#or mistle... halo

[lxboratorii]

Merry Christmas! Secret Santa for @medu-inthefade :) ♥

[toneburst]

1995 - VA - Woke Up Smiling [Bedazzled, BDZ25] тут есть редкий (ultra rare) хит канадской дримпоп группы An April March - Delirium и в очередной раз напишу, что все релизы давно исчезнувшего лейбла Bedazzled — это подпольные шедевральные шедевры 01. Mistle Thrush - She Is A Flower [5:12] 02. The Curtain Society - Cradle [4:40] 03. Strange Boutique - In The Lonely Trees [5:28] 04. Where I Wake Warm - Sense Of Skin [5:05] 05. Viola Peacock - An Angel A Week [3:26] 06. Feast Of Saints - In Galleons Lap [5:05] 07. Johanna's House Of Glamour - As Far As Forever [5:18] 08. Chainsuck - Shindo [4:37] 09. Ultracherry Violet - Wayve [5:07] 10. Blueshift Signal - Halo [5:35] 11. Siddal - A Glendale Melody [6:24] 12. An April March - Delirium [5:02] 13. Underflowers - Psalm To The Sun [4:56] 14. Lanterna - Falling [1:48]

[austerulous]

◈   @rosmcrinus​​ said:  ❛ Maria "👀" ❜  //  send me a 👀

Glinting dully, the steel nib curled and flicked, committing observations to parchment in rigorous, elegant script.  Maria did not hesitate, even as her silt-choked mind swirled and rankled at the question’s implication.  They were gentlewomen of the Healing Church – and they were careful.  Cleric and custodian conversed less in words and more in lingering glances, in the subtle dance of fingertips, their language one of secrecy and anticipation.  Day-to-day, the glimpse of a wrist might prove electrifying, the pulse in a pale throat could command attention.

“Members of the Choir are all much of a muchness, unless stripped of their raiments.  You know this.”

As if she would not be able to discern Yurie from amidst a shifting sea of clerics.  As if she did not know her by the sweet bud of her mouth alone.  Maria had studied the lower half of her visage, had memorised the shape and colour of her lips long before she had come to know that a raven lay beneath dove-white plumage.  Her darkling, her darling.  Maria had been privy to the mortal form obscured by Choir garb, had carefully traced its outline with reverential hands, admiring the sinewy strength in willow-fine limbs.  

Stumbling on a trick step, Maria’s fall from grace had been long and far.  No longer did she look skyward.  Instead, straight ahead.  Instead, down.  There, she found traces of the divine, could recall it in a memory of cropped hair, shiny and sleek, an obsidian halo coal-black against the bedspread, watched by wise eyes of dusky sienna – eyes that saw something of the terror and terrible in her.  Maria had coaxed them to close, kissing the creaseless lids she so adored.  In such moments, she could almost believe they had been forged in the fires of the same distant, long-dead star.

When the caretaker looked up now, there was razor-wire in her gaze.  How easy it would be to sing Scholar Yurie’s praises with all the vigour and stridency of a mistle thrush.  How easy it would be to reveal herself as lovestruck, a tenant of unspeakable tribade tenderness.  Maria would sooner drive her fountain pen into her own throat, and bleed out on the industrious clutter of her desk, than reveal that she felt a little less displaced when the cleric’s hand roosted in her own.  Their intimacy demanded no audience, needed no witness to carry weight.

Mercifully, miserably, a piercing scream echoed through the hall, putting a bullet in the throat of this unwanted line of questioning.

“Please excuse me.”