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Silk. Satin. Lace. Velvet. Nylon, cotton, polyester, netting. Stockings and gloves and garters, lacy and delicate and held up by flimsy, clinging belts. High heels, platforms, ties wrapping around leg, ribbons around limbs and hair and glittering clips; stiff, sheeny material in skirts, spread out over walls. More lace, in heavy petticoats and ballroom skirts and ridiculously long dresses. Gowns made of gauze and fluttery, offering peeks of things hidden underneath.

Skin.

Pale and creamy, long legs and slender fingers and willowy body, burgundy hair and blue-gray eyes and pink lips. Beautiful face adorned by make-up, lipstick and mascara and eyeshadow, liner and blush and unrecognizable yet still knowing, blue lighting and elaborate costumes and beautiful.

So beautiful.

So beautiful...

Fabrics. Clothing.

It turns you on. So much.

Just the sight of him, in stockings wrapping around those smooth legs, feet in high, high heels, white and silk painted with flowers and diamond-shaped cutouts, deep red dress barely brushing the tops of his thighs, advancing on you with a smirk, that confident, knowing, almost predatory smirk, the one that says, I know what you’re thinking. I know what this does to you. And it pleases me. So I’m going to tease you to within an inch of your life.

And you want it. Oh, you want it.

He leans over you, golden bangles around his wrists, a blazing ribbon tied tightly around his neck, hints of make-up on his face and still the smirk, fingers just barely brushing under your chin, giving you a tantalizing view down his chest through the collar of the dress.

A few teasing remarks, a wink and a single grip on your jaw and then he’s gone, dancing away in those heels like he was born for it; fabrics flutter and tail waves and you want.

When he dresses like that—lets you dress him like that—it’s irresistible. Oh, yes, you do it for the art—for the photographs, but it’s impossible. He’s too beautiful. How it’s possible for a person to be so singularly beautiful you don’t know. It’s not like it matters how. He just is.

Silk. Tight, tight silk. Shiny and smooth over his skin, expression of bliss on his face, bliss as you pin him to the wall and—

“Now Bel, show some restraint! I can see your dirty thoughts from a mile away~”

And he knows he likes it. You’re the one with the costume fetish but oh, he likes it. When you call him beautiful, tell him how gorgeous he looks, whisper in his ear how he’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen—he loves it.

And then you switch to murmuring how he entrances you, holds you spellbound, and badly you want him, want to ravish him; how much you love him, want to see him splayed out beneath you, breathing hard and flushed, moaning at your every touch and still clothed in beautiful fabrics like icing on the cake.

If he’s in a playful mood he’ll laugh; laugh and say it’ll be you beneath him, unable to resist for long enough. If he’s not, he’ll blush, sweetly and innocently and pretend your words don’t turn him on—but either way the result will be the same: the two of you together, you and him and together and hot, joined in a perfect union of sliding flesh and voice in exhales and soft cries, lips and mouths and teeth and tongue and burning like a fever and it’s all so perfect and beautiful—

...His tongue slides over your skin, hot and wet and gliding up your throat, his eyes watching you keenly as he kisses your neck, kisses it before biting, hard, just hard enough in that way that he knows, just hard enough not to draw blood and hard enough to make you moan, his tail flicking against you and hand sliding down over your hot, sweaty skin, down, downdowndown—

So. Beautiful.

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It stills gets to you, sometimes.

Sure, it’s kind of neat, having wings; a lot of times you like to just lie in bed and play with them, run your fingers through silvery, fluffy-ish feathers (but not too deep; if there’s one thing you weren’t expecting was touching the skin underneath them to be a giant turn-on), appreciating the sensations.

And then there’s the fact that you’re learning to fly, which is also pretty neat, even though you’ve never had any particular desire to before you died. But you know a lot of people would be envious of you (the flying part, not the dead part, although being dead like this isn’t so bad; it’s actually pretty great), and you want to learn, figuring there’s no point to having wings if you can’t fly.

And they like your wings, like messing with them and raking fingers through your feathers when you let them out during sex (that’s another thing you haven’t figured out, that’s weird—where the heck do they go when you make them vanish?), which is an enormous turn-on and that turns you into a shuddering vocal puddle of goo, but somehow you keep wondering if it’s a good idea, if it emphasizes and brings up the distance between you, of two years spent as an angel wandering around with no memory whatsoever, if it reminds them—reminds him—of your death.

So it gets to you, sometimes.

Waking up in the middle of the night, sitting up and feeling things attached to your back, shoulders, moving as you do and muscles in tandem and it feels so wrong, like they shouldn’t be there, they should be gone and the only they’re there is because you’re an angel, now (and it’s not like you ever gave much thought to the afterlife even though you were fighting for your life on a regular basis); so you make them disappear. Always. Vanish away into some space inside your back, but that’s only creepier—it doesn’t make sense, but at least you can’t feel them like that.

You can’t keep them hidden away inside forever, but at least they’re out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that how the saying goes? Something like that. You don’t remember.

You have a hard time remembering things, sometimes; your memory’s returned, yes, but you still forget things often. Things like having wings, even though you wear your halo around your neck. It’s become almost—almost—like another piece of jewelry now, another one of those necklaces.

I didn’t want to die… and life’s good—death’s good—right now, but sometimes it just feels like… ‘Hey, Jervin, doofus, you’re dead.’

I never said I was smart, I never said I was good with remembering things or realizing things or feelings or anything—

Soft. Silvery. Attached to your back, spreading out behind you—

So very wrong.

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We’re the only ones here who haven’t lost anything. Isn’t it a little unfair? Chesh is broken; Bel’s obviously had things happen to it before; Jervin’s died. Loki’s jaded and bitter and betrayed; I’m sure Annette has bad things in her past, too.

We’re so lucky. Living charmed lives...

We’re kind of oblivious, aren’t we? To all their pain... is it selfish to want to have experienced it, just so that we can relate? Or is it better that we haven’t, because we can smile and look forward so innocently, so oblivious, pull them into the light because we don’t know these things, don’t know of those things...

I don’t know.

I guess... it’s just the best we can do, to be optimistic and happy and support them, to just... be here for them. Just... to do what we can, no matter how little.

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See him standing there, on cobblestone streets: laughing. In the flower of his youth, his eyes sparkle and everything about him glows with life. He smiles with the pretty girl with the golden eyes; watch as they reach for each other’s hands with the smooth, practiced motion of many years. He gets in a wink before she does; she nudges him and it’s his turn to blush before they smile and laugh again and walk down the street, leaning on each other’s shoulders.

What are they talking about? Plans. Plans for the dazzling future, wrought with myriad possibilities.

What... did I want? What did I want, back then? What were we planning... ah, yes, to conquer the world... back then it’d seemed possible, that together we could do anything, accomplish anything with our talents...

And then he’s standing somewhere else, a white room with linoleum floors and white walls and cold metal. This time he’s not smiling. He’s shaking with horror and he’s pale as death, almost as pale as the walls. He’s just been told that he only has weeks to live.

All the plans come crashing down, smashing on the floor like the most fragile of crystals, shattering as if in slow motion, glittering fragments flying through the air, reflecting rainbow sparkles off of everything like a final burst of hope before it all dies, scattered over tile—and—oh god it wasn’t supposed to be like this, I wasn’t supposed to die from some terminal disease with one chance in a million, I was supposed to live, we had so many plans, so many things to do, everything was just beginning

[Tell-don’ttell-tell-don’ttell-tell-don’ttell-I’mgoingtoDIE—]

Everything fell apart.

And the images go faster, now; his surroundings change, he changes: From the white room to one with harsh lights; with every passing day, every passing moment the vigor drains from his face, the life from his body and the hope, the joie de vivre from his eyes. Look, before and after: No resemblance. One flushed with youth, energy, rosy-cheeked and beaming; the other hollow-eyed, ashen-skinned, for all intents and purposes dead.

Watch as they try to save him, as part of him is torn between wanting them to succeed and wanting them to fail as he falls into a void of nothing, like a long tunnel of darkness through which shafts of light pierce occasionally; memories of days, of joy, of excitement, of living, not so long ago, but seeming like an eternity—even if I recover from this part of me is lost forever—

Like a nightmare, stumbling through vision after vision, of beautiful years and then horrifying sights while elsewhere, connected by a thread, his body undergoes cuts and incisions and chemicals and sparks and energy and magic; doing everything possible and impossible on the prayer that it’ll work.

I don’t want to die...

And work it does, and he opens the eyes he wasn’t expecting to ever open again to see metal and anxious faces that have become the only people he ever sees over those weeks, his only comfort as he waited to slip away. And he watches, still and barely comprehending as they whisper to each other with cautious hope, cautious optimism and whisper to him, and it’s like—

I know these people and I know what’s going on and I’m pretty sure I know what just happened but it’s like it isn’t me, I still have all the memories and all the recollections and all the sensations but it’s like I’m watching them through somebody else’s eyes, like it’s not me there, me who lived all that time—or is it not me who’s lying here right now on an operating table—

And he chokes up, too weak and feeble and numb to do anything but mourn yet again, let the tears slide down his cheeks for the hundredth time, grieving for everything that was lost and now getting a second chance, the opportunity to start over, except—I can’t go back to that, it’s all already over—!

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he claws himself up from the pit he’s fallen in, gathers remnants of hope and slivers of broken dreams and tiny pieces of his broken heart, little fragments of who he used to be as his body recuperates, as they test him and go on with whatever far-fetched treatment works. He can’t decide if this is a dream or a nightmare.

I wanted to live, I wanted to live so badly—I couldn’t die, I couldn’t—

There is one thing... It’s... experimental and we haven’t tried it yet on anybody, so there’s no guarantee it’ll work, but if you want to take the chance—”

I’ll do it. I’ll take it. ...Please... I don’t care what it is, if I have a chance—if it’ll give me a chance—”

And yet—why—how—where—who—? Who am I what am I doing here where is this what happened what’s going on why aren’t I dead whywhywhy?!

Watch as he relearns, as he staggers on weak, stick-thin limbs when once he ran, sprinted down snowy streets with joyous laughter ringing in his ears; as he cries so many times but he’s not even sure why; as his body struggles, as he struggles, wavering back and forth from the brink of death more often than he’d care to count, but still keeping track of it in the back of his mind because what else is there to count, to bother knowing, when he doesn’t know the date, doesn’t know the time, hardly knows himself –counting. The incident with the sugar, when everything else—any other sustenance—was violently rejected. Starving for near a week as they pushed how long he could go without it. Being cut accidentally, too-thin skin and so much blood that wasn’t right, it was—something swimming in it, tiny green— And the bizarre growth of the tail, long and white and silky-smooth after the pain had gone; “Well, could be worse,” they said; at that point he almost didn’t care.

So many times. So slowly. Climbing up, up, up, step by step, crossing the thousand miles gradually, tiny bit by tiny bit. And in the end—standing before a mirror, staring at himself, mentally comparing the differences without even thinking: Paler. Thinner. Weaker. Emptier. A pitiful creature, a pathetic shadow of who I once was, bearing resemblance only in appearance and even then only at a stretch. ...I never had such vacant eyes... what happened to me...? [I all but DIED—] Why... can’t I go back to being that person I used to be...? [Because that person’s DEAD.] ...Ah... I knew... I always knew...

Tears brim in his eyes and he brushes them away yet again. And then, still staring at this shell of a person, he reaches out, lashes out; snatches up a pair of scissors—no, a knife—fumbling with long, slender fingers and the sound of tearing as carmine curls, dark red locks tumble down to the floor, the dusty floor back home—except this isn’t home anymore this can’t be my home anymore nothing from before matters now it doesn’t exist I don’t fit here it’s all wrong—and then the deed’s done and he looks up into that pale face streaked with wet and it’s all he can do not to break down again, even though he’s already cried so many tears for that lost future, that lost person, lost self, hands curling and gripping wood and shaking just like he did that day months ago—how long ago was it? He can’t remember, he’s not sure anymore—when they broke the news to him originally.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this...! That under-the-weather feeling wasn’t supposed to turn into this...! I’m still alive but it’s like I’m dead at the same time—

[Barely lived. A scant twenty years—two short decades when every day was bright, every day I lived to the utmost, enjoying, thrilling with every single breath I took, drinking in everything, every sensation—and all of that is lost forever...]

He picks himself up with shaky legs. Goes through the house one final time, letting his eyes sweep over everything he’s known, the backdrop of the place he’ll never return to. Then he leaves, and locks the door, and stands there looking down at the key in his hand. It’s so tempting, to simply fling it away over the rooftops, hurl it and end it all, the final nail in the coffin. [Nail. Coffin. Dead.]

...I can’t do it.

Slowly he pockets the key. Lets his feet take him on one last walk around the town he’s lived all his life, seeing the memories flash behind his eyes: running down the cobblestone streets as a child, then older and older; remembering all the tiny little things—sitting on the roof of the cathedral after a harrowing climb, the many times walking along the edge of the cobbles and on rails with arms outstretched for balance; singing softly, twirling around the square... the sound of music, the taste of cream, the scent of autumn, the feel of the summer breeze tinged with cinnamon, and the beautiful sights, the familiar sights, the feeling of being home...

Praying and hoping both for someone he knows to spot him [or not spot him] on this final round before he leaves, but no one does. [Not that they’d even recognize me anyway.]

And then he leaves. Departs on one of the off-world ferries and trains, not knowing or even caring where it takes him. Just wanting to get away, get away somewhere else, where I can start over, start my life all over—

He doesn’t cry, now, even though it hurts. He’s trying to keep himself together, and while it isn’t easy, it isn’t quite as difficult as he imagined. People come and go around him; strangers of all kinds, all species. Some greet him politely out of courtesy as they take seats beside him, some say nothing.

I... I think I can do this. I can do this. [Who am I kidding, I can’t do this—!] It’s not that difficult. I’ve done this before. [Living.] I’m still here. I’m still alive, I’m still breathing, I’m still feeling

That thought makes him want to burst out laughing; he barely refrains, holds back until the next stop, gets off and staggers some distance away from the rest of the people down some alleyway—not caring where—before he slumps against a wall and laughs.

I’m still here—!

He laughs so hard even though it physically hurts, even though he can’t breathe, he can’t stop, can’t stop laughing and can’t even pin down the emotion behind it—hysteria? Irony? Bitterness? Madness? Panic? Fear? Certainly not humor—hope? Relief? He has no idea, just laughs until he’s completely out of breath and leans there and gasps, feeling the way his heart pounds in his chest so strongly and a sound far too close to a sob escapes his mouth but he doesn’t cry, not now; because he realizes for the first time seriously that he’s alive.

And after a long and yet short few minutes, he pushes himself away from the wall, composes himself, gathers himself and goes out; finds his way in this new place, this new world, a new name dropping so easily from his lips, building himself a new self from bits and pieces, some of them memories but others fresh and shiny brand-new; experiences, thoughts, feelings... All of them. I still have them.

He learns to live again, to function again, throwing himself into everything with almost reckless abandon before he learns to be careful again; he doesn’t want to die again. Learns to trust again, to love and care—it’s not like he’d completely lost those things yet, that would come later. But for now, he teaches himself how to live a life again.

He does things he wouldn’t have a chance to otherwise, the things he’d wanted to do previously, impossible to resist—learning, practicing, studying, working at things that fascinate him, meeting people, forming relationships... Still holding the memories of the past, but no longer only just that, moving forward despite it all, somehow finding it in him to believe, in himself and his own strength, however small.

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Light-bulbs are totally awesome and everybody should have them in their house. Light-bulbs equal ideas and if you have tons of light-bulbs around then you’ll get tons of ideas. What’s that, you say? People already HAVE light-bulbs all over the place in their houses? Well, they need to get more! Of course. I mean, duh.

…yes. Light-bulbs. People need light-bulbs We ALL need light-bulbs. Light-bulbs are brilliant, don’cha know. And in more ways than one. Do you know all the THINGS you can do with a light-bulb? …well, maybe you don’t wanna go there. But some people have a burn fetish.

What? How’d we go from light-bulbs to fetishes? I have no idea, isn’t it awesome?

Fetishes are awesome too~ Wanna hear some of the latest ones I’ve heard, huh huh?

…no?

Aw, you people are so boring… who doesn’t want to hear about fetishes? I mean, aren’t we all subconsciously focused on sexytimes anyway and Fru—Fre—Freud was right? Huh?

…no?

Argh, you’re all so BORING… I should go talk to the Idea Beast or Jervin or Loki… they’ll at least listen… even Bel is more interested in this stuff than the rest of them… Heh. Bel’s so cute and sweet and yet it’s so dirty at the same time~ Like two sides of the same coin.

…no wait, is that flip side? Flip—fluh—flew—bleh. Can’t say it. What, it’s hard to say these things! …hard. Heh. Annette’s not gonna be happy about this~ But I don’t care~

Because I have light-bulbs! Yay!

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It comes up to you one day, not long after coming back here to this space with the bubbles and purple, and tugs your sleeve gently. You turn to see strikingly green, amazingly beautiful eyes staring up at you earnestly.

“You’re pretty,” it says. “Can I take pictures of you?”

You’re mildly surprised at the request, but you have an admitted weakness for cute things. Cute people. And this one is by far the cutest you’ve ever seen and you can’t refuse.

You smile. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“...Sit over there. Like that. Clasp your hands around your knee—mhm. That’s good. Chin—mhm.”

You can get the basic feel of what it’s aiming for, so you project your gaze off into the distance and keep the faintly amused smile there on your face as it shuffles around and the shutter clicks. It’s somewhat entertaining, watching it crouch down with this expression of complete focus, the tip of its tongue sticking out just slightly... the intent focus, the complete concentration...

“Have you been doing this long?” you ask, out of curiosity.

It nods slightly. “Not that long, but... kinda long. I like taking pictures. ...The... idea.”

The smile grows slightly wider. “Capturing a single moment in time, forever preserved...”

At that it blinks, then nods again, a little firmer, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about its lips.

“...with all the connotations and emotions, yes?”

“Yes!”

You chuckle gently as it nods enthusiastically. Adorable. So adorable, so cute and yet so serious, so innocent and yet not...

“...um. Wanna see...?” A little shyly it offers the camera—how did it get so close without you noticing? That’s... odd... Were you that spaced out? Lost in thought? ...Hm.

“If you don’t mind,” you smile, and get a shy one in return as it sits beside you, and the moment the first picture on the tiny preview window meets your eyes you inhale sharply, startled. Not that your own shape, own form is unknown, you’ve seen it countless times, but—this. This... almost doesn’t look like you, it looks... like somebody else, something else... The dark shadows, the strange angle and the glimmering eyes and light playing off the (mostly) innocent smile...

“...Beautiful...”

It fidgets. “Not really... you’re the beautiful one. Really,” it adds, looking up at you with that earnest green gaze again, “you’re beautiful.”

“...aha, not as much as you~” You wink and it blushes, bright red, and looks back down at the camera, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the heat from its face.

It’s cute. Very cute. And for some reason you feel at ease around it, even though you only met a few days ago. It’s... not asking you questions or probing or prodding, not that you mind those overmuch, and its presence is... comforting. Quiet and sweet when you listen to it and something... more, but you don’t look completely because oh no I’m not touching THAT so soon again, but still.

You think you like it, this strange, adorable green-eyed androgyne.

 

[And how long did it take? So soon, so quickly—amongst the many little activities: playing games, putting together puzzles, hesitant, experimental leaning against each other, walks here and there, sharing food; a few winks, blushes, pounding hearts and a few kisses and the realization comes—I think I’m in love.

And pictures, ever more pictures, photographs—of you, gradually more requests; pose like this, wear this, stand here—all of it. And photographs of it, too, when you manage to convince it to let you take some. Photographs of it and you and together—all beautiful, all pointing towards— I think I’m in love. And you hadn’t meant to, didn’t intend to fall in love so soon... but then, it’s not something you exactly intend to do, is it?

And that strange feeling, of I think I’m in love, so strange... warm and fluttery and nervous even though you didn’t show it outwardly; didn’t really let it know. In love with this odd, cute, shy demon, with the enormous, beautiful green eyes, the incredible smile and the comforting presence, the sweet, quiet nature... Perfect. Simply perfect.

I think I’m in love~]

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There is a wall in your room that is covered in photographs. Perfect, flawless photographs.

All photographs of him, of course.

(I never denied I was a stalker.)

Beautiful, amazing snapshots of moments in time, moments preserved forever—a coy smile, a playful wink, a lazy pose; a hand reaching out, an eye. A sultry gaze from behind burnished red strands, fingers on lips... elaborate outfits, blazing skies, silhouettes and shadows, unblemished skin and long white tail: throughout it all, him.

Your fingers brush over the smooth, glossy surface of the latest one, pinned up with the rest and with the date written in tiny letters on the back; he’s reaching up for the sun in this one, his slim fingers almost cupping the white-hot orb while rays of dazzling light shine between them, falling upon the small, contented smile on his face.

(Sun. He’s so warm... and I’m so dark.)

He doesn’t really see that side of you, not exactly; you don’t see that side of you, most of the time. Most of the time, when you’re doing something together—he’s smiling, that amused smile you love so much, and you’re smiling back, like you always are, just a little, soft smile because he’s happy and being with him makes you happy too and somehow you just have to stop what you’re doing (already forgotten it) and just hug him, bury your face in his neck even as he says your name in that faintly musical voice and then raise your head to kiss him—it’s not like that. It’s only... only at times like this, when you’re alone with these massive feelings, at a loss with them, that you wonder how dark you truly are.

(Am I doing something bad? Thinking about him so much, wanting to know so much, feeling like this—or am I just in love?)

It’s not that you’re overly pushy, it’s not that you’re overly demanding, no, never that—beneath it all he’s so quiet, so fragile, so easily broken despite all his strength—and that thought makes your heart clench in your chest, because he doesn’t realize he needs protecting too—and so you’re gentle with him, always; you don’t know how effective you are but you’re always there to support him, there by his side and gentle, accepting, loyal...

And yet...

Your gaze drifts down to another photo, one taken in near-darkness, his pale skin almost glowing as shadows play about him and he looks over his shoulder with wide, staring eyes, some not-quite-startled emotion there—he doesn’t know a lot about me... but... he loves me, so does it even matter...?

He’s said it more than once—all the time, almost (even though you confessed first)—and you don’t doubt that he does, having read it in his mood, his emotions that you pick up on; there’s no doubt in your mind how much he cares and how much it matters to him that you’re there; does that make it alright, then? You’re quite sure he doesn’t care—it doesn’t change anything—to him, that you’re—

Demon, inhuman, black and monstrous and sadistic and stalker and possessive and hurtful—except you don’t even know if you’re those things, you try not to be, but...

(Stalker? When—don’t leave me please don’t leave me I just love you—no wait, that’s not right, the evidence is contradictory? But I did, I stalked—hurt—her—someone before... but I don’t want to do that to you, but—)

You sigh, sit on the stool you were standing on and look at another photo, one of a lantern, hanging from his hand and the smile seeming just a touch sinister in the greenish light, tattered strips of red fabric in the background behind him like streaks of blood. ...He’s beautiful. You’ve always thought so from the moment you first saw him. Amazingly beautiful, inside and out. Always so strong, and selfless to a fault, caring, loving—do I even deserve all that...?

But he loves me... and I love him... Does that make it alright? I can’t tell, with these feelings... this is the first time I’ve felt this way, even though I’ve been with people before...

You’re young, for a demon, and there’s so much you don’t know; that worries you sometimes, like now—what if I’m doing something wrong? What if I’m doing something bad? I don’t want to hurt him...

You curl up, folding your arms over your knees and your eyes rove across the wall, searching for something lighter, something to distract you—your gaze stops on the one of broken glass in his hands, taken under the rain, and you remember the enigmatic remark he made, with that odd, distant look on his face after the shoot was over: “Like a heart, almost...” And now of course you know what he meant, now, and the images flash through your mind, images and emotions:

Snap and lash out and a golden bracelet falls soundlessly to the floor—and then enormous overwhelming hurt and tears, raw sobbing, and then crack and horrifying, sickening numb(ing) waves of empty pain and then slow recovery—

You bite your lip and close your eyes against the sudden stinging. He’s broken. He’s so, so broken and yet not and not anymore and—

You snap your eyes open and look for anything to change train of thought from, anything—that picture. The one—the one... where he’s sitting with his knees up and arms across them and this sunny, closed-eye smile and tastefully nude—and that brings with it another memory, one of—he kisses you with his tongue in your mouth and your wet body is plastered to his and you moan as—

Hastily you shake your head to clear the memory, face feeling rather hot. No. That’s a pleasant memory to be sure, but not what you were looking for. Nuh-uh.

This time a different picture leaps out at you, one of a mirror and a heavily made-up face and feathers and more costumes and a strange stare. Like a mask, acting as someone else—he’s always so natural, always in-tune with what you want him to do when it comes to this, being your model of sorts; always perfect harmony, even without words, without needing to say anything, just being natural around each other and communicating with mere looks... you’re still not quite sure how it works (something to do with your empathetic abilities and his odd sixth sense) but you’re not about to question it.

Is that how much we love each other? Or is it just something else... it was like that from the start, before we... we...

A small smile curves your lips. That was nice. The fluffy, fluttery, nervous feelings that he somehow still manages to evoke in you; get your heart pounding and your cheeks warm and make you shy... you love that about him. All of it. The gentle teasing and the flirting, the surprise kisses and how much he trusts you, that you can do that for him too, give those feelings back and make him happy in return.

Is that what love is? ‘m not sure...

The door swings open and he pokes his head in. “Bel~?” There’s a playful smile on his face and you can just see his tail waving. Without even thinking, without even consciously registering it at first there’s already a responding smile on your face.

“Mm?”

“Let’s go somewhere today? You and me?” He winks and your smile grows wider—always the flirt, always—and you slide off the stool to join him.

“Mhm!”

Your hand takes his without thinking, and his larger fingers wrap around yours and just like that, the dark thoughts plaguing you fade away, go back to some shadowed depth they came from, replaced by warm, fluffy feelings of love and happiness, especially as you look up at him, and he’s smiling, and he looks down at you at the same time and your faces are inches away—and he leans in to press a kiss to your lips and nuzzle your cheek, and as you return the action you think, I love you.

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First instinct, upon walking into a room—hitch yourself up to a door post, back against it, and let your eyes sweep the crowd. There, on the fringes, where both inside and outside are visible, just in case a quick getaway becomes necessary. That, and being apart. Separate. Off to the side.

I’m not a part of you.

Watch. Always watching them, watching him; letting him know you’re watching. And he knows, too. He’s all too aware of your mocking gaze, your derisive sneer that curls your lip every time he lets himself acknowledge you with the tiniest glance. It’s failure smacking him in the face, doom laughing at his attempts to hold it back, future not even deigning to give him a second look.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows everything. (And you’re only half-sarcastic for that one; he knows and yet he doesn’t know, in the end he’s such a fool like the rest of them, gods—)

And he knows that in the end, it’ll all be hopeless, everything will be useless, finally; when the nine worlds are swept with flame and ice and your children rampage and fight his and you’ll be right there too, leading the charge—what, did you think you could keep me leashed forever? All-father—

Just a tiny bit of chaos—everything needs chaos, needs a little spark to keep it from going stale—and you both know that. But when you deliberately kindle the flames, whose fault is it but your own—

So you stare. You stare as he gravely, solemnly (ha, so consumed with responsibility and duty, so pathetic) converses with the others, how they look up to him and respect him, because he’s oh-so-wise, oh-so-knowing and oh-so-seeing, while you stand there and a laugh bubbles up in your throat because you’re the only one who sees how blind he really is, how little he knows and what a fool he is for all his wisdom, wisdom that only makes him a greater fool and makes the consequences all that deeper.

What greater price is there to pay than the universe itself?

(And yet in a corner of your mind, buried all the way deep down, it’s two-fold again—you’re the only one that sees, giving you the entertainment, the laughter, while they all cringe and wonder what you’re plotting this time, and yet... the idiot, why can’t he see?)

Ha. Rhetorical question.

You turn away, away from him and the firelight and look out into the starry night, deep blue and beyond the stone walls and see the worlds spreading out into the distance towards the horizon, and there’s this strange clench that your heart gives that you ignore, this strange sensation that you don’t want to admit, that comes upon you every now and then—not the longing for war, that stirring in your blood and the itch to fight and watch everything fall to pieces because the score will finally be even—no, that’s not it. A different one. One that’s usually buried so far deep you forget it exists sometimes, but one that takes over so suddenly when it does come—

Some desire, one that’s not the usual superiority, the desire to escape from them and crush them and get your own back, no, something else.

...A want. A want to see him beg for forgiveness, care enough about you and what you think and feel to beg for forgiveness, admit that he’s made a mistake—no, more than a mistake, made so, so many—admit that he should’ve treated you better. Admit that it’s his fault you betrayed him, that he betrayed you, the oath-breaker, the liar—and with them having the nerve to call you liar, the epitome of evil, when he’s just as bad, regardless of whether or not it’s the truth—because you’re oh-so-aware, at times, when you’re alone in the dark and the overwhelming hurt that you don’t want to admit gets to you, that you know you’re all that, that you’re a cheat and a liar and a slut and you’re going to go bad in the end, you can see it happening and it scares you so much so because you don’t want to lose yourself, but in the end—that’s his fault too.

It’s all his fault.

His fault this incredible bitterness and anger and malice is building up inside you, and you know it in your bones that when the end comes, you’re going to be right there, standing in the middle of pure chaos even as you’re dying, and laughing. Of course. You’re going to be laughing the whole time, when the seas are rough and the boat’s complete and you’re on the way there, laughing as your imprisoned children (another thing you’ll never forgive him for) break free, and laughing when the lot of you all end up in Hel anyway, because in the end it was all useless. All his planning, all his futile attempts to stall it, all the people he’s swept away to make his own personal army—and the solution was right there under his nose staring him in the face with a smile. The salvation was—IS—right. There.

Me.

 

“Hey, Loki!”

You snap out of your thoughts and look up; they’re all smiling, the two girls and the stern woman and the cat and the angel and the demon, and her smile becomes a grin.

“C’mon, stop being such a wallflower and join the group.”

You unhitch yourself from the corner and grin back.

All in good time.

interdimensional: (Default)

Where would we be,

Without eyes to see,

Lost in the dark,

When we just might be in a park,

The garden of the sky,

Unable to fly.

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July 2012

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