could and Moon didn't want to.

Her own hands go towards the buttons of his shirt. It's so silly. It's so silly that she feels so new at this, but at the same time, this was new. This relationship of a kind. Relation, of a kind. S

he undoes a few. Makes her way down, clumsily.

"Oswald, what would you like?" She breathes against his lips. And then, because she has to ask, because she almost feels like she needs to, "What would you like from me?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Their lips meet. She kisses him lightly. He kisses her back. And it's light for a moment. But not for long. Oz kisses her a few more times before quickly flicks his tongue against her lips. Just a quick little tease.

Moon's undoing more buttons on his shirt. Her hands are clumsy with it, and occasionally he feels her hands bump against his skin underneath. His heartbeat is rapidly increasing. He kisses her harder, sliding her cardigan off and dropping it to the side. Oswald shifts, making sure they're both fully on the bed as he leans into her. Not pushing her back, but just getting closer. He's sitting fully on the bed with her up there as well and drawn in close. Almost like how they'd sat on the floor, but this time it was more okay because it was a bed.

What would he like? They honestly hadn't expected that question. "Whatever you're comfortable with giving me," he punctuates his sentence with another kiss. "If you want to kiss me, kiss me. If you want to touch me, touch me. Nothing's off limits." Oz's lips trail to her neck, one hand going up the back of her shirt. "Or you don't have to do any of that, and just let me make you feel good." They shift again, pulling her closer so she's practically sat against their thigh. Not entirely in his lap. Not yet. Though the more his desire grows, the more he just wants to pull her into their lap.

Oz undoes the last few buttons of his shirt and then shrugs it off, dropping it to the side with her cardigan. His lips leave her neck just long enough to pull the blouse head, undoing any buttons that might've slowed that down as quick as he can. Their arms wrap around her, skin pressed to skin as Oz's mouth catches hers once again. There was still that thin barrier of her bra between them, but that could stay for now. He didn't want to move too fast.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Her nerves jump. Oswald's tongue teases against her lips. Something in her chest constricts for a moment.

An unbutton. A heated kiss. Another button undone. And then he's pulling her cardigan off. He leans into her. She rises to meet him.

And his voice is raspy and wispy. Like something almost ghost-like.

What would she give him? What could she? She's not very adventurous, admittedly. Moon realizes quickly that she might be a disappointment...

He kisses her neck. Then offers to make it about her.

They're so close to each other. They were last time, too, but there was distance as well. Emotionally. And the physical logistics of the act.

She moves to work on his shirt again, but he has it. Faster and more deft than she had been. This time, he does remove her shirt. The buttons had been undone last time, but it still had hung frame. This was...

Warm.

His skin is warm. She feels his skin against hers and the contact feels like a hug. She likes it. She melts into it, leaning forward and kissing Oswald's jaw some. Up near his ear, then only slightly lower. Only what she can reach.

He was a more fervent lover, the word 'lover' used loosely. Meanwhile, Moon usually moved more slowly. Her fingers run slight circles against Oswald's back. It's just the lightest of touches.

She's timid with this. She always has been. River noted it early, in a kind way. More an observation than a judgment.

"I fear I'll be underwhelming, Oz," she says, breath against his ear, "I'm not the adventurous sort."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She leans in closer, her body warm against his. His hands trail down her back and he pulls her closer as her lips go to his jaw. Then slightly lower. His head tilts instinctively to the side, allowing her more access if she wants it. He lets out a small sigh, every inch of his skin alighting with pinpricks of warmth.

"You won't be underwhelming," they shiver as she breathes against their ear, face tipping and pressing into her neck. He kisses down to her shoulder, slightly harder against the pressure point there. Oz's hands fall to her hips as he pulls her forward, into his lap. Their lips return to hers, kissing her harder. "You weren't underwhelming last time." He slowly rolls his hips up against hers, letting out a small sigh at the feeling. "Doesn't have to be adventurous," they kiss her again, hand going to the side of her neck. "Just do what feels right; do what you want to." And if that's nothing 'exciting', he's fine with that.

Their thumb strokes against the side of her neck as their other hand goes to her breast, massaging . His lips are on hers, heated and slick as he parts his lips against hers, his tongue teasing deeper this time. He can taste hints of the blood orange spritz.

His hands fall back to her hips, holding her closer.

"You can also tell me things you want me to do, like where to touch you, where to kiss you, what to do to you," he says, rocking his hips again. "Or I could tell you. Like... Menodora," his breath is raspy and breathy again, "Put your hair down." He arches his back a bit, his chest pressing closer to hers. There's that warmth of their skin together again, making Oz's mind go fuzzy with want. They were plenty close to each other right now, but gods he wants to be even closer.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Skin presses to skin. Their chests. Her lips on his neck. His hands on her back. He says she won't be underwhelming. She disagrees but does not protest.

His fave in her neck. His lips against her shoulder. Her hands tracing lines on his back.

Oswald's hands on her hip, pulling her closer. His hips rolling into hers.

It feels wrong how her body reacts. A twitch in her system. A sign from her lips. For a moment she almost has clarify. And then he kisses her, and rests his hand on her neck.

Moon can't help but let out a breathy-half gasp as he works his hand breast. Even with the barrier of her bra, it still feels good. A slight fog begins settling mind.

He flicks his tongue again. She parts her lips, allowing his tongue to tease into her mouth. Oswald's kisses are so different...

His hips press against hers. She can't help as she reciprocates, rolling her hips slight against his. A slightly breathy sigh as they move. He is telling her that she can request what Oswald does to her.

And then he uses her full name, rasping, giving her a small request. Was it a request? If felt like a command.

Moon reaches for the pins in her hair, dislodging each one by one until she's gathered the all and drops them off the side of the bed. She doesn't hear metallic pings, so she can only assume they've got the same way as their clothes.

Her honey hair cascades down her shoulders. She feels the way it tickles her skin. She feels the way her checks flush slightly, and she realizes she's almost desperate for Oswald's approval. That she's done as he's asked correctly. Did she really crave approval that much?

She tilts her head back, presses her chest closer as he does the same. Rocks her hips against him this time. She can feel body reacting with some slight twitches of anticipation. The way her body feels... Wetter. She is a mess.

The guilt creeps slightly into her mind. No. She can't handle that. If she thought to hard about any of this--

Her hands go to the sides of his face and she kisses him. Deeply. She needs to forget. Kisses him deeply, teases her tongue now. Presses her hips into him once more.

Her body is eager. She needed this doubt banished from her mind...

Her breaths are heavy. Her mind begins to cloud. "Oz," she murmurs. "Kiss me. Make me forget."

It's such a simple request. But like his earlier, maybe it wasn't. Maybe this was her command...

"Help me escape," she murmurs, a slightly moan outlining her voice. Then, breathy, rasping herself, "I don't want to remember anything but you."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Her hands are on his back, the lines she draws down his skin sparking his nerves in a way he didn’t fully expect. It’s the closeness, it’s the touch, the warmth. It’s all so good. His mind is buzzing.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Ozzy is savoring this all. Both of their desires to be touched so delectable. The familiar lust from Oswald like a familiar home cooked meal—comforting, right. Menodora’s lust—her desire, her adultery— washes over him like a rich red wine.

And they were just getting started.

Moon sighs as Oz’s hands palm against her, encouraging him to continue, bringing his other hand to her chest, squeezing and pressing as he kisses her more. Harder. Tongue sliding deeper into her mouth as her lips part. Teeth tugging lightly at her lower lip whenever he goes to pull back. Which isn’t often.

Her hips grind down against him and his breath catches. A sigh that mimics hers.

As Moon listens, he pulls back from her lips, watching as her hair falls down her back. He smiles at her.

“Good,” he breathes, a hand going to tangle in the hair at the back of her neck. It was a simple command, but watching her follow it, the way her cheeks flushed after, it made his mind fog.

Her hips rock against him again. The sensation sends quick waves of pleasure through him. His mind begins to haze as he grows harder and falls deeper into this moment.

Moon grabs his face and now she’s the one kissing him harder and deeper. Almost desperate. His hands go around her back, fumbling for a moment to unclasp her bra.

She has her own requests for him. Make me forget. His hands slide down her arms as he guides her bra off. It quickly joins the other discarded garments on the ground.

Her tone is becoming breathier. Needier. There’s almost a moan. Their cheeks heat ever so slightly at the sound as more of that haze overtakes them.

“Of course,” he hums against her lips. Then he’s at her jaw. Her neck. A hand is back on her breast, massaging harder. Skin on skin. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger as his other hand slowly trails down her stomach.

Oswald brings his head back, looking her over, examining every inch of skin. Taking all of her in.

“Let’s make you forget the whole goddamn world,” he breathes, mouth quick to recapture hers in a rough kiss.

“Lay back, Menodora,” he says, voice low and steady. It’s not really a request. He pulls back from her a bit to look at her again, his hands falling to the sides of her thighs, gently stroking them skirt, thumbs massaging slow deep circles against her. “Then tell me where you want my lips first. And don’t worry, they’ll be going everywhere. Because I’ve been dying to taste you again.”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

'Good', is what he says. Her heart flutters slightly... Good. Nothing changes, but something charges. Something in her chest feels different after that. She doesn't have much time to think about it, but she can recognize -- barely -- the way she eases.

They kiss. They kiss several times in different ways. With tongues. With teeth. Moon doesn't know what she wants more, the closeness of him or the distance to be able to see him. She really is desperate, isn't she? To do this... To be not her.

He unclasps her bra, she shifts to help him remove it. Sex with Oswald, she realizes, is so different from sex with --... Others. Because Oswald is more forceful? More passionate? Is that it? He is a different sort of person. He isn't soft or delicate. He doesn't predict what it is that Moon wants.

In some ways, Moon thinks that makes sense. She and River have been married for years, known each other longer.

Does she like being commanded? She doesn't know. But does it feel like something she might deserve...?

...

She hums as Oswald kisses her neck. Kneads at her skin, her breasts. Trails his hand does her body and then pulls back. Looks her over. Moon doesn't remember the last time she felt so studied.

Usually people are looking for weaknesses, Moon knew that. When people sized her up, they were looking for some bit of her to exploit. In a sexual way, was that what Oswald was doing? Or was it some kind of admiration? Moon doesn't know and doesn't get the chance to ask. He kisses her hard, encouraging her to forget. He tells her to lay back. Moon does, feeling exposed. Not all the way, yet. But she does feel open and vulnerable.

Is there a fear here? Maybe only the fear of getting caught. It's as if anyone would walk into her apartment, though. She'd locked the door behind them. And Oswald had closed the bedroom door...

Every loose hair tickles her back. Her shoulders. Her bangs fall into her eyes a little bit.

His fingers send shivers down her spine. It's anticipation. It's longing. It's desire. He's teasing thighs. Then more. She let's out a breathy sound, her voice catching in her throat. She wants-- what does she want? Where does she want his lips? His hands? Where does she crave his touch most?

"Come here," she murmurs, looking slightly drunk. She holds out her hands, eager to hold his face again. Eager to bring him closer to kiss her. She feels her thoughts slowly slipping, wanting to become more lucid. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want that at all. "Oz..."

She's never had to ask before. River never made her. River always gave her almost exactly what she wanted without her having to say a word... River loved her...

Past tense...

It's her fault her marriage is burning... It's her fault her daughter hates her... It's her fault that she's destroying her life...

She can't think about that now. She can't think about it while she's making a choice to go back on everything. While she breaks his heart before he even knows it... She can't think about River, but all she can think about is River...

Moon refocuses. Looks at Oswald, looks at his face. His eyes. Desperately wanting, desperately needing this escape before it consumed her entirely.

"Oz, Make me beg for you... Please..."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Every breath and every sensation fuels him more. It drives him deeper into this haze of lust and desire. He continued to tell Moon that he wanted her, but really this was what he craved. Closeness. Touch. Feeling something real and deep that actually felt good. So much was kept from him that he didn't even realize. So many minor human connections that he so desperately needed. Encouragement, closeness, care. This was the only way he got to feel it anymore. This was the only time he truly felt separated from Ozzy. When he sinned.

But while most other sins could be isolating or the contact from them could turn violent, this was the one that made him feel human still.

And perhaps Menodora, with her level of experience, with her different desires and views on 'casual relationships' made this more interesting. It made the closeness feel more real. Because its not just a warm body to get you through the night, it's someone you're close to. Someone you'll see again.

Every noise she makes draws Oswald closer.

She lays back at his demand and something runs up his spine. Ozzy is pleased with her feelings. With his.

Her voice is light, floaty, and Oswald listens, leaning , shifting his weight as he lays beside her, practically on her still, letting her hands grab him where she wanted. A grin passes over his face as she murmurs his name again. He rests his palm on her breast furthest from him, tracing patterns around the hardening center.

His lips brush hers lightly as he searches her faces, waiting for whatever she has to say. There's something distant in her eyes. Guilt. Shame. Desire.

Her words surprise him. He hadn't expected that. Not from her. But he was more than happy to oblige.

Oz sits up again, kneeling thighs. "I'd love to hear you beg for me, Menodora," he smirks, undoing his belt and his pants. Just to have a little more room to breathe. And perhaps to get her mind moving.

"You want this so bad, don't you?" he hums, all too delighted as he takes her wrists lightly in his hands. Oz leans down again, their hands all trapped between them as he feather light kisses her lips. He moves next to her ear, breathing lightly against her, "Tell me how much you need it." His teeth tug lightly at her earlobe.

They take her hands and pin them up near her head, looking down at her with a hungry smile, eyes shining with want. "How bad do you want me, Menodora?" he murmurs, slowly rolling his hips against her, his length teasing between her legs. There are still several barriers of clothes between them. But he feels everything more with the thicker fabric of his pants parted out of the way. He takes a slow, steady breath as he brings his face close to hers, lips hovering just above hers, practically a kiss. "Show me that you need me."

He lets go of her wrists, sitting up on his knees . "Take off your skirt," he says in that same low tone. Oz's hands go to her breasts again, playing with and palming and teasing them while he waits for her to comply. "I'm gonna leave you breathless, Menodora. You'll be begging for me to touch you. To fuck you." he grins, his heart beating faster as that warmth continues to spread over him. His mind in a haze. He leans close to her again, kissing her lips, tasting her tongue. Oz pulls back ever so slightly, only to kiss her neck. Then he's at her ear again.

"You have such pretty lips, Menodora," he breathes against her. "Have you ever fucked anyone with them?" He's not really asking her to do that now, he just wants to see her blush, he wants to see her react. He wants to hear her beg him for something--anything. His touch. His lips. His cock. Oswald wants her to fall apart beside him and he's loving every moment of it. "Menodora," they breathe against her ear, hand sliding down her torso, "I want to hear you beg."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She had asked for this. This is what she got. She had Oz kneeling . Oz speaking to her in a way she'd never been spoken to before. She has him unbuckling his belt. Her own voice is so caught in her throat.

Oswald takes her wrists and she makes no move to free herself. Only lets out breathy shudders as Oz kisses her lightly. Like the ghosts of touch to her skin. Barely there. His warmth. His breath. His teeth against her ear. She car feel the slight pull of her white-gold earring, those crescent dangles she almost never takes out.

"Please, Oz," she mumbles, only now realizing how drunk with desire her voice sounds. Needy and wanting.

He pins her wrists. Her hips rise to meet his, though with limited success.

Oswald looks at her like he could devour her. He could take her in and leave nothing behind. Maybe remnants of thoughts, the slivers to tangents...

"Badly," she whimpers. Pleading. "Badly, Oz, please?"

Sure, she often thinks of herself as pathetic. This type of pathetic, however, felt different. This was the type that she almost wanted to be. It kept her mind off of everything else. It focused her mind on him.

He teases her, even through layers of fabric. She lets out a slightly strained moan. Her hands tighten to fists, still pinned beside her head.

He leans forward, lips near hers. She may have leaned up to kiss him, but felt he might reprimand her for that. She doesn't. Just follows his orders.

He lets go of her wrists, sits up to watch her. She fumbles for the clasp and zipper of her skirt, trying to remove it quickly, yet carefully, as Oswald's hands go to play with her breasts.

It leaves her in ... Her underwear. And he's still got his pants mostly.

She feels barer than before as Oz continues to massage her, and she holds back another breathy moan at his words. There's something she so desperately wants in what he says. Maybe it's that he'll leave her breathless. Perhaps it's the promise that she'll be reduced to begging for him. Not just to touch her, but to fuck her.

Menodora didn't think of sex in those terms. Menodora thought of sex as ... Sex. Or making love. Or being intimate.

Rarely did she consider sex, at least her own, to seen so primal or carnal. It was different... It was exciting.

He kisses her. Lips. Throat. Neck. And then he's speaking again, and Menodora almost squeaks. It's this surprised inhale. Her face flushes red. It's worse than before. No diamonds, just a bright blush.

Is that a question she's meant to answer?

She shakes her head, lips only slightly parted. Menodora's been stunned into silence, at least for a moment, until Oswald says her name again. His hand down her front, his breath on her ear.

Menodora was near to crying. She was overwhelmed. She wanted this, needed this. Needed him.

"Please," she starts. It's a whisper, raspy because it feels like all the air has been taken from her lungs. Then, again, "please, Oswald. Please kiss me. Please touch me. Please run your hands through my hair. Please run your fingertips over my skin." She pauses to take in some air, having to bite back the urge to press up against his body. She compromises. Presses her hips up against his again. Needy. Pleading. "Please, Oz? I need you. Please, please, please..."

On repeat. Like a sort of prayer at this point. A soft repetition. Her eyes searching for his approval, or at least his mercy.

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She pleads with him over and over. Please, Oz.

She wants it badly. She wants him.

She moans and his mind rattles with the sound of it. Of her wants. Of her pleasure.

She once again does as told, fumbling with shaking hands to remove her skirt. He hums approvingly.

He likes the way she moves under their touch. The way her body twitches with the longing she feels.

And the way she reacts to his words makes him grin, looking face. She blushed deeply. Oz pressed his lips to hers as she shakes her head. Silenced by his words. In a good way or a bad way? Not in a way where she brought them to a stop.

Oswald gets off of her, laying on his side beside her. He pushes some loose strands of hair off of her face, then removes his trousers.

Her raspy pleas make him want her more. And he had already wanted her quite a bit.

She wants to be touched. Held. Caressed. Oz sits back between her legs, hands running lightly up from her knees. H

er pleas are music in his mind. Over and over, a broken record. He grins, putting his lips on hers as his most prevalent sin swells.

Pride.

This notion that he was greater than he was, this belief that he deserved any better than any of the other Mundus fucks with tragic upbringings. It was the thing that drew Ozzy in, made him plan this as a long term solution to both their problems. Oswald was as prideful as he was desperate, and that made for a devastating combination.

His father had been consumed by greed, and Oswald thought him a fool. Ozzy knows that that man’s child is no better. And he couldn’t be happier with the results.

Oswald’s lips trail from Moon’s, down her jaw, down to her chest. He kisses over the curve of her right breast as his hand moves between her legs, teasing so lightly over that last bit of fabric. His other hand goes to the side of her head, his fingers raking back into her hair.

His mouth works breast, tongue swirling around and over the sensitive bump. Lips and teeth suck and pull.

He kisses to the other side, giving her the same attention there as his fingertips continue lightly stroking between her legs. They can feel how warm and how wet she is, even with the fabric. A shiver runs through them as they kiss down her stomach, their hand leaving her hair.

Oz’s fingertips all find their way to the waistband. His mouth continues down, kissing against her, breathing her in.

Slowly, her underwear is pulled down. Slowly, he runs his tongue . He brings her underwear lower on her legs. Low enough that she could kick them off if she wanted to.

His tongue laps against her a little longer, light kisses placed up and down her before he makes his way back up her torso, back to her neck, her lips.

He pulls back to look down at her, to search her eyes, to see her blush.

Oz slowly rocks two fingers inside her, keeping his eyes on hers.

“Look how wet you are,” they breathe against her lips, a pleased hum accompanying their words, hand working a little quicker inside her. More fervent teasing. Preparing her further.

“Menodora,” he murmurs, kissing her again, “when I fuck you, how do you want it to be? Do you want it slow; do you want to lose your mind gently and slowly? Or I could fuck you so hard you forget how to breathe…” he kisses her harder, teeth pulling on her lower lip. “How do you want me to make you forget. How badly to you want it?”

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Everything in the world outside felt wretched. Every moment she replayed in her mind from Mjaunie felt wrong. Raw. Leaving her senses burning with shame and fear and hurt.

Every person who had ever cared for her had either turned on her, hated her, or deserved better from her.

Her feelings weren't her own. Her magic wasn't her own. Her thoughts were barely her own, trapped in her head. Spinning in on themselves and twisting and tangling and drawing her deeper into a depression. An abyss.

...

He touches her. Kisses her. Lips and tongue and teeth. Fingers and palms. Pressing. Pulling. Her throat, her breasts, her stomach....

Oswald approves of her enough that he wouldn't leave. Was that all Moon needed now? Someone who wouldn't leave her? Is she that desperate? Is she that sad?

This had started with her needing to tell him that their affair was off. And now she was coming undone beneath him as he pulls down her underwear, laps at her. As she writhes, every touch feeling electric.

She wants to scream.She might have cried if Oswald hadn't caught her lips. She tastes him. Her. It feels different. It feels wrong...

Menodora was the one who had asked for this. She had asked him to make her beg. Maybe she didn't know how good he would be at it? Maybe she was in head.

She parts her lips to perhaps say something, but he presses his fingers into her and her breath turns into a moan as she moves. Shifts to kick her underwear off while she presses her hips up against Oswald's fingers.

Moon had never known herself to be so wanting, so sexually desperate.

Look how wet you are... He says, and she leans up and kisses him. Muffling another drawn out moan against him mouth.

Something she's always been conscious of is how loud she is. Something she's losing now... Her control.

Oswald's hand moves faster and Menodora can feel just what he'd meant. How easily his fingers slip in and out of her, slip deeper into her. She can feel that wetness, hear the sound of his fingers moving in her and just how her body contributes.

She shouldn't be allowed to feel this good. Not after everything she's done. Not after how selfish she's been. Is being. All the people she's caused trouble for... She thinks about how she's hurting River. How Stella hates her. How she's nothing more than a shadow of her family's reputation to Tófi. How Cass deserved so much more from her as a friend. How there were all these people that she grew to love who would hate her if they knew who she really was. How weak, how cowardly, how pathetic and pitiful.

How much of a wreck she was. How quickly she was spiraling out of control...

She burns everything she touches. Maybe not immediately, but eventually it would. And one day, everyone would realize...

She was the one who invited Tófi to the peace banquet. If she really wanted to be cruel to herself, she could blame her mother's death on herself.

And Menodora was learning just how her cruelty best suited her...

Oswald asks her a question and Menodora looks up at him through hazy eyes. Listens as he speaks.

If this were River, he would kiss her softly. Make love to her gently. Slowly. Allow her to wash away the world and just be in his arms...

Oswald wasn't River. Moon didn't deserve anything vaguely resembling that softness. And Oswald had offered her something else.

She can barely form a thought, let alone a string of syllables by the time he's left the air open for her to answer.

Moon's quiet as Oswald continues to toy with her, save for some whimpers and breathy sighs.

But her eyes are bright blue and she, breath and voice shaking, eventually says, "I want to forget to breathe."

Then, regaining some semblance of the position they're in... Of the position she's put them in, "Oz, please? Please fuck me so I forget how to breathe? How to think? I can't take it. Please?" It's something soft, wanting. Breathy and begging.

She tilts her head back, swallows hard as her sensations run away. As he fucks her with his fingers and she tries to string together thoughts. As his teeth pull on her lips. As her mind slips but doesn't slip away.

She's on the verge of desperately sobbing.

"I need it. I need you, Oz. Please? Please...?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Her body reacts to his touch with movements and noises. His reacts in turn to those. Thoughts and judgment clouded by everything else going on. The disconnect he felt from Ozzy in this moment, usually a blessing, keeps him blind to the way her mind spirals. Blind to the guilt and shame and loathing, and just how deep in runs.

The feelings he knew--the subtle guilt, seemingly just for the affair--were what he still assumed flooded her, along with desire or want or lust. And after the last time he let his own guilt creep in, who knows if Ozzy would even let him know she was feeling these other things. These deeper, twisted emotions that Ozzy absorbed with delight. While Oswald continued to focus on her physical and outward expressions of her feelings, assuming the excitement and fulfillment Ozzy is getting is the same its been, nothing deeper. Nothing far more troubling.

Moon whimpers under his touch, sighs and moans against his lips. He's enjoying every moment of this.

Their eyes lock, hers having shifted to blue. And it brings him a moment of mental hesitation, recalling the last time he'd seen them that shade. It's probably just any strong emotion. You're overwhelming her senses in the best way. Do what she says.

And he has no reason to argue with that thought.

She begs. I can't take it. He should read into that phrasing, he should put these pieces together better.

And if they were just talking, if they were just sitting on the couch acting like normal neighbors, maybe he would've.

He kisses her harder, deeper. She begs more. "Anything you want," he breathes against her lips. "I'll give you whatever you need."

Oswald removes his hand from her, sliding his own underwear off. He spreads her legs wider, positioning himself between them. He rocks his hips, teasing himself against her. Feeling her warmth against his skin, he lets out a shaky breath, still just rocking, still just teasing. Their heart is beating faster.

Oz shifts how she lays, bending her legs, propping them up against his hips, making it so her hips are off the bed. They guide themself inside her slowly at first, pulling her closer with their hands behind her knees.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he breaths before picking up speed.

Oswald does as he's said, and fucks her hard, his hips grinding and ramming against hers. He lets out a moan himself at the sensation of feeling her around him, and the pleasure that pulled him in deeper and harder, his mind getting fuzzier.

He shifts, sitting up higher on his knees, holding her legs higher. Not over his shoulders, but like he was taking steps to get her legs there. Oz pulls her closer, holding her in this position as he goes deeper and harder, the bed frame shifting with their movements.

They can't help but look at her face as they begin to pant, breathing faster and heavier as their body reacts to all of this. As that desire stirs even deeper, something out of his control urging for more.

He leans forward, placing his hands on the bed on either side of her head, letting her legs just stay over his hips. He looks down at her blue eyes, her flushed cheeks.

"Gods, Menodora," he moans as he pulls almost all the way out before driving deep into her again. He does this a few more times, slowly pulling out then quickly and roughly driving back in. He drops to put his lips messily on hers as he picks up speed again. There's this aching hunger for more. More. He doesn't know what that more is, but he needs it. His arms are shaking and so is his breathing, sweat forming on his brow, his back.

He shifts again, hands tangling in her hair at the sides of her head, lips crashing into hers in a deep, rough kiss. A deep moan is uttered against her lips as he continues, finding himself creeping closer to that tantalizing edge.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Anything she wants ... To run away. Whatever she needs... To stop feeling. She lets out a shallow wine as he removes his hand. Then gasps lightly as he sits between her legs, pressing against her. Teasing her. Just small, subtle movements. Just... Him...

She can block out the rest. The town noise. The Mjaunie noise.

He brings her legs up. He presses inside of her. Slow. Steady. Closer. Closer, still.

Oswald tells her she feels good. She may have responded if not for the quick pace at which this continues. His movements are hard. Fast. Moon bites down hard on her bottom lip, trying to stifle that lewd noises she's sure she would be making if not for her attempts at restraint.

The rhythm is quick, and if Menodora were feeling more musical... She might have tried to count the timing. The beats.

She can't. Oswald's moving so quickly. She feels it's so acutely. Him so acutely. The way that every movement sends shock waves through her mind, the fuzz she's forced to fight through. Sends shivers and chills and mild convulsions through her body as he presses deeper into her. Holding her legs higher, angling her in such a way that everything just feels like more.

It's a distraction, at least.

She looks up at him through a filter. Like everything around her was floating or floaty-- a must, a fog, a haze. She gasps at the wrong moment, and a deep moan is pulled from her throat. She didn't mean-- she hadn't--

But she can't dwell on it long as he he leans forward and looks down at her. Says her name. Watches her face and her eyes and her lips.

There's a moment of reprieve as he slows. She exhales. Inhales sharply again as he drives into her. Gasps as he does it again. Again. What if she did cry? What if this static hum in her mind kept playing... Killed her slowly? Drowned out all of her senses besides the ones engaged with him. The nerves that respond to his touch. The scent of him. The sound of his voice.

His captures her lips again. His pace increases. She wants-- she needs--...

He tangles his hands in her hair and she leans in to meet him. Raises her hips off the bed more, taking him in.

If she only thinks about him, then maybe she really could block out everything else, that nothing else existed. Maybe she could convince herself that that was the truth. That her life existed in this room and everything else was merely decor.

She feels small.

If she only thinks about him, then maybe she could survive this night.

Her hands keep running through his soft hair. Just starting to dampen with sweat. She lets out a soft hum. More small pleas fall from her lips.

There's an almost indiscernable song playing through her head. A manipulation of the rhythm and her own understanding of time. It's a bare orchestration of her feelings, stripping away all instrumentation besides two: the percussion playing outside and some faint theremin within.

Some haunting song that needed attention and reminded her there was no escape. But she could try. If she could fill the gaps between beats with something else ...

She was never musically inclined that way.

Menodora pulls him in. Pulls him close. Kisses him roughly. Pulls at his bottom lip with her teeth. Encourages. Spurs. Fills in the negative space. Sound and form and line and figure blur.

She feels her thoughts detaching.

If she pleas again...

Against his lips...

Once more...

She is so close to nothing and everything at once. There's a galaxy in her head, the lights dancing like CRT static.

If she could just allow herself to fall...

Gods, Oz.

Please?

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

His mind is clouded with her. Her taste, her scent, the feeling of her body against his. The way their skin begins to stick as sweat begins to gather, the way she gasps and whines and moans under him. Everything is so dizzying in the best way.

She pushes closer to him, kissing him hard in return. A surprised but pleased hum falls from his lips as he presses closer, one hand staying in her hair, the other going to her thigh, lifting her leg up his side a little more. To make the position deeper, to bring a little more pleasure to them both.

He murmurs her name against her lips as she lets out soft pleas.

He drives himself harder into her. Deeper. Trying to erase any space there could possible be between their bodies.

Oz can't help the moan that comes out as he finds himself getting closer to that precipice. As that light and floating feeling overtakes him, his limbs beginning to shake.

"Menodora," he breathes, raspy and ragged, his hand falling away from her leg and going in between them, fingertips working quickly against her as he continued fucking her.

His heart is beating so fast.

He feels lightheaded and dizzy.

There are no thoughts in his head. No feelings in him other than this.

The only thing he can hear are her noises and that voice in his head demanding more.

Oswald moves faster, harder, noises falling from him. Gasps, grunts, moans, her name.

That edge creeping closer. Pulling him nearer. More. Everything is shaking. His heart is beating so fast he can no longer feel it.

More.

He can't breathe.

More.

I can't...

Their hip buck, sending them deep inside her as everything builds and everything crashes around him. He holds her close, eyes shut tight as he gasps and shakes, exhaling as he releases. He holds himself to her, the world feeling so distant and empty. The only warmth he can find coming from her.

"Moon..." his voice is barely there. His lips clumsily find hers as he finishes riding out that high, that rush. .

He continues to move his hand against her, remains inside of her until she finds her release as well, lips moving from hers to her neck as he tries to catch his breath. As he tries to regain control of himself.

His body is aching.

Screaming.

He can feel the tickle of sweat dripping slowly down his back being counterbalanced by the feeling of something crawling up it. He can hear buzzing in his head and the sound of something tapping almost imperceptibly against her window. A fly or a bee, most likely. Something so quiet and distant nobody should be able to hear it. But it echoes in his mind like a metronome. A haunting reminder as he returns to his senses.

Oswald buries his face in her neck, giving her light kisses to hopefully help satisfy her, and distract himself.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

He gives her more. She's desperate for him. For the way he touches her. The way he kisses her. The way he makes her feel. Physically. Emotionally. He helps her slip away, mind a menagerie of broken stars...

He pulls her closer. Leveraging her body. Moving it how best serves them. She feels every maneuver of her body in a way she's not in control. And she likes it.

She likes that she doesn't have to think. She likes that Oswald takes the reins. Menodora is so used to trying to control her life. Handing it over... That was freeing.

He continues to rock in her. Moving hard and fast and Moon-- Moon is feeling deliriously high. Like there's all her oxygen rising in her throat and she can't catch her breath.

He says her name. She could cry.

His fingers work quickly against her, sending the feeling of floating static through her blood. She tenses more, that pressure in her ears rising.

Those stars are turning in her head. Distant, approaching fast.

Her name.

Over and over.

A neighbor would file a noise complaint, Moon vaguely thinks.

But then that thought subsides as Moon feels Oswald's pace change. He was nearing the edge. Shaking. Pressing. Further. Nearing...

Falling.

And it's the way his hips slam into her, the way his fingers and body move as he comes that has Menodora following shortly after.

A wild rampage of feelings. A mess of nerves and thoughts and vocalizations as her body tenses around him. Spasms. Twitches...

Blood rushes in her ears. Heart pounds in her throat and chest. She's sweating. She hadn't realized... Her entire body is bare on her blankets as Oswald hovers above her.

He'd used her short name.

She nods in turn as she feels her breath stabilizing, her heart rate settling, her mind calming, and her body going limp. She sinks into the bedding.

He presses his face into her neck. She hums slightly, the unvoiced sound grazing the air. The vibration of it grounding her.

It feels raw. It feels wrong. Maybe she really is a disgrace. Taking after her mother's controversy.

No... Moon's is worse...

She comes out of the haze slowly. Rubbing those slight circles at Oswald's back. The intimacy of it, even if the act itself felt mistranslated. And escape of a different sort.

They could lay here for a bit, rapid rhythmic thumping easing on each other.

She is dazed, confused. Scared. She feels guilty.

She loathes herself.

She spins her ring twice again.

Hums Oswald's name.

Mentally apologizes. Does not forgive herself.

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

There’s another shock that goes through his system as she releases. He stifles a gasp, a different kind of euphoria shaking him as Ozzy swirls happily around his spine. As he feels his power swell under his skin. There’s that ache of him wanting control. Of him wanting Oswald pushed to the back. Oswald wouldn’t allow it. Just like before. Just like whenever he was in a situation like this.

Maybe Ozzy would be stronger if he stored some of the energy. Or maybe seeing how much he could push Oswald away was a way of testing his strength.

He doesn’t focus on Ozzy’s movement. On his internal displays. He focuses on Moon rubbing circles against his back.

Just for a little longer… he wants to feel human for just a little bit longer.

They move off of Moon, lying on their side next to her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” He murmurs. “Water? A towel?” He probably should regardless of what she says.

He continues to feel Ozzy moving, his energy surging, but he doesn’t try to merge back into his mind. Continuing to leave Oswald in the dark about Moon’s state of being. Letting him think nothing has changed.

It was better Oswald didn’t feel that, Ozzy decides. He doesn’t need him getting all worked up and stressed over Moon’s mental state.

So he can keep his control for now, Ozzy thinks. He can keep being human if that’s what he so desires. And he can hate himself for missing all the signs later.

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

She's high and low at the same time. Her summit of feelings. Her plateau of strength. She lays there under Oz until he moves, laying beside her. Kissing her shoulder.

Menodora closes her blue eyes. Breathes in. Out. In... Out...

Oswald asks if she wants anything. Water or a towel? Moon already knows she's going to be doing laundry for the bedding either later or tomorrow. But for now, she's tired.

Moon shakes her head.

She rolls on her side, tucks herself into Oswald's side. She doesn't care if Oswald puts an arm around her or not. This was enough...

Her mind is still blurred with physical feelings and sensations. She is glad of the distraction, even if it's not wholly effective.

She is glad that Oz offered it, even if it makes her feel that she's pushing herself further to the verge of her sanity.

Her fingers wander... drumming lightly on Oswald's chest. A soft rhythm.... Sometimes tracing lightly, but mostly just little taps.

She can cling to him. She can cling to this idea of him. And then she laughs a bit, a somewhat musical but tired sound.

"Oswald, I'm cold," she says, softly. "I think the throw fell off the bed. Your side. Can you reach it?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

Oz's arm drapes around her as she folds into his side. They play absentmindedly with her hair, slightly stroking her back. His mind feels almost more tired than his body. There's just a low buzzing in the back of his mind in the space Ozzy usually occupied. Perhaps he's content enough. Perhaps he'll rest, and let Oswald enjoy this moment after. He never knows what Ozzy does or is thinking when he slinks into the shadows of his consciousness. Oswald stuck on the reflective side of the two way mirror.

Moon's fingertips drum against his chest. A different rhythm than his heart. It's relaxing, though. It steadies him.

"Yeah," he replies quietly, shifting away from her to reach off the bed, grabbing the blanket. He drapes it , some of the blanket covering him as well as he tucks himself against her again. Holding her. For the sake of her warmth.

To take advantage of this closeness.

Before Ozzy takes it from him again.

"I hope that at least met your expectations," he chuckles. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you with my distraction."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Her eyes are fading back to brown. She's doesn't feel more lucid, but she does feel less not her. Moon's enjoying the moment for what it is, even if everything about it feels dissonant and wrong.

She hums approvingly, something softer. Something more her. Pleasant and nice, more than the deviance she's shown. Or was it something else? Something more destructive?

"It was good," she says, because to say it was nice would sound all too demure, perhaps even minimizing. Whatever else she might say could come off dismissive, so she won't say it that way. She folds in closer, hiding her face just under his chin. She might be taller than Oswald, but it's how she's always done it. Rested like this after being intimate. Faintly listening to her partner's heartbeat...

Then, quietly. Barely a whisper... "Thank you."

For.....?

For the faint fantasy that everything could be okay. For the ability to fall into recklessness without judgment. For not leaving her alone.

The act itself felt transgressive, while at the same time, felt like a different sort of right. It felt like a level of control without needing control. It felt almost safe, even if it shouldn't.

Moon feels a pang of guilt. For a moment, she's compelled to apologize. She feels guilty, as if she's used him. Hasn't she? For a distraction? But all the same, he said he wanted her. So was it merely mutually beneficial?

She's spurred him on because she needed her mind to wander. She'd encouraged this because she desperately wanted to evade everything in her life. Because being someone else was how she was going to survive her thoughts and feelings.

To think that seemed overly pragmatic…

She'd begged him for sex, but that wasn't what she was after. To him, she'd needed him to fuck her. To her, she needed him to distract her.

It worked. He occupied this other space in her mind now. She hates that it feels so wrong. Oswald deserved better too...

"You didn't disappoint me," Menodora says, softly, "I enjoyed it. It was certainly different than I'm used to."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

This moment is almost nice. From the outside looking in, it would appear nice. Like lovers cuddling together. Not what this was. All that swirled beneath the surface of both of them hidden from outside view. All their motives and feelings hidden away from each other, from the world.

But regardless of motives or feelings, it is still comforting the way Moon positions herself against him. His chin rests above her head. His eyes shut for a moment, taking in the warmth. The feelings. Her breaths, her heartbeat, the feeling of her skin against his. Experiencing and feeling it all differently than he had before. It's calmer. It's nice.

Moon quietly thanks him. For what he doesn't know. For this experience? For grabbing the blanket? Or for staying here and holding her, continuing to be there for her when technically he'd got what he'd wanted.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Oz replies. "I enjoyed it, too. Hopefully not a bad different." Perhaps next time they could do something more familiar to her. No, there wouldn't be a next time, would there? They'd already come this far.

It isn't guilt that he feels, not really. Because technically he's done nothing wrong. It wasn't his marriage on the line. But he could've ended it. He could've walked away.

He didn't really want to, though.

But had he already been here too long? Would she come to realize that she didn't actually want to have an affair and want him out of her sight?

Or were they both a little too similar in this moment, both just wanting someone to hold on to for a little while longer?

"Do you want me to stay here, Menodora?" he asks quietly. "Or would you like me to leave? Because I can stay as long as you'd like, but I don't want to overstay my welcome."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

It's still early yet for Moon's normal sleep schedule. The sun's barely set while Menodora didn't often fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. The illusion of a good night's rest started when she climbed into bed at ten. The actual rest of it wouldn't occur until much later.

In any case, the high is slowly wearing off and Menodora finds herself drifting. Oswald playing with her hair contributed. Her own body's desire for rest, as well.

She was selfish for seeking this comfort. But if others would accuse her of that as well, why not accept it?

Humming. It's always a hum with her, but that's fine. She hums the makings of a smile.

"No, not a bad different," she says, hoping that it's true. Maybe it was bad what drove her there, runaway thoughts and a need for escape, but the experience itself wasn't bad. She had meant it, it felt good. Even if she would feel sore for it.

Then there's the question that Menodora wishes he wouldn't ask. It's the potential end of this. This moment, this touch.

It was up to her to dictate, but hazily, Moon didn't want to.

Did she want him to stay?

She shakes her head, cozies up to him again. It's self-destructive. It's self soothing....

"It's up to you," she murmurs, voice slightly drunk on encroaching tiredness. A desire to sleep. Or at least rest. "I'll miss you, but I won't begrudge you."

Her eyes are closed. She's just absorbing the feeling in the room. Besides, she's worried if she looks at him, her eyes will betray her desperation.

"Do you want to leave, Oswald?"

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

She hums against him. A gentle noise, light and airy and calm.

Not a bad different.

"Good," he says softly, still stroking her hair. His eyes are still shut, focusing just on the feeling of being close to her. Close to a person. A sensation he doesn't often feel. Often times after situations like this, Ozzy is fighting to get to the front of their mind. Like the last time he had done something along these lines with Moon, and Ozzy took over as Oz began to panic. But for now he's relatively dormant, just the light buzzing sound in his mind.

In a way, it's different for him, too.

Not a bad different.

She cuddles closer and he holds her there. Her breath against his neck and chest. Her hair tickling his chin. He could smell her shampoo or perfume mixed with the slight scent of their sweat.

She says she'll miss him?

That strikes at something he doesn't expect. He presses a light kiss to the top of her head.

Unexpectedly, he's found himself actually caring for her. Not in any deep sudden realization of love or romance, nothing like that. But as a person, as a neighbor, as a friend... He thinks the care he's been feigning has turned genuine. Which is an oddity his mind is too tired to explore, and a thought he's worried Ozzy will stop him from having.

Does he want to leave?

His voice comes out quieter and more genuine than expected.

"No."

🦋—Menodora Butterfly-Johansen—🦋

Everything about this moment would feel better if she didn't know the truth of it. She wants to allow herself to be pulled into this lull, this illusion of safety and comfort. It's just not that way. And everything that comes after won't be the same either.

Once was a mistake. Twice...

He kisses the top of her head. She hides her face in the crook of his neck, enjoying it while she can. Enjoying it before he inevitably tells her he's tired of her and wants to go.

He doesn't.

His voice is softer than it had seemed previously. He tells her he doesn't want to leave.

Moon pulls back just enough to look him over. As if not expecting that answer.

To stay here was to complicate things further. This would reflect badly on her, but what about him? Encouraging an affair with a married woman?

"Okay," Menodora murmurs, returning to tucking into his side. Pulling the blanket up a bit more. The duvet would be warmer, but she doesn't want to have to wash her sheets too. At least, not this moment. Just washing the duvet cover wouldn't be so bad...

Besides... why move?

"Mmmm, if you need to go before I wake, there's a spare key under the electric kettle," she mumbles. The idea of him staying seems to settle her enough to fall into a facsimile of calm. Her voice is weighted with a drowsiness now. She pulls closer, hiding her face against him again. Shifts the blanket over both of them. "Just lock the door if you leave. I can get the key from you later."

🪲—Oswald Marks—🪲

His answer seems to have surprised her. It surprises him a little too, honestly. He should’ve said he’d just stay a little longer and then he needed to go. He shouldn’t have fallen into this gentle lull of perceived comfort.

Because they’re both just hiding from the inevitable truths of this situation. Pretending at normalcy for just a little longer.

With others, there would be no guilt for staying because it was understood it was casual. But with Moon… would she grow to think otherwise? Probably not, she was smart enough to know better. To know that this wouldn’t be anything deeper than what it was. Friends—could they even be called that?—having sex. For what, for comfort? As an act of defiance? An act of escapism?

That’s all it was for Menodora. That’s all it was for him.

Moon doesn’t seem to mind, though. She moves in closer to him, making sure they’re both covered by the blanket. Oz lets out a small breath, letting himself relax more.

“Okay,” he replies quietly. She can get the key from him later. She’ll see him again later. He wonders how that will go.

He probably will leave before she wakes, he doesn’t know how long he’ll stay. There is a tiredness that’s taking over him. Perhaps he could stay and rest. Ozzy was quiet—content—so everything should be alright.

“Rest well, Menodora."

[kaysdenofchaos]

I am an artist

[comatosebunny09]

fever dream | astarion a.

genre(s): fluff, angst

warning(s): language, self-indulgent, sick!reader, astarion’s a little ooc

now playing: the night does not belong to god - sleep token

notes: very self-indulgent because i’m sick and needed some comfort and @nanaoise08squad inspired me to finish this. thank you for reading, lovelies! ❤️❤️❤️

Somehow, the sun shines brighter today. Glaringly so.

You hold a hand to your temple to shield your eyes from its brilliance. Your armor feels heavier, too. Like boulders stacked on your shoulders and chest, making it harder to breathe. You force out a groan that’s gritty like ash. Trudge down the steps leading outside the inn to join your companions, your limbs weighted and achy.   

“I hate to point out the obvious, darling.” Astarion grimaces with his hands curled to his chest in revulsion. He ducks away from the sight of you. Winces as you take a labored step forward, your balance thrown to the hells.

“But you look like utter shit.”

You scoff, phlegm making itself known in your throat.

What a way to be greeted by the love of your life.

“You sure are a flatterer, aren’t you, Astarion?”

You’re sure to drag out the vowels of his name—or perhaps your words are a little slurred due to whatever ailment took hold of you today. Nevertheless, you jab a finger between his ribs, your face twisting into something haughty.

You wonder if it was worth the exertion as your vision and body sway along with the trees, and your head pounds something menacing whilst a wave of vertigo hurtles into you.

“Shit!”

Astarion catches you when you pitch forward, your legs unable to grasp the rhythm of walking. And there are suddenly two of him. Two little ‘starions calling your name, fretting over you, shaking you to keep you amongst the conscious.

You feel like lead. Feel yourself sinking below the surface, unable to return.  

Your lids shutter as if weighed down by sandbags. The muddled shouts of your friends trickle in, each tinged with varying degrees of concern. You register hands all over you, patting and pulling. Register a strained voice yelling stop, and the frantic touching ceases.  

Before you fully succumb to the darkness, there is the sensation of you being lifted up, followed by the earthy scent of bergamot flooding your senses, and it furls around your heart.

Then, there is nothing.

Something savory draws you from the inkiness of your sleep. It curls around your mind, luring you into consciousness.

You caution a sound, your throat rubbed raw from disuse. You slowly open your eyes, and the bleariness gradually morphs into discernible shapes and colors. Somehow, this place feels familiar.

You’re back in your rented room. Nestled in the plushness of a mattress with too many pillows and sheets soft as linen. You will yourself onto your elbows, wincing at the stiffness of your neck. The pain is manageable. Better than it was before, you note, leisurely ingesting your surroundings.

A lone candle flickers on the nightstand, swathing the room in its bronze glow. Moonlight seeps through the curtains lining the window across. The faint symphony of crickets accompanies the murmur of the inn’s other patrons and the groans of the floorboards beyond your doorway.

Bloody hell.

How long have you been out?

On cue, the doorknob rattles, and a slither of light leaks in. The swell of noise outside commands your attention. You stiffen, fingers instinctively twitching for a weapon. But your bones settle as a thatch of white creeps into your vision from the threshold.

“Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty,” Astarion breathes. He toes the door shut, a steaming bowl of deliciousness cupped in his palms. Takes a few steps forward, rounded eyes flashing amber beneath the candlelight.

You recognize that aroma. The hearty scent which roused you from your sleep. Your stomach gnarls with life as Astarion nears the bed, donning that smug little mask.

“Hungry, are we?”

You nod enthusiastically, garnering a chuckle from the room’s other occupant. Suddenly self-conscious of how eager you are whilst he hands you the bowl, his fingers slinking away from yours as if he’s touched simmering coals.

“Courtesy of Gale,” Astarion supplies. “I can’t guarantee how good it tastes considering—well, you know. Undead and all that.”

His smile is tight-lipped. Guarded as he settles himself on a stool beside you, his spine straight and his ankles crossed. He helps you sit up against the headboard despite the unease permeating the air. Quickly retracts his hands to press them against the wood of his seat between his thighs, surveying your room.

You take some time to study him. Note that his eyebags seem more prominent than usual. Darker. Hair’s a little tussled, skin a bit paler. His shirt sits rumpled around his shoulders, the fastenings of it done all wrong. Worst of all, he has not looked at you for longer than a few beats. Like you’re made of glass and will shatter if he stares for too long.   

A pang shoots through you, searing hot like lightning.

He was worried.

Worst of all, he was worried about you.

You’re no longer hungry, your stomach twisting as you gaze down at the stew bleeding warmth into your palms. You set it on the nightstand with a decisive clunk, quietly receding into yourself. Silently relenting to the smog of self-loathing draping itself across your shoulders.   

“You scared me half to death, you know,” says Astarion, parting the tangled sea of your thoughts. As if he senses you berating yourself. It’s a soft drawl. An attempt at scolding you, but there’s weariness nestled in the undercurrents of it. “That’s saying a lot, considering I’ve already one foot in the grave.”

You peer up at him like a meager child. He watches you from his peripheral with crossed arms, his nose turned up, feigning disappointment. You see through the cracks of his façade, and your lips twitch with the threat of a smile.

He can be incredibly adorable when trying to shroud his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, your tone barely above a whisper.

Astarion releases a resigned sigh. And the weight of the world seems to pour from his shoulders as he angles himself towards you, reaching for one of your hands.

His expression softens, and he squeezes, his palm frigid yet reassuring. For the first time since he entered, he truly looks at you. Gaze swims through your features as if to commit every detail, every imperfection, to memory. As if he could lose you at any second.  

“No need to apologize, my love. I was just…concerned, is all. I suppose we all were when you went down.”

The recollection makes your face blossom with heat. Poor little darling, taken out by a nasty cold. Causing hysteria among your friends, deterring your journey.

Astarion thumbs your cheek, smiling something genuine at the pout on your lips.

Your tongue burns with the ache of a question, and you shrink, not wholly prepared for the answer.

“How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two days.”

You blanch, evoking another guttural laugh from Astarion.     

“Shadowheart did her best to heal you. There was only so much her magic could mend. So, we’ve been playing the waiting game while you caught up on your beauty sleep. Not like you need much more of it.”

You snort at Astarion’s cheekiness.

Leave it to your little star to find every opportunity to flatter you.

He examines your joined hands thoughtfully, thumb smoothing over your knuckles.

“It’s been centuries since I’ve dealt with mortal illnesses. Honestly, I couldn’t begin to fathom how to comfort you. Other than gracing you with my presence, of course.”  

It’s refreshing to see his humor is still intact despite his beloved pulling a Snow White.

For a while, you sit like this. Basking in the moment’s serenity, holding hands. Grinning and laughing like two enamored fools when your gazes interlock. You can tell that Astarion’s lightyears away, however. At war with himself, lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, reprimanding himself for not being your proverbial knight in shining armor.

Absently, you scoot over. Relinquish your love’s hand—much to his chagrin—to pat the space beside you. You affix him with a look that’s all too serious as you say, “For starters, you could try holding me.”

Astarion stares at you with rounded eyes. Mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish, forming around words that he can’t quite conjure.   

“Oh. A-Alright,” he finally musters. Dumbfounded, Astarion stands, maneuvering to sit beside you on the bed. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. Never does, unused to being so vulgar, so unabashed with his feelings.

Though, for you, you know he would rearrange the stars in the sky if he could.

So you help him, tugging him closer and falling into the circle of his arms. You nestle against his chest with a pleased hum vibrating your throat. Tangle your legs together, ignoring the surprised sound that leaves him.

He’s a lovely contrast to your still-enflamed skin. Fits like a puzzle piece against you, soft and lithe. He relaxes gradually, tucking you ever closer against him as if you’ll disappear in a plume of smoke if he lets go. He pets through your hair before anchoring his chin to the crown of your head, surrendering a satisfied sigh.

“Well, I supposed this isn’t so bad, now is it?” Astarion husks, stroking soothing circles into the notches of your spine.

You nod offhandedly, your lids lowering, and your body feeling at ease.

Suddenly, your ailment seems more bearable as you sink below the depths of slumber, an unguarded smile cresting over your lips.

The shadows of your conjoined bodies dance along the walls as the candlelight dwindles, and you both surrender to the tranquility of the night.    

masterlist

[insaneinpink]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🎀ɞ˚‧｡⋆

[lifewaster-imdanger98]

Why am I always alone when I'm at my lowest?

[nectorbruise]

I am rosé drawtectives biggest fan, everyone else, you don’t exist, she’s the only one for me

I have a whole backstory for her and part of it is a past crippling addiction to nicotine and town hopping. I feel like she was big with graffiti. God, what if the gang met when they were younger, that’d be so cool. Also nobody insult the arm hair, I’m watching you guys

[3idiotsandarainbow]

Day 19: To save yourself

From a fate worse than death

Killer killing the version of himself that almost reached a point of turning exactly like him before that version actually does >:)

-Anó

[ellydrawsstuff]

"Please just stay here with me"

[merildae]

Some self indulgent (and undoubtedly cringe) skk angst

[inkalight]

Let me care for you part 25

First

Previous / next

[harrystylesfan2686]

Alone

Pairing: no one really.

Summary: Reader starts to feel left out in her own family...

Warnings: Neglection. Suicide thoughts. Self harm (in detail) please go back if any of these bother you. Your mental heath matters more.

A/N: I think I need therapy too...

Masterlist Part 2(Azriel) Part 2(Eris)

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

Ever wondered what it's like to be alone?

It's a game, really. A game of utter self degradation. A game where there are only two players, you and your mind. A game where you never truly win and you always have to keep playing because your brain never tires.

A game which no one else realizes your playing until you lose and it's too late.

It's the game you have been playing ever since the Archerons joined the inner circle. You love them all, honestly. Thier different personalities was the first thing that drew you to them. You admir all three of them but the one thing you hate is how you got left alone after their involvement to your life.

Before them, you all relied on all of you for company and support. Now, everybody has their own person.

Rhysand has Feyre, Cassian has Nesta, Azriel has Elain, and Mor and Amren have found thier partners too but in case they aren't present, Mor and Amren, as crazy as it sounds, rely on each other. Just like that, everybody has a person to go home to, to come back safely for, to turn to for comfort.

You don't have anyone.

You hate going home because your bed is always empty. You hate going on missions because you know no one would be worrying about you every minute you gone. You hate celebrations because you have no one to dance with, to drink with, to end the day with.

You love family dinners. Even though you never get a chance to speak, even though you never talk to anyone, even though no one notices your presence. You love family dinners and meetings because it's the only time youre not alone.

It's doesn't matter if you're lonely, at least you aren't alone.

But in the game you're playing with yourself, after a while, you get too tired to challenge back with same force. You don't push back the mean thoughts your mind throws at you as insults. You listen to them, compare them to your situation and realise, you've been trying to win for nothing.

You slowly stop trying to protect yourself all together.

The first time you didn't go to a family dinner, you thought you would regret it later but you didn't, instead you felt glad that you didn't go because no one had come to get you, no one came to ask why you didn't show, no one cared about you enough to think why you didn't go.

So you stopped going at all.

You stopped doing everything with you 'family' and prefered being left alone.

You only met them when you had a mission together or anything related to work.

Just like that, today you had gone to one of the Illyrian camps at Rhys orders. He got report saying things haven't been going as they should there and wanted you to go check. But on your way back you had been ambushed by a group of six men wanting to kill you in the camp, they couldn't of course but you did come out of the fight with a large sward wound on your left side.

All you wanted to do was go home, rest, tend to your wound and sleep. You can give the report to Rhys tomorrow.

You let out a grunt and step in your house, immediately tense seeing a shadow of a person move the dark room. Your hand placing itself in your dagger straped to your thigh, you other hand on the left side of your waist pressing on your wound.

"Relax, it's just me." A familiar voice fills the silence as the fae lights turn on and Rhysands face becomes visible. You sigh in relief and furrow your eyebrows,"What you doing so late in my house?" You nearly snap, but hold back as respect for your high lord.

"You came late you were suppose to be here two hours ago." For minute it feels like he cares for you, and you allow yourself to believe that he was worried for you but you fantasy shatters the second he opens his mouth again. "You were supposed to deliver your report two hours ago. You know how important this is, I have other things to do too." His voice sharp as he scolds you.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I got attacked while leaving, it took time to fight them of. It was six against one but well I managed to survive, eh?" Rhysand's scowl deepens. "Tell me what happened there now."

Your eyes closs for a second whem you feel dizzy. "Look, how about you give me ten minutes to freshen up, and I also have a wound to–," You try to say but he cuts you off saying,"I don't have more time. Tell me right now what happened so I can get started on fixing things, then you can have all the time to fresh up as you want. My office, now." He doesn't leave much to room to argue and winnows you to his office.

You sigh and start speaking, repeating everything you noticed in the camp as Rhysand listens and writes down the report. Near the end, you feel another wave of dizziness hit you and put your head down to rest it against the backrest of your chair and groan when you feel pain shoot up from your injury from the movement.

Rhysand finally notices the source of your pain and his eyes flare,"You're hurt?" You scoff. "Yes. That's what I was trying to tell you before you winnowed us here."

"I didnt notice it. I'm sorry, you should go tend to it." He quickly dismisses you, finally letting you go back to your house.

As you look at yourself in the mirror, thinking how filthy and hideous you seem, you grit your teeth. Of course no one notices you. Look at you. You are ugly and filled with dirt and scars all over your body.

How could anyone look at you when you can't even look at yourself.

Your gaze falls to your wound, the big cut that spread from under you left breast to the start of your thigh. If was deep enough to bleed you dry.

Would anyone even notice if you did? If you don't heal and let the injury bleed you dead. Would anyone know that you were gone? That your body layed unmoving in the bathroom floor. How long would it take for someone to find you? Who would find you? Probably Rhysand when he needs you for his next mission.

You eye your dagger that you unshielded on your way in the bathroom. How long would it take for you to bleed out? Hours? Days? You didn't want that. That was too much. You don't think you can handle that much pain constantly. Maybe if you took that dagger and deepen your cut, you would bleed out faster. Maybe you would have a faster death. Sure it would hurt but at least you would be gone before someone found you.

You would be free. Free of the loneliness. Free of the feeling like you were a burden in everyone's life. Free of wanting Someone to care for you the way you see everyone else care for their loved ones. You would finally be at peace.

You gasp and blink out the terrible thoughts. Breathing heavy, you search for the cotton and Healing cream in the cupboards. You groan out with you don't find any of them.

You turn back to the mirror. Maybe your brain is right. Maybe this is a sign from Mother herself telling you to not let the wound heal and die right here, right now. Your gaze finds the knife again, eyeing the sharp edge. Would it really be that bad?

Your hand grips the handle of the dagger, bringing it closer to the cut. You let the cold mettle edge scrap the skin, an inch afar the start of the cut. The sharp edge slicing through skin like paper, leaving a line of crimson red blood, seeping out of the newly cut skin.

Your eyes widen as you observe yourself, keeping the knife near the cut but not touching it entirely.

It's... mesmerizing. The way blood slowly comes out of the skin, the small and steady lines created by your dagger are engrossing. And the pain, the pain is hypnotizing, slowing raising to the rest of your body. Your body feels electrified, there's snips of pain tingling through out your entire body, your ears buzzing with excitement. Your hands are shaking and eyes bluring but all you can focus on is how much you want to do this again. Feel your skin open beneath you knife again. Feel the pain that slowing raises with each extra inch of cut.

Oh gods. What have you done?

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

[feral-ballad]

Hieu Minh Nguyen, from Not Here; “Elegy for the First”

[Text ID: “once, I ran, face first, into a mirror / because I didn’t / recognize / my reflection, because I didn’t see a / reflection at all.”]

[fucklife101]

I’m losing interest in everything again.

[cocowantstosleepforever]

born to be wrist cutter, forced to be a shoulder slicer 😔

[lifewaster-imdanger98]

Why do sh scars looks so pretty? Like not just my own, but other people's too?

Unfortunately the vast majority of the human population disagrees here.