mamiya-a

[mamiya-a]

BOTTOM MIRANDA PROPAGANDA LET'S GO!!!

Guess what mc is saying 😛😛 full pic:

[mamiya-a]

Fanart of @vivi-llain 's Miranda!! Want this woman so bad (ﾉಥ益ಥ)ﾉ

[mamiya-a]

The masked man

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

-

Danamir Corneille is the perfect man — charming, intelligent, and always on the move. His reputation of a traveling doctor has earned him both admiration and suspicion, he remains a mystery to everyone who crosses his path. But beneath his carefully crafted facade lies a secret, one so deeply hidden that few even dare to question his true identity.

You are a noble woman named Vermilyea Lament, known for her grace but shadowed by her cold, unpredictable nature. Her presence commands attention, but her actions leave many wondering whether she’s as immaculate as she appears or something darker.

Your paths collide in a dangerous game of power, secrets, and trust, as you navigate your growing obsession with one another. Will you unravel each other’s mysteries, or will the tangled web of your desires and betrayals destroy you both?

-

Chapter 1: New death, new beginning

Summary:

Ghosts from the past often like to dance among people during masquerades, because even they are part of the performance.

1897 - Veret, France.

The coffin lines up with the earth once the furious sun takes a central position in the endless, blue sky.

The weather is quite curious today. It has been raining all morning, not to mention night, so the air is thick with unpleasant moisture, while the soil under heavy boots is soft, wet and messy, forcing out a curse from numerous mouths as people dirty their shoes on it. However now, in the middle of the day, the rain is absent. In its place rays of sunshine pierce and twist the faces of the those who have left their homes. There is even a remarkably beautiful rainbow above their heads, which fades with every passing second, as if the many eyes observing it are making the bright colours shy and uncomfortable.

White clouds are dancing and forming a dome through the sky, almost acting childish, not paying attention to the sorrowful event just below them. If one thought about the landscape with a bit more artistic vision, it wouldn't be completely wrong to say heaven is opening its gates for yet another soul, who awaits peace after the many hard years of living. And if death is a saviour and life is a curse, then it's easy to see the difference between the above and below. Mass of people, gathered together to mourn over a dead body, which they selfishly shove into the ground, hoping the soul will make it to heaven. It's an absurdly ridiculous idea, but everyone follows it. Everyone stays still and will eyes locked into the coffin while the priest reads out loud from his sacred book.

You've never understood the purpose of funerals. As a child you believed it was a way to show how much grief can a person hold over someone else. Because you remember different faces, twisted from sadness, lowering down to kiss a corpse and then whisper sweet words, that meant nothing to the person who passed. One after one, in a straight line, men and women, sometimes children, offering endless love only for them to later on lock their beloved in a box, underground. In your position, which you share with nobody else, it's selfish - to limit someone from their freedom, to cage them, even in death and then let your bitter tears out for everyone to observe.

On the other hand, you understand that it is a tradition and it's important, yet you can't feel a thing while looking at that pale, non-living skin, or the lowered coffin, or the finished grave. And you acknowledge this is not because you barely knew the woman in it. The problem comes from somewhere deep inside you, it doesn't matter who you're going to see in that casket - a real reaction would ever come your way. There is faking it, of course, and you are a master in your craft. A mimicked twist of eyebrows, a forced tear or two....and calculated words, ready to glaze the ears, which need to hear them. That is why you bend your knees, allowing your expensive dress to touch the mud, and you get a handful of dirt, throwing it on top of the coffin, with a lowered head. Every single person around you does the same and by the time the last one is finished - the official funeral ends.

"Vermilyea!!"  - a voice rings through the air, soft and feminine, but loud enough to gather turned heads and curious eyes. You sigh, slowly smoothing the fabric of your dress as you stand up, supported by strong knees. It's really a pity, the nice green colour is now covered roughly with mud around the edges. You don't find it pleasant when your clothes get dirty, not because you can't get yourself another pair, but rather because of self image and the desire to look flawless all the time. You lift a hand to cover your colourful eyes from the shining rays of sunshine, while you try to locate the voice, which so eagerly called your name out.

You're not surprised to recognise your mother a few meters a head of you, standing elegantly and still, not too tall and not too short, just like your own height. She has decided to wear a black dress, convenient - after all she came to a funeral and she's smart enough to leisurely hide the spots from the stubborn, wet dirt with a dark fabric. Your mother - Miriam, who took the noble name Lament, wasn't always so well dressed and with such perfect, raven coloured curls, however her attitude and behaviour were always fitting the ones of an important figure in society. You can already understand as to why you're being called. "You're doing too much." rings inside your ears even without a real voice whispering it. You might not be too similar, or close to mother, but there is one thing you clearly share in common - the are of pretending, just for different reasons.

Every step reveals a bigger portion of her face, few wrinkles visible in between her eyebrows, under her eyes and around her red painted lips. She hates them, massaging her skin every night in hope to make them disappear. Yet the one who she's usually supposed to impress doesn't mind them in the slightest. You don't have an opinion on the topic, aging is natural and comes for us all. Your mother's fake smile looks bigger than usual as her eyes narrow down you and hate to find out your shoes are now ruined by the mug. How unfortunate.

"Are we leaving?" - you question, lifting up a hand to run through a few wavy strings of golden hair, that has gotten out of the proper order you spent half and hour adjusting them into this morning. The slight breeze is not your friend when it comes to the long, curvy river on top of your head, but you don't like it tied up, tamed...so you endure.

"Not yet, Vermilyea." - your mother's  tongue cuts like a sharp pair of scissors. She rolls her shoulders back, clearly frustrated, eyes searching for someone in the the crowd, but between so many faces she doesn't seem to find her desired one. So only you remain in her center of attention. - "Élise was a very good friend of our family, we should stay more and...mourn her properly." - despite her hard to find words you don't find a single track of grief on that pale face in front on you.

You've only seen Madame Élise twice. The first time she was trying to sell an old jewelry box to your mother, you remained close to them, watching silently as the other woman convinced your mother to buy not only the old box, but also tons of cheap necklaces she doesn't wear anymore, and she accepted. If you truly knew Miriam Lament you wouldn't be surprised, she's a masked aristocrat, always trying to fit into the role she accepted more than fifteen years ago. The second time you spotted the now dead woman was close to the woods, where you usually go to search for crows. Élise was lifting her skirt for another man back then, younger, handsome and... dirty. It wasn't so long ago, and of course there were rumours about her dying from a shameful infection, however only her husband could really tell the truth.

"Staying by her grave won't change anything." - you see how your mother's hand tremble with anticipation, her rings threatening to fall off. Instead of lifting her palm to smack your cheek, she just calms clears her throat.

"Then change yourself, Vermilyea." - she lifts her chin in direction of the ground of people, who are still staying by the grave, watering it with tears. - "Your opinion is not superior." - your reaction is limited to a quiet hm.

Soon, another figure arrives at the scene. Just the one Miriam was looking for. Her facial expression immediately changes to a soft one, with a more realistic smile and eyes, filled with care. Your father is a proud and handsome man, with heart so full of love towards your mother that  sometimes hurts him. You're often compared to him, despite having no biological connection with the man. It's certain you carry the last name of Richard Lament, but the kinship ends there, he has raised you as his child, with affection and love, but you could never return the same to him. You're indifferent, he's just a parent figure, just like your mother.

He puts a hand around his wife's waist, bringing her close for a kiss. If Miriam has something against his beard she makes sure to not show it. Not like there are any signs she doesn't like it. The man's beard is in dark, shiny colour, similar his hair, but the area around his chin, lips and overall mouth is in slight lighter colour, grey to almost  orange. People talk and laugh about it, some praise him for being such an obedient husband and spending most of his time between his wife's legs, which he never denies. He has had many lovers, paid and unpaid, but never a wife and Miriam was his wife. Richard whispers something in her ear and your mother's lips form an almost perfect 'O'. 

"Vera, if you're so disinterested in paying respect to the dead..." - she refers to you with the part of your name, which aims to represent your grandmother Vera. You've never met the woman, but your mother talks highly of her, as if she was someone important and not yet another maid for a rich salesman. Miriam lifts a gloved finger, pointing somewhere behind her husband, to the direction he came from. And sure enough there is another man there, waiting. - "Why don't you comfort the living? Monsieur Pierre must be suffering, he could use some company..."

You nod, perfectly understanding your mother's intentions. It's not about comfort, it's a sick game of the rich. Find yourself a younger wife in the middle of a funeral, dedicated for your last. You've been through few other candidates for your hand in marriage already, so naturally you've grown to accept that you have to talk with them, and God forbid... meet them again sometimes. You usually manage to make them become distant after one conversation. You plan to do the same. However, just as you swirl to the side, ready to fight the mud through your destination, you feel a hand to your shoulder and you turn back around.

"Don't forget..." - your mother murmurs, the back of her palm slowly tracing your cheek. Her touch is cold and ghostly, foreign and distant, yet it's still there. - "talk in french and smile more, yes?" - she pulls on your skin, forcing your lips to form a thin and fake symbol of affection and good will. - "Like a good girl should, hm?"

Once you get far away to not be able to hear clear, your father quickly turns to Miriam with a sorrowful expression.

"You're pushing her too much." - he shares his worries not loud enough to root out suspicion from nearby curious ears.

"I'm guiding her, there is a difference." - the man observes how a single vein pops out on his wife's forehead, possibly of irritation. The slight squeezing of her left eye confirms it, although it could be because of the sun. Just to be certain nothing  external is bothering her, Richard subtly moves in front of her, passing his body weight from leg to leg, while pretending to fix his bowtie.

"Blindly." - he underlines, earning himself a scoff, however it doesn't stop him from adding to his point. - "Into an old man's hands."

"A rich old man." - Miriam's painted lips go thin with dripping impatience, she squeezes her hands into fists, while breathing a bit more heavily through her nose. Her chest, strangely exposed for a funeral, raises up and down, as if the tight corset she's wearing is unexpectedly bothering her, which would normally never happen, because she's used to the pain she has to endure to stay beautiful. Her eyes narrow down at her husband. - "And why are you acting like you didn't just help us out by  making him stay a little longer?"

"I can never refuse my wife." - if it weren't for public image Richard would be already kissing down her neck and collarbone, finding it hard to stop himself as usual due to how appealing his wife looked. He's not a man to shy away from the fact that he lives under a woman's boot, he accepts his reality with warm and open arms. Miriam is an intelligent woman, so he listens and obeys. That's why when she asked him to talk with Monsieur Pierre and convince him to stay a bit more in the graveyard, rather than go home and grief alone - he did it with no questions. But of course, this precisely calculated manipulation was never about how that pitiful widower is feeling. - "But you know... Vermilyea is marvelous, don't waste her beauty and youth by marrying her off to someone who's having a chase with death."

"We are in no position to choose her husband freely." - perhaps six years ago they would have been in a better situation, with Vermilyea being younger and more desired. Hundreds of candidates for her pure self in line, hoping to get lucky. However both Miriam and Vermilyea were too proud back then, rejecting little boys with a strong hand, not expecting it to backfire at them. - "We're desperately offering to whoever decides to take."

"Still, it's not right." - Richard believes he can save and protect his daughter through her whole life, it's what he truly wants to happen, but he knows it's impossible.

"It's easy for you, the moment you're short in money you run to your brother for help, but I... know how hard it is to earn." - Miriam's piercing gaze is inescapable, additionally with her strong voice she succeeds in making her husband shift in his place. Her background is of no rich family, she's not a real noble, no matter how much she pretends. Miriam was but a maid, which so happen to catch the attention of Richard while he was visiting his brother, for whom the woman was working for in those distant, but never forgotten times.

"My darling, you're talking like we're poor." - Richard decides to play it safe with a low laugh, a weak attempt for a joke. It's true, 'poor' is not exactly their financial situation, but they are definitely spending more than they are getting. Richard is a skillful salesman here in France, similar to his brother back in Romania, however he could never get on the same  level as the grand Apolon Lament.

"We're close to hitting that rock bottom, especially if you continue with your weekly gamble." - those words force the man to lift a hand and scratch the back of his neck with a shaky hand. He's a good person, attending church, devoted to his work and family, yet everyone has a weak spot and his is the thrill of winning more money through gambling games. Even though, Richard is rarely the winner. Miriam tilts a strong and confident chin towards her daughter's direction, her back straight as a ruler. - "The solution is to marry Vermilyea off, so both she and us can spend money without worrying it's not going to be enough." - after all two expensive looking woman are too much for one household, therefore it would be easier if Richard was only occupied with spoiling his wife, while Vermilyea found a nice husband to take care of her.

"Is that man truly your solution, then, Miriam?" - after a short pause, Richard asks softly, but no answer follows.

In the meantime you finally manage to safety arrive at your destination. The man in front of you doesn't move or even try to greet you. You find that rude, however you don't seem to care enough to make a comment. You just remain in a place close to him, holding your already ruined dress in one hand, already imagining how you're going to throw it away in the fireplace this very same night and watch it burn, the unpleasant mud finally leaving your life. You take a deep breath, before opening full lips and letting out words, for which you believe will surely root out attention.

"My mother says grief is a temporary feeling—unpleasant and deep, but short in time." - as expected, Monsieur Pierre turns his head towards you, finally. He's not a beautiful man, if you had no manners you would immediately say ugly. Half of his hair is no longer occupying his scalp, though he has a long and thick mustache. It doesn't suit him, it's unkept and gives a poor look. Nothing like your father's beard, for which he takes care and attention. You don't meet his eyes as you continue. - "It could only ruin you if you allow it."

"Your mother...doesn't really strike me as the one to say that, mademoiselle." - you lift an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting such a man to discover your truth so early one. You're honest with yourself and you understand that you have no idea how to experience grief or empathy for all it matters. But you have observations, about others, about normal people with normal emotions and you write down the right way to express the things you can't feel yourself. You were still a child when you discovered the phrase 'My mother says.." and then adding your own ideas and  interpretations. Noone judges a child who repeats what it has heard, if anything people would blame the mother, but never out loud, never in public. So it worked perfectly for you. Until now, of course.

"You'd be surprised by the things my mother says, Monsieur." - you handle the situation calmly, it doesn't matter if you had been discovered in a lie,there is always covering it. The man observes you in a bizarre way and judging by how he talks about Miriam, you can note her and Élise weren't as close as she says. The fact only makes your vision over how funerals are selfish acts even more clear. - "Especially when she thinks no one's really listening."

"And do you listen?" - a direct strike.

"Only when it serves me right." - you shift in your place, fixing your sleeve in the meantime, acting unbothered and cold, indifferent. You don't like how Monsieur Pierre has taken a closer observation towards your eyes. No one can blame him, there are surely an attraction. You were unfortunate enough to be born with one ocean colored and one as green as the grass eye. Your mother says it's a curse from the devil. You're no believer, but you hate how much unwanted attention your eyes are capable of summoning. After a second or two—the man laughs.

"Vermilyea was it?" - his whole facial expression is now changed, lips turned upside in a smile, while he moves a little closer. - "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady, but tell me, dear, why are you approaching me in such language?" - that's right, you were supposed to communicate in French, not English. Most people in France are pretty distant with foreigners, yet your family has always been an exception, possibly because of your father's position. - "Can't you speak proper French?" - a short mocking pause. - "Don't disappoint me by saying you're one those people...who sound like spanish cows with bad accents?"

"I take lessons, Monsieur Pierre, however I should excuse myself — my French isn't truly the best." - a lie. Well, not entirely. Your pronunciation is not too bad and you understand when others talk to you, in audition you're very  good in grammar and vocabulary, but your problem comes from having absolutely no respect for the language. You despite it. While on the topic — you also hate English, however you were forced to talk in it your whole life, especially while growing up because you were simply in an English home, where Romanian, your mother's tongue, was forbidden. Of course, when you moved to France and you were forced to study another foreign language, you tried your best to fail on purpose, however your mother continued to send you to those expensive lessons. You've come to a decent level, in theory, but in reality you can't form a proper sentence if you don't memories if first. Faking and more faking, always and forever.

The man doesn't say much after that. He goes silent, looking in the distance, eyes locked onto his wife's grave. You find it strange to why he's not right next to it, however it's not interesting enough for you to ask. You don't even know why you decide to continue the conversation, knowing very well you can come back to your mother at the very second and say that Monsieur Pierre wasn't really interested in another woman. But for the sake of trying.

"How old was she?"

"Forty-seven..." - he answers, his lower lip slightly bending in a sorrowful arch, yet he's quick to cover it with a smile. - "after twelve years of marriage she left me alone at my own very age of fragile fifty-nine."

Old pig. Does your mother even know? You're not going to  try and romance someone as old as a dying tree in the woods. You're not against your future partner being older, in fact the one you carnally desire is indeed not close to your own age, by how much you're not certain, however, it's definitely not more than thirty years, certainly not a lifetime.

"Do you miss her?" - you ask, softly, tilting your head like a curious child. But the question drips with something less innocent. Your strong perfume seems to have reached his nose because he wrinkles it. Good, you've spent a great amount of time of rubbing that perfumed water around your collarbone and chest this morning.

"Of course I do." - Monsieur Pierre sounds certain, as if your question is somewhere between being useless, confusing or simply — stupid.

"That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?" - you're not exactly sure where you're going with your point, but you need to make it clear you're not the easy and obedient woman he's searching for, you will not be a replacement for his wife. - "To miss someone. To ache like that. I wonder..." - you pause, lips parting slightly, as if uncertain whether you should continue, however that line is already crossed. - "I wonder if she would’ve missed you, had it been the other way around?" - with Madame Élise, covered IN black from head to toe, crying over her late husband's grave. The poor widow, all alone in the world now, with no freedom to marry again, because she's no man.

"Why wouldn't she?" - he turns to look at you sharply, the air stiffening around him. Monsieur Pierre is looking uneasy. He knows you're onto something, he senses it, yet he's uncertain where the conversation will take him.

You smile faintly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting before you drop it, light as a feather, cruel as a blade. - "Only because... I once saw her. With another man. It was quite late. They seemed... familiar. Too familiar for grief." - you purposely lift a hand to cover your face, as if you're embarrassed to even mention such thing.

Monsieur Pierre changes in a matter of seconds. His expression drops down, possibly along with his heart. His lips switch in a grimace while he furrows his eyebrows and squeezes his hands into fists. You wonder if Élise was alive, would he hit here now? Knowing the truth of how she ran after pleasure and not love? You can't help but crack a hidden smile, the reaction thrilling you more than you would admit. The little huff he lets out is a beautiful note of violin for your ears.

"That—whore!" - he screams, earning himself a few surprised looks, however noone comes closer to acknowledge what exactly is going on. He taps him leg strong on the ground, ruining his boot and splashing more mud over your dress. You suppress the 'tch' sound, urging to come out of your throat. - "I've given her everything! Money, clothes, jewellery, whatever she asked for!" - he angrily splashes more mud, his eyes full of fury. - "She doesn't even deserve this funeral!"

"Please, Monsieur Pierre, we shouldn't judge the dead for their sins." - if you actually felt someone towards the man, you would have tried to comfort him with a hand over his trembling back. But you're not the person to do it. If anything, you move aside, not wanting more mess on your already ruined dress. - "You've punished her enough." - by shoving her deep into the earth, you desire to add, yet you stop yourself. The man doesn't add anything else either.

You think of saying something more, just to see how it would feel. But the thought dies, smothered by your own boredom. Soon you leave the scene in silence, not looking back.

*****

You don't exactly expect to find yourself returning in that unpleasant graveyard the very same night. But a decision was taken on the spot and unfortunately time cannot be reversed. It's not like you're regretting anything, except maybe ruining yet another dress. This time a lighter fabric, an invitingly good looking caramel colour, hugging your body with care, under a rough coat you grabbed without thinking much before leaving your room. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the woods, just to check if the bird trap you had placed a few days ago has been of any use. The results were... disappointing, but to cover that you spotted an owl  on a closely branch, being too curious for its own good. It was still young, you observed by lifting up the gas lamp you had in hand. You've never killed an owl before. Your main victims are always small singing birds or the dark crows that love to fly around the houses in Veret. You weren't exactly sure if the simple slingshot you had in your pocket would be of any real use, as your arms were strong, but not enough to kill, just hope for an injury. And you made it, you twisted the owl's wing, slowing it down. Bleeding, and wheezing, the animal led you here, back to the rot and stone, as if something was waiting.

You're no stranger to the exhausting game of hide and seek different birds can put up, while trying their best to escape death. That's why you usually aim for the wings, because once fallen down they can't do anything but crawl helplessly through dirt. You like watching them as they form a line of blood on the ground, it truly shows the reality you live in. You've always hated the feathered creatures and their ability to fly over the world as if all the suffering beneath them doesn't exist. You are no God, but it feels like you're playing one when your blade finally releases them from misery. But of course no God, even a hateful one, would keep the corpse after the kill.

Your eyes are tracing down every small movement between the hanging over graves branches, in search for the pathetic bird, still pretty young as it's not too big in size. Your ears are sharp and ready to catch every different sound from the usual cricket and slight breeze, compensating for your bad night vision. The lamp is placed close to your legs, but the flame is smaller now, less intimidating. You're completely still, waiting in silence. Yet...after a few minutes you begin to realise you might have miscalculated the direction of the owl. For the sake of the hunt, you stay a little longer, moving long and steady legs through different in size and shape stones, with carved names on them, the names of the dead.

You stop in front of a rather unkept grave, covered in dried grass, the left for honour food on the side is barely recognisable, rotten and full of maggots. Upon looking at the date written on it you acknowledge that this miserable attempt for eternal peace belongs to a child, who didn't make it past the age of ten. Your eyes are unblinking as you read the name a few times in your mind, your tongue silently pronouncing it, savouring the taste. Just staring at it is quite boring. So you decide to do something you usually practice in front of a mirror, and have never done over a grave, but you find no-one around, including yourself, who dares stop you.

An image of a woman appears in your head, unknown to you, without a name to roll on your tongue. But she's not made up from imagination, you saw her today at the funeral, you just never bothered to get to know her. However you did observe her face, carefully, with precision and the desire to mold her twisted visage in your memory so you can use it when the time comes. Until then you decide to practice. You rub the inner corner of your eyes, getting red and slightly puffy. You hope for fake tears to come out, yet your cheeks remain dry, skin exposed to the night air. With now furrowed from pretended sadness brows and curved, thin lips you allow yourself to let out a throaty whimper — something close to a cough, with the intention of resembling a weak cry. That sound doesn't suit you, way too untrue for your own judgment, let alone the people you always try to convince about how natural you are with your emotions. They don't know about your secret practices in order to fit in, they don't know how many different masks you wear everyday so you're not pointed out as weird or unfeeling, a menace to society that is so very keen on empathy and the usage of it.

You change a grimace after grimace, closing your eyes to more clearly see the faces from today, but still that deep well of emptiness remains open in your chest. You know it's never going to fill and to be honest with yourself you don't want it to fill. It's crystal clear to you, while you bend down to imitate unbearable sorrow you can only think of that wounded owl, which wings you want to twist with bare hands just because it had the nerve to escape you. At some point your visage takes a natural emotional state for your persona— anger.

You've been empty for years. And the only person who can fill up the void has been reported dead before you could even begin to understand yourself and how much you needed her.

Just then, in the cold unmoving distance you manage to see a flickery light, levitating through darkness, as it has wings. But it's not angelic feathers guiding the lamp you soon acknowledge to be presenting itself upon you. Rather it's another dark shadow in the night, lurking in lonely hours, unbothered. And slowly making its way to the that very same graveyard you stand in, however not from the usual way, through the city. The person approaching is coming out slowly from the thick forest right behind the old, rusty metal fence on the back. A foreigner. You quickly kick the gas lamp besides you so the flame can disappear, before this stranger manage to see you. A safe place behind the grave is taken and you wait, curious to see who's coming here in the middle of the night as well.

The figure limpers. This is the first thing you notice. The second is the weird, dark clothing, almost resembling that of a priest, but much larger, layered and from what the light illuminates — dirty. The head of the person is also covered, limiting you the freedom of seeing a face, let alone remembering it. The lamp is placed next to a grave and then you see the outline of a shovel, gripped firmly in the stranger's right hand. Digging for fresh corpses is not something uncommon, a lot of doctors pay to poor people to do this dirty work for them so they can understand anatomy better. So that's why you're not exactly surprised to comprehend the chosen grave is the one that was the center of attention in today's funeral. Élise is to be a victim, even in her death, just how poetic. As the metal part of the instrument hits the still wet dirt for the first time, you move slightly to a side to get a better view, your breath stuck in your throat. But the figure turns towards you almost immediately.

"Is someone there?" - a sweet voice. Hoarse and giving the expression that the person is struggling to let out a cough, but still sweet. And definitely feminine. You stay low, hiding yourself, too interested to flew now. The scene too consuming, especially after the strange woman snaps her head to a side, tone changing.

"I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone." - your lips part. Is there another person helping her? You lift yourself just enough to be able to observe better, yet you don't find an indicator for a partner. The unknown woman presses her forehead to the handle of the shovel. - "I told you I didn't want to do this today."

Oh. She's talking to herself. Intriguing.

"She's not even fresh, not like I want her." - a pile of dirt begins to form next to Elise's grave, due to the heavy and constant digging the woman is continuing to do, heavy gardening instrument in her hands, almost panting, and a voice that continues to talk, noone else listening except you. Suddenly metal hits metal and you become a witness of how the shovel has finally reached its destination, the coffin. The amount of time it took her to dig out the dirt is incredible. Minutes. She must be devoted, or desperate. The casket is soon opened and the woman sighs. - "The lipstick corpse, the faithful liar. She's bathed in perfume and covered in colours like a jester." - the shovel is kicked to a side, making you shift in your place. - "She's not... she's not perfect, I won't —" - a pause, the woman is unmoving and silent, as if listening. - "Fine. Just the legs."

You watching with unblinking eyes as the stranger before you grabs the dead body of Élise from the comfort of her coffin and slowly, almost struggling, pulls her out until she hits the ground. Your breath hitches, knees pressing together. It's thrilling to observe and try to guess the moral comprehension of this person. Devil to society for digging out what has already been blessed by the followers of God. A saviour for those who think being buried in the ground is a selfish act.  The woman lifts Elise's dress and rips out her stockings without a care in the world. You narrow your head, heart beating faster. You know about men taking advantage of cadavers, but a woman doing it has never crossed your path...or imagination. But then she stops, her hands trembling. From anger, you soon understand.

"She's bruised." - an interesting observation, you almost begin to wonder why. It could be many things, but you need to see the said bruises to take judgment, if they are on her knees then the reason is more than clear, but over her entire length of legs it could be a difficult case, from a sickness to abuse. Monsieur  Pierre didn't strike you as the one to hit his wife, yet given how he reacted when you told him the truth it's not completely unimaginable. After all he's an aristocrat, if he's going to let out his anger on Élise it's going to be on a place no-one else will see. - "It was all for nothing, she won't do..." - she woman lifts a hand, fingers trembling, and you guess she's biting on her nails. A lot of people do when stressed. - "It's ruined, it's dead and ruined and—"

Out of nowhere, she screams.

"Shut up already!" - she gets down on her knees, trembling, definitely not because of the cold air. - "I'm not loosing control, I never loose control. I won't fail, stop! Just—" - her voice is completely different now, rough and angry, but also trembling from something with the taste of fear. Perhaps she's talking to someone else inside her head? - "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." - she repeats like a mantra.

What a pathetic human being. You can't lie that you're not excited, however. If  that's even the word you'd like to choose for describing your fast beating hard and heavy breathing. Unfortunately, this state of yours turns out to not be in your favour. The woman suddenly turns to your direction, the light from the lamp is finally revealing her face, but only partly. Her eyes are still covered from the hood she wears, but you can see the lower part of her visage, the end of her nose, her lips...forming out a smirk. And then...

"I can hear you breathing." - you freeze, jaw tightening. Her voice has switched sonority again. It's not angry, sad or even mad, but rather tired. At least that's how you hear it. You don't wait for explanation. Instead you take a step back, as quietly as you can. You understand you're not supposed to be here, no matter how thrilled you feel at the moment. The woman doesn't move, doesn't get closer. She just continues to stare towards your direction. Observing the darkness as if it's going to talk back to her.

"I didn't come here for company." - she says, her shoulders dropping low. - "Unless you're just another voice as well." - a pause, enough for a skip of the heart. - "And if you are... don't start talking, please." 

With that you finally take your leave, not turning back to check if she has saw you or not. On your way home you walk past the unsuccessful bird trap from today, now finding it actually doing it's purpose. There is a black as the night sky crow inside, trying to bite through the prison it filed into on its own. You don't kill it, you don't free it. As if influenced by tonight events - you just leave the already doomed animal alone and caged.

*****

"Monsieur Pierre has informed me about being interested in meeting you again, Vera." - the small usage of your name has long been transformed into a manipulative weapon. If it was a symbol of affection during your early childhood days, then now it's just a method of your mother trying to intertwine in your personal life. You have choice, most of the time, but it's rarely considered reasonable. Unless you're talking with your father, that is. He has always been soft towards you.

"Is that so?" - you raise your voice, along with your head and soon you meet your mother's eyes just for a second, before they return to the papers in her hands. Miriam is the one who deals with money within the house, ever since you moved in Veret. Everything that is earned or spent must pass through her observation and clever hands. Yet, despite her planning and organisations, money has been not enough for a year or two now. Your parents often argue if it's because Richard's addiction to cards or Miriam's desire for more, it doesn't matter what, just more - clothes, jewellery, food, furniture...even the long cigarette, casually placed between her fingers, which fills up the air with that awful smell you can't normally stand, but always endure. It's your mother preferred poison, even if doctors have told her it's slowly killing her, even if she herself has noticed the way she always coughs after smoking. Nothing, however, stops the woman from still consuming it while worried over her money slowly fading away from her iron grip. 

"Indeed, he has sent a letter, telling me about your small conversation during Elise's funeral and how you managed to...win his interest." - your mother talks a lot. It's a strategy, of course. She could have stopped at the letter, it would have been considered enough of an information, but she likes to extend and just had to mention the funeral and how you supposedly fascinated the old man. - "I can't help  but wonder what you told him." - Miriam is not asking, rather she's demanding. You notice it too quickly for own taste.

"The truth." - your answer is simple, almost forced out of you, yet incredibly correct.

Silence falls between the two of you, mother and daughter that successfully managed to grow apart during the years. Every dialogue between you now feels like a forced monologue from Miriam's part. But you don't mind it, knowing well your mother would never understand you, let alone try. And you don't expect her to, after all you sometimes don't even understand yourself. Your mother's heavy with golden rings hand makes and attempt to slide on the table you're both sitting on, in order to reach yours. However, halfway there she stops, then curls her fingers towards herself, in decision not to touch you. Her eyes nervously look up to you, searching for a reaction, which they don't find. At last, you both ignore the gesture, in silent agreement.

"The truth..." - she repeats dryly. - "is not something a lot of people are  ready to hear, especially men." - you cross your legs, a new dress - this time beige, wrinkles because of the movement. Your eyes lift up with a dangerous glare, piercing through the table. On it there are various dishes placed for feasting, way too many for a family of three. And it's only morning. You find it amusing how your mother desires to marry you off in order to save money, yet still gives them freely everyday. Waste. Is that what you are in her head? A few quiet steps echo through the air - a familiar figure entering the room. You treat your father's appearance as a good sign not to open your mouth about this topic yet. - "So remember my advice and do not share it with the man, you're trying to win the love of."

Richard sighs with irritation before he could even be wished good morning.

"Always marriage and love with you women, nothing else."  - his voice is rough from sleep, beard ready for shaping as it's getting too big, so Miriam makes a grimace when he leans in to steal a kiss, the outgrown hairs annoying her soft skin. Yet she smiles, she welcomes him like a good wife, almost as if she's giving out examples to you. But it's very doubtful if you're ever going to be this welcoming towards a man, any man. As your father takes a seat next to you, on a slightly larger chair than the rest around the table, another plate of piled up eatables is placed in front of him, by the only working maid inside your home, the last of six more, which Miriam had to dismiss out of lacking coin for their monthly payments. Your mother often feels guilty about those poor women who practically begging her to let them stay, as they don't see where else they can work, but you don't even remember their faces, let alone names.

"Well, it's only natural for Vermilyea to enter this phase of her life." - your mother's hand roams through the table, successfully grabbing a glass of clear, french win - perfect for her nerves, and guides it to her lips, tasting it with precision. - "If anything, she's rather late." - the woman can't seem to stop herself from giving out a commentary. Your father gives you a quick look, his gentle eyes proposing safety and softness per usual. You don't blink in response, instead you look down at your own plate, which is empty, because you already ate your breakfast and can say you're full. Still, you reach out for another piece of tarte, trying to taste their hypocrisy.

"And who's her candidate?" - Richard questions, adjusting his tight collar so the food he consumed can go easily down his throat, as he's a quick eater and doesn't always chew like he should be.

"Monsieur Pierre Bernard" - your father doesn't seem twice surprised to hear the name of the man, which wife's funeral he attended just the day before. His eyes narrow at Miriam, who gentle twists her head, almost provocatively and flashes him a smirk, already tasting his disappointment. - "He's a banker, my darling - filthy rich."

"I don't like him." - an argument Richard has to desire to defend, simply because it's final. Besides, Vermilyea Bernard doesn't sound right.

"You don't like any man for Vermilyea." - a white handkerchief is lifted to the woman's lips, gathering the remains of the wine, which is now gone and the cup stays empty on the table. Right next to it, Miriam slams the dirtied fabric. - "We could've married her almost ten years ago."

Another truth, spoken from such a fake woman, forces the room to go silent. When you were fifteen, nine years apart from your current twenty-four, a young boy came to ask your hand in marriage. After a few days in forced dates you understood that he had been your neighbour all along, you just weren't very interested in socialising. To be fair, the boy was nice, he was clearly educated and had looks, under all that he wasn't much older than you, barely a year or two, and had a decent family name, to which you could have been tied up and die, covered in gold after a while. Of course there were many problems with the situation - your father didn't want to give you up so soon, despite you being in the legal age for marriage, your own disinterested, and the final factor, which was that you weren't bleeding yet, therefore any desires for children were impossible. In the end, said boy found himself another girl for a wife and you stayed with a pleased father, who has only been your legal step father for barely five years and wanted to live out his dream of having a child, and an angry mother, who believed a great opportunity was ruined. That day you began to wonder if the story behind your biological father dying right before marrying Miriam was real, and not the possibility of you being an unwanted daughter, made with consent or not.

After that many men tried to win you over, but it never worked. In current days you were either considered too old, too mean or - the new one - too broke to marry. Slowly the variety of choice Miriam was clinging to disappeared and now she had no other choice, but to offer to whoever is ready to take you.

"Vermilyea is not meant to be a wife, nevertheless." - Richard announces after the brief, awkward pause, forcing Miriam to grab her forehead in a slightly trembling palm. This is your father finest argument against your mother. Your simple inability to bear children. The absence of a normal menses cycle in your womanhood.

At age sixteen, right after the marriage disappointment, Miriam Lament began to worry for her daughter. Not because you were ill or anything close to it, but because you were broken, at least in her eyes. You hadn't bled yet. Your nightgowns were still white as snow and your mattress was clean. But your mother knew it wasn't normal at your age, given the fact that she had bled for the first time at thirteen. Upon calling a doctor, who touched you with more interest than usual in his eyes, it was confirmed that you weren't going to be able to carry children, or get pregnant at all. You didn't know where that information came from, but facts are facts and no blood came your way since that day. When you were little your mother told you that the feminine cycle was a curse from God for the original sin, which she refused to talk about, as it has nothing to do with just an apple. Yet years after she spoke the Devil's name when they told her about your condition. It didn't make sense to be cursed by both of them.

In some regards you were thankful for not having to beat the unnecessary pain in audition to it and also - never go into labour. Not like you have anything against pain, you welcome it, because you don't normally feel it. Your tolerance built too high. You remember breaking your smallest finger of the left hand when you were still small and careless. There was no crying or screaming from your part, as the pain wasn't much of a trigger. You didn't tell Miriam, or Richard, or anyone at all. You just wrapped the finger to the one next to it with a bandage and hid it for months under gloves, which you said were a fashionable choice when your mother asked about them. Eventually your finger healed, but in a wrong way - crooked like the metal hooks for fishing your father owns, yet never uses. Nowadays it stands out, however noone asks about it.

Besides your unnatural looking finger, curious different in colour eyes, your strange inability to pronounce 'r' and maybe too sharp attitude, you try to stay presentable all the time. You take care of your skin so it's softer than silk and you feel good when denying people, especially men, from touching it. Your hair is always neatly done, matching the clothes you've chosen for the day. And you smell of delicious perfumes, the best from the market. As a noble lady you're expected to be this perfect all day, everyday. You, of course, have another selfish reason for doing it. In fact, you're to say it out loud the moment the small argument between your parents dies and you hear Richard's voice asking you something with irradiation.

"Tell her, Vermilyea, tell her you don't want to marry that old man, convince her you can do better with your future husband." - he's almost begging you. It's not often that your father has an opinion, different from that of Miriam. However he's the only person, who dares to consider your  own opinion for reasonable. You don't express gratitude, if anything you look up to the man with narrow, unblinking eyes, almost making him regret what he has spoke, because he quickly realises what's coming.

"The only one I want..." - you make a pause, in which your mother sighs and your father swallows dryly. - "...is Mirdin."

"For God's sake, Vermilyea, your Mirdin doesn't exist!" - Miriam is angry now, her hands falling on the table with no mercy, expression her natural reaction. It's not the first time you've mentioned that name, this topic is almost as old as you, yet both of your parents don't really know who  exactly you're talking about. They think, key word think, that Mirdin is the perfect man in your eyes. You give them credit for being almost correct. However they get the gender wrong and on top of that, they believe that Mirdin is a fiction, a character you created in your head, but that is far away from the truth your mother is so keen on not sharing. - "You made him up when you were little, it's time to forget him."

"I don't mean to sound rude, Vermilyea, but didn't you say Mirdin was dead?" - you hum, finally blinking after what feels like all morning. The topic makes you so soft, too vulnerable for your own taste. Your father's comment makes you rethink your answer. Mirdin is dead, or at least that is what they told you when you were around ten years old. But a body was never found and you were determined to meet your woman saviour again. No matter what, even if it means not correcting your parents when they call her a man, when you know she wouldn't go this low. Mirdin is gentle, Mirdin is not a protector, Mirdin is yours. And Mirdin was never a man. - "Why still think about him—"

"Because I will be with my Mirdin and noone else. I wouldn't be happy with another." - you cut him off, the obsession finally leaving your body. One might say it's love, but you know better - such an emotion has ever crossed your path, not even for Mirdin. - "Even if it means waiting for him to be reborn again... until the day I die."

Silence. Utterly disgusting silence. And then Miriam shifts in her seat.

"I will send a letter to Monsieur Pierre to tell him you're also interested in meeting him again." - your mother quickly calls the maid and shakes her fingers to the table - a silent request for her to clean it. The middle aged woman bods and begins to gather empty plates with precision. Miriam continues to talk, now standing. - "Despite your... everything, you're still pure, Vermilyea, and that has come kind of prize to your name." - you feel a strong squeeze on your shoulder and you're probably expected to let out a yelp of pain, but that never happens. Your mother's grip is way too weak. You don't even look her in the eyes when her final words strike down. - "You have enough time to fix yourself, or at least what good is left in you." - she's relentless, you're unbothered, your father is silent.

At that moment you decide to take the last thing that Miriam believes is 'good' in you. She says you're pure, you don't exactly agree. Naturally if it's the kind of pureness a doctor checks you from time to time, then yes - you've never had a man, or anyone in your bed, let alone touching you. But you've spent countless nights with your own hands between your legs, the image of your Mirdin guiding your fingers and mind. And if the only way to push that old pig - Monsieur Pierre - away is to ruin yourself, then you shall do exactly that.

*****

There are many different brothels in Veret, all filled to the brim with cheap women, who sell themselves to starved for sex men. Perhaps the most famous and preferred pleasure house in the town is a place, called The gilded veil. Despite its name there is nothing golden in it, except the dirtied yellow metal on the sign outside and the heavy from coins pockets of the lady, whoever she is, running the business. But you know well where the name comes from. In such brothels privacy is an expensive pleasure, yet in The gilded veil every serving woman wears a mask, from fake gold of course, but it's convenient enough to fool a man, or a whole group of them. It's also appealing.

Upon entering the front chamber of the building, you find yourself in a place, trying its best to resemble a small parlor. Here people still believe they are entering a proper environment. Although the chairs are old and there is an unpleasant scent in the air, it's welcoming enough to trick the mind. You, of course, come prepared. A woman doesn't find herself in such places unless she's seeking an unwell paid, yet some kind of job, attending sick fantasies and cruel intentions, or simply - walking in by mistake. A man sat on a green, slightly ripped canapé immediately spots you, but any word dies deep in his throat once you toss him a small bag of coins and he points to a closed door on the left, while nodding his head.

Stepping inside you're immediately greeted by a symphony of lustful sounds. Most of the moans are fake, rooted out from sore throats of women, who don't even enjoy whatever it happening to them, but do it for the money they are going to receive. Your eyes move around the room, taking in the reddish decor, the many chaise lounges, carved details on all of them. Between all the furniture you spot stretched and hooked to the ceiling large fabrics, which aim to separate the different areas for pleasure within the grand room. According to your private studies with a personally found for you teacher, sex is considered something sacred, so the small amount of lighting - consisting of oil lamps and heavy candelabras, is reasonable. Although it's in complete contrast with the performed acts under that warm, amber light. The working women, or as many would call them ladies of the night or more likely whores, are barely clothed. A loose corset here and an open shirt there. You've never seen such various amount of genitals - both male and female. Some of the women even get you questioning how they can stay almost perfectly shaved and smooth without giving themselves a rash. Everything for looking clean for men, who probably carry more diseases than a sick goat.

You're not given much attention, since the people are busy with their own matters of consumption, but step after step you begin to notice tension in eyes, which happen to flick at you for more than just a second. It's only normal for you to stand out, after all people know eachother in places like this. And so, while passing a circled by a soft sofa table, you quickly snatch a fake golden maks from it, as the woman owner seems too busy bobbing her head up and down on a customer's twitching cock, her eyelashes wet from tears.

After another quick look around the room, with now secured mask on your face, you make a mental note to yourself that you do not wish to share your body with more men than needed. You only need a singular bastard to call lucky enough to pierce through you and ruin you once and for all, so you can escape the claws of another one. So naturally, you take a turn to where you believe the private rooms should be, as every good brothel has them for richly paying customers. And since you're currently pretending to be a lady on the job,  you needn't spend more coin on unnecessary things. The place you're headed to is not hard to find - a long corridor behind the main room, devoid of any doors and the only sense of privacy you can feel around here are the thin fabrics in front of each entrance.

The moans are more desperate here. The shift is instant,  even the men are vocal with their needs and pleasure. A few naked women, your false colleagues, walk right past through you, whispering you luck as the gentleman in room four is rather passionate in his work. By the time you reach that point of the corridor, the sounds you begin to hear change as well. Whimpers. You've always found them alluring, because you can never tell, even now, if the person making them is genuinely in insane level of pleasure or just pain. As if withdrawn by the sonority, you find yourself peeking inside that very fourth chamber. Inside you spot a shaking female body, rutting on top of the lap of the mentioned gentleman, a small bed rocking beneath them. He spots you immediately, almost like he was expecting you.

"Viens ici, chérie." - he commands in a low, fluent French and you're reminded again of why you despite the language. Come here, darling. He says it with hunger in his eyes, grabbing the hips of the fragile woman on top of him, to the point of bruising. You compose a smile of amusement. Soon, he lifts her off enough for his large cock to escape free from inside her, the tip so red it's practically begging for release. - "Tu veux regarder? Ou tu veux goûter?” - Do you want to watch, or to taste? His question stays unanswered, as you walk away, now devoid of curiosity. He waits for a few seconds and then your ears are rewarded again with that pleasant whimpering, which attracted you in the first place.

The next few private rooms are nothing you haven't already seen, so you pass by them without giving much attention to what's happening inside. One scene of particular, however, shows the outcome of unsafe practice of the profession. A woman is using her hand to satisfy a bulging man's need, her belly round with a child, who's father shall probably never get revealed and if it happens to be a girl, it will most likely become like her mother. The woman looks at you with pleasing eyes to which you don't show pity, if anything you just walk away, only the thought of finding an empty chamber for yourself wandering inside your head. By the end of the corridor you do succeed to fulfill your wishes, yet you're missing a man to share the small, used many times by others bed. With a quick turn, you begin walking back to the large commun chamber.

Few minutes away from the filth doesn't necessarily mean something significant changed, yet in your case - it did. You feel, or rather hear it the moment you return. The moans are not as loud and the people are severely more composed, although still naked. Such behaviour calls for a reason, it's not difficult to guess why. Sometimes even the the noblest of the noble come seeking sinful attendance through the dark hours of the night. You don't immediately spot someone you know from that class, which is unusual, because you've memorized all of their chubby with fatness faces, from the times your mother used to invite them all in the house, in hope for a new friendship. None of them clicked right for Miriam, just like you disappoint yourself with not finding a familiar face. In the middle of the room, however, you see the reason for the sudden distress.

Not a noble figure, not even a local one. But undoubtedly a person of value, the picture reveals a masked customer among long forgotten themselves ladies of the night, with the privilege of privacy. The man, as he surely stands and acts like one, has taken a central seat in the middle of the large room, clean and smoothed suit resting on velvet fabrics of the sofa, polished shoes almost looking scared to touch the covered in whatever body fluids there floor. Arms crossed in his lap, as if immune to the two charming women sitting on his sides, both with breast revealed to the public, nipples perked enough to catch attention. There is a very obvious presence  of consent between them - the  mysterious man doesn't touch them, nor do they play with him. Only flirting eyes, smirks and low, dirty whispers. It's very rare for a man, enjoying his time in a brothel, to be just talking with the workers, as they are not merely companions, but women ready to sell themselves for living. But coin is coin and they are going to take it, despite not having to take a man up them. A normal person would say that's better for them, but you can only think of a way to stealing their polite customer, seeing him as perfect for your plans. Knowing your own charms, you remove the stolen mask, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before walking towards the masked man.

Once your boots line up with his pointy shoes, you give him a quick, but calculated glare, with the idea of comprehending the need of the golden mask over his visage. There are no signs of some kind of injury, so you take the freedom to think it has something to do with privacy, again. Upon a second look, it is revealed that the metal shines under the lighting like dripping, fresh honey. You've seen enough of your mother's necklaces to know you're eye to eye with someone rich enough to allow themselves such large, truly golden mask. An expensive accessory, no denying it. The design is also appealing. The top is lined with the beginning of his forehead, after a sea of blonde hairs, unusually long and even braided for man, yet with the new coming fashion, especially in Paris, you don't pay it much attention. The man's face is entirely  covered with thick gold down to his nose, where the mask is cut according to his head shape, hugging features with care. Under that final line are hooked many small in size golden chains, free to move around down to his jawline, beneath which you spot a greyish thin fabric, adding another layer of protection, although almost see through, to his already hidden face. The mask is secured by an additional shiny frame around his head, which goes behind his ears and drips down to his neck like a necklace, turned backwards.

"Yes?" - a slightly confused tone pulls you out from your hideous staring without usually blinking trance. - "Anything you need, my lady?" - his voice is raspy, low, yet melancholy pleasant for listening. He talks slowly, without rushing the just started conversation, as if trying to drown in it. The mysterious man sounds like he needs to cough any moment, or rather - he's been smoking something strong until now. Yet it's clear how hard he works to cover that and you can't help just notice some kind of familiarity.

"Not exactly, I'm here to give my... services." - only after replying to him, you acknowledge you both serve yourselves with the English language, without thinking why French is not present. Perhaps he has guessed you're not fluent, or perhaps he himself can't speak it. That question, however, is not important.

"But I already have two lovely companions with me." - your previous thoughts and observations turn out to be correct. He doesn't see these women as the whores they are, but a human company to spend the night with. You don't understand it, you've paid for something then you should do your best to devour it. Besides you've never liked being around others. Speaking of the ladies, they do not talk, but they sharp, ruined with dark makeup, eyes do look you up and down from head to toe. The man spreads out a palm, as if to show them, his hand smaller the usual size for a grown up. - "It would be greedy to ask for a third...besides I don't remember ordering you."

"I'm exclusive and...private." - in hope to get him as soon as possible in those private rooms and get it over with, you insist on him hearing the last word from your mouth. He only hums, blinking slowly, therefore giving you enough time to manage a look under his mask and note out that he, as well, possesses blue eyes, one slightly lighter in colour than the other, however. You think of lifting up your skirts for show, but a nod from the man in front of you tells you he's starting to think about what you're proposing.

"And how much will that cost me?" - his voice drips with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

"Free of charge." - you announce, forcing a gasp, quickly followed by another, from the half naked women on both sides of the man. The small coin bags, tied to their underwear, speaks more than you should know - they would never do a service for free, even if it's just sitting next to a customer. Soon, he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound muffed from the mask.

"Oh, certainly interesting..." - his hand moves to the right, where his long, slender finger connect with a metal handle, connected to a long walking cane. He moves it from side to side, almost like trying to decide if he should get up or not. However, this action has effect on the two women - without saying anything, they slowly raise from their seats and begin to walk off, whispers wandering after them like insects. - "Tell me your name then, exclusive lady of the night." - what a mocking voice he roots out from his throat.

"Vermilyea." - you answer quickly, then adding - "Vermilyea Lament."

His hand freezes on the spot, knuckles going white from the intense grip he holds upon the handle of his metal cane. His legs,  slightly spread, now cross with the speed of a scared little boy. He takes in a breath, which probably has been intented to be silent, but his tight collar betrays him. His body language expresses fear, or at least - panic. Surprisingly he covers it like nothing, reminding you somehow of yourself. Soon, the man leans forward, curving his head to look up to you. And he laughs.

"Vermilyea Lament..." - he repeats, rolling your name on his tongue, savouring it like it's sacred, or rather cursed. The endless dilemma of your existence, that no philosophy book has ever held the answer to.

"Is there a problem, Monsieur...?"  - you lift up your eyebrows, mimicking interesting. If you have to be honest with yourself, a few minutes ago you were interested in what story this weird man has to offer, but he's slowly starting to fit the aesthetic of those who often calm their nerves down with intoxicating additives. Your mother does it sometimes, and you wouldn't be half bothered by it if those people weren't so insufferable when high.

"I doubt my name is of much importance for you, my dear." - he stops for just a second, as if awaiting reaction. You're used to formalities, however, such verbal address doesn't affect you the way he desires. Because it's easy - to charm up a woman with cheap pet names and then take advantage. It seems like you both understand that this is not your case. Another thing you notice is how the man has quickly catch on your little performance as a worker. For now, you decide to ignore it. - "But shall it please your tongue — Danamir Corneille."

Your response is limited to a simple nod. You've got a name to the man. Just a quiet, fake moan of it would be enough for his sanity to disappear. You are no stranger to the allure a woman's body can hold, especially your body, you've been way too... admired through the years. Of course noone actually got something from you, as you didn't want anything as well. Your shoulder roll backwards, and you allow the petit jacket you have over them, mostly for the idea of a full fit of clothes, to fall them, revealing bare skin. That's how you wish to start, after all you don't plan on getting completely naked. The job would be done with a poke or two, skirts needn't even be fully lifted. Monsieur Danamir Corneille's eyes narrow and suddenly he stands up, perhaps head and a two taller, but for some reason - thinner.

"Private, you said?" - his head tilts and you refuse to look look up to him, by your own judgment he's not worthy of it. - "Very well then, Vermy." - Vermy? - "Lead the way, my darling. Let's see what a Lament offers when coin isn't a part of the bargain."

The tip of his cane hits the ground with a tud. Despite how composed and mighty he looks, tall and with a straight back, brushing invisible strings off his purple suit here and there, you can't miss the fact that Danamir Corneille limpers. That's why he needs his cane. With slow steps, you both make your way to that empty private room.

.

.

.

"Sex is... only given out of love or for money." - by the merely ten minutes with this strange man alone in a room you've come to the understanding he has no intention of jumping on you like a feral beast. Instead, he has been speaking with the polished arrogance of a man who thinks intelligence is foreplay.  You rarely get angry, but can't help the twitching of your fingers as he leans back on the bed, still not making any kind of move or even a gesture, which would  suggest a start to the topic he's currently discussing. You're not used to really listening to other people's opinions either, so you need a second to process once he calls out your name. - "Vermilyea, we both understand that there is no love between us and since you don't want any money, I just don't see a reason to—"

"There's no love, but there is need." - you cut him off, offering words that you believe would suit his taste. Sat on a smaller chair two steps to the left of him, you can't do much, but lift up your skirts to knee level, teasing, while your tongue lies with precision. - "I want you, Monsieur Corneille."

"You don't know me, Vermy." - that awful nickname again.

"I don't have to know you." - although cold with the tone, you try your best to sound convincing.

"You just want me to use you then?" - a loud moan echoes through the room next to you, for some reason making Danamir flinch. Perhaps, his ears are sensitive. Or he's rather allured by the sound. His head turns to you, golden braid yanked over one shoulder - reaching the beginning of his chest. You've never seen a man with such long hair.  Neatly cared for as well. At that moment, looking at his crossed legs, a new thought passes through your mind - the possibility of Monsieur Corneille being interested in men, rather than women. But it wouldn't make sense to sit in their company, although you never saw him touching those ladies from earlier. Stranger. - "Or do you want to use me, Vermy?"

"Would that...offend you?" - you slow down your speech, trying to convince this man you haven't been practicing dialogues in your head from the moment you stepped into the brothel. Although you're good in convincing, you need preparation to make perfection. This is a rule you live by, otherwise your desires and the things you do for them would feel like failure. However, you've never tasted that and you're no near planning to.

"No." - the man is completely honest, proud with his answer. He stops and waits for a wave of whimpers from the girl next door to pass on, quickly followed by filthy cursing and unpleasant wet slapping sound. Then he adds to his one worded reply. - "But it would bore me."

"Then I'll pretend I want to be loved." - you lie again, not even having a hint of how love feels like. By the time you finish your sentence, the fabric of your skirts is already lifted high enough for your thighs to be exposed, covered in stockings, which seems to have caught Monsieur Corneille's attention. - "A young virgin girl, yearning for love. Would you like that, Monsieur Corneille?"

He stays silent for at least a minute, lost in his own head and the bridge between yes and no, and possibly another thing you don't really understand - morals. Then a scoff is released through warm air inside the  room you're in, making it smaller and more irritating than it already is.

"Every other man in my place would demand to see the cunt he's paying for." - his argument is confirmed by the grunts from the neighbour next door, who loudly announces his release. At the same moment Monsieur Corneille takes out a pocket watch and focuses on the numbers, counting seven minutes from the other man's last spending. A click of his tongue passes as critique. - "But since there is no coin in our business - I won't force you to show anything you don't want to." - he turns to look at his cane,  bending slightly forward, as if he's uneasy just sitting in one place. Truly there is something wrong with the man, you just can't figure out what, yet. - "What you need from me" - he murmurs, eyes not quite meeting you. - "...does include you getting naked, Vermy."

You decide to stay silent. Your body, however, is already moving. The small chair falls down behind you as stand up,  boots dragging over the floor until you reach the open entrance to your borrowed room and you seal the exit with the presented thin fabrics, imitating a door. The naked human body is but a cage to the soul, which you sometimes wonder if you still have - if it was there in the first place. So naturally, you're not ashamed to show it, yet it would be more fitting if only one pair of eyes are observing. The man is correct - there is no coin, but there is usage. And that needs to be repayed as well.

Retuning to the centre of the rather small room, you make sure Monsieur Corneille is looking closely and attentively. Regardless, his cane is now in his hand and he holds to it for dear life. You almost fell like something for sale on the market, but you're too deep in to stop now. With your jacket already gone, which the man was kind enough to pick up and place next to him on the bed, you can easily start with the removal of your walking skirt, fitted perfectly around your waist. The floor-length piece of clothing is flared just enough to allow movement, while the fabric itself it's from a cheap material, as you didn't want to waste something expensive in a dirty place like this brothel. In fact, once you remove your skirts, you carefully place them over the fallen chair, without fixing its position so they stay over the vertically inverted seat.

Your blouse is devoid of sleeves, but with a high neckline and ruffled edges. White at colour and light in weight the clothing is feminine and elegant, despite the intention to show more skin than it should. The buttons on it are small and curved like olives. And soon they are opened free, the blouse removed fully and placed over your skirt. You glance around to seek Monsieur Corneille, who seems invested in watching you undress. He even clears his throat as another moan interrupts your private time. A simple roll of his hand suggest that you should continue.

Your pastel lace-trimmed corset cover is perhaps the easiest to remove, given how thin and again - sleeveless, it is. With it out of the way your layers of clothing are limited to the last few pieces, which are your actual corset, split-crotch drawers - perfect for the occasion, because of the easy access. And of course a simple, modest chemise, almost glued to your skin. You reach behind yourself to get working on loosing the corset, but an idea quickly forms inside your head. If you allowed the unable to move eyes from you Monsieur Corneille to remove it, would he immediately jump you and get this scene over it? In your own humble opinion a man would pretty much accept and given their lack of self control, what will happened wouldn't be surprising. So you walk into another helpless role.

"Monsieur Corneille, would be so kind to help me with my corset?" - your voice is tender, almost awkward as you're never the one to ask for aide.

"Tell me, ma chérie, how many maids helped you out this morning when you were putting it on?" - part of you now understands why he has approached you in English. His French, despite the usage of only a nickname, sounds just as forced and bad as your own. You don't bite around that corner of his sentence, however. Because you're not interested in his speech, rather his audacity to suggest you need other women to help you dress.

"None." - you say through clenched teeth. - "I did it myself."

A quiet scoffs tells you everything you need to know in that moment. The man has tricked you.

"Then I'm certain you don't need my help now."

As mentioned earlier - you don't get angry that easily. Most of the time, the triggers, which irritate other people are too indifferent for you. But it's one thing to endure endless void of useless words, escaping even more useless mouths, but it's a whole other thing when someone manages to see through you, as clearly as Danamir Corneille just did. You stare at his unmoving mask, the uncanny image of this precious metal shell, and you decide on the spot that this man is nothing ordinary. He's similar to you, but you're not sure yet if you're from the same kind of almost human creatures.

The room goes silent for a few minutes and soon enough you find yourself completely naked before the man's eyes.

The raw feeling of being exposed to someone else rather than the mirror is more overwhelming than you originally thought, but you're certain it's because you're still a bit uneasy from your previous exchange of words. Despite your position, the bare body, and the way Monsieur Corneille is shifting in his seat - he hasn't made a single move towards you yet. Only making a circular motion with his hand, so you can turn around and show all of yourself. Your hair sticks to your back, befriending your spine while the warm lighting within the room dances over your smooth skin. Your beauty is unmatched, almost flawless, and he is now aware of it too. Perhaps, too aware.

"You are not a whore, Vermilyea Lament." - his tongue is sharp as a blade, which can only wish to cut through you, as you stop, but don't allow yourself to be caught off guard again. Your body is unmoving, eyes unblinking, you try to make yourself look bigger. But he's unbothered. - "You dress like a noble lady, you talk like a person with education, which most of your...colleagues don't have." - he mocks the working women with sarcastic precision. - "You're too...too perfect for that title." - then he looks up directly to you. - "You're perfect for me, my pet." - your eyebrows twist for the first time upon hearing one of his nicknames, this one too familiar and unlikable for your taste. The man notices and scoffs with coldness. - "Finally, a child of great Britain, aren't you?" - now you acknowledge another thing you have missed - Danamir Corneille has been testing you with those ridiculous nicknames till now, seeking your origin. You don't like how much information you have given him, without even doing anything in particular. Yet, you refuse to show him your genuine amusement.

"You're very observant." - your voice is dripping poison, any role of an innocent girl thrown out of this dirty place. You don't tell him the truth. You're not British, your adoptive father is, but he doesn't need to know that, not now.

"I've learnt to be." - you can physically feel the smile underneath his mask, it makes you sick. He soon adds.-"I had to.You can't trust anybody those days, especially strangers who...are so eager to be alone with you."

"Do you believe I can harm you in any way, Monsieur Corneille?" - just the idea of it is comical. You - naked and vulnerable, a woman versus a fully dressed man, too calm to be thinking anything good. And even if you believe in your verbal manipulations, you are aware that you can't fight a man, despite the fact that the one in front of you is visible weak, because of the can he uses and how thin he is, compared to the other individuals, which you saw tonight.

"No." - a firm answer, followed by an argument, which most people are afraid to speak out loud, especially directly in front of you. - "But you have no light in your eyes, Vermilyea. Everyone strays from a person such as you." - there is no nicknames from his part anymore, not even his favourite Vermy. He's completely serious, determined for a real conversation, without a clear ending, however. You like to play games with people like him, and how he has proposed a  competition before you, for which you're excited.

"My mother always says my eyes are a curse from the devil." - the man tilts his head to a side, taking in the two different colours, possessing your irises. You're used to be observed like a deformed creature, so you allow him to do so. In the meantime you speak your thoughts out loud for him. - "They are an imperfection, a defect. And I suppose she's right — they are driving people away from me."

"Your mother sounds like an interesting woman, but I'm afraid I do not agree with her." - Monsieur Corneille shakes his head as if offended, then he taps the floor a few times with his cane, perhaps to calm down before announcing something important. - "Everything out of the ordinary is considered the devil's work...but aren't his creations marvellous?" - his hand spreads out to you for am example. And after that he makes almost a whole speech in practically one breath. - "He's a mad genius. A painter, underrated by others. Each of his 'artworks' have a hint of mischief in them, no? He twists the beautiful with the ill-favoured and creates something out of nothing - born from both violence and tranquility. Of course, his designs come with a price but above everything they are masked as perfection, because not a single human can consider what exactly is completely devoid of flaws."

The words are deep and most certainly - his, entirely. You can guess by the way he speaks with passion, while his hand follow like obedient slaves to the speech. A smirk lurks around your lips.

"Are you a poet, Monsieur Corneille?" - you ask, voice almost innocent, if that is even possible for you.

"No." - a determined answer, follow by few seconds long silence. Enough for you to prepare your next question.

"A philosopher?" - you hum, still smiling at him, in hope to root out information. - "I rather like philosophers."

"Unfortunately not." - the man takes a deep breath, as if his actual profession is a burden. But you don't see it as such, once he reveals it. - "My occupation is that of a simple traveling doctor, who likes to loose himself in  pleasure," - he uses a French manner to say the word, focusing on the satisfying 'z'  sound. - "...between working hours."

"Will you help me then, doctor?" - his formal working title rolls down on your tongue, as you try to use it against him. - "Will you ruin me the way I want?" - a doctor would treat you with precision. Or at least they say so.

"I'm afraid I'm not able to." - his head drops down and he places his arms in his lap, looking somewhere between disappointed and guilty.

"May I ask what do you mean by that?" - your eyebrows furrow in confusion, while you fight the urge to take a step closer and finally use your naked body for good and make him take you.

Then Monsieur Corneille does something unexpected. His back straightens and he gets up, the small bed squeaking from the lifted up weight. You're reminded of the fact that he's taller than you and possibly more skinny, as he soon takes off his jacket - revealing a plain white shirt, which exposes his small figure. Perhaps he's sick? Or simply doesn't eat much? Any questions die in your throat the moment he wraps the jacket over your shoulders, covering most of your upper body. - "I believe you've already figured I can't help you with your needs, but I suppose it's time for me to get undress as well."

The man is quick to remove his shirt, the linen fabric is crisp and white, you guess it feels smoothing over skin. Instead of disposing it on the ground, he folds it quickly in his arms before placing it on the bed. The view under his clothes leaves you confused. Over his chest a large, thick looking line of something resembling medicine bandage, runs over the skin, tightened to redness and if you had to guess - pain. But why? Is he wounded? You wish to ask him, but soon enough he starts to take off the flattering undergarment with clever, fast working fingers.

You blink once, then twice, trying to comprehend what has been revealed to you. The man...rather the person, as you're not exactly sure anymore, clearly has a feminine chest. Your eyes are met with a pair of breasts, slightly crushed from the bandage over them, but definitely round and big like those of a woman, with even erected nipples, like yours, because of the coldness in the room. Trying to not look too much at them, you move your attention downwards to the newly exposed ribs, which are almost see through the skin, completely devoid of any fat. But what is most interesting about Monsieur or rather Madame Corneille is the large, darker in shade than the rest of the flesh, scar over the stomach - horizontally and just below the navel. It's not straight, though, it's flawed with rough edges, which suggests the wound didn't heal as it was expected. It's rather...familiar. Before she can pull down her pants as well, to fully confirm her female anatomy, you speak out, already have guessed you're not going to see a cock there. In fact, you're reminded of the way Monsieur Corneille often stays with his legs crossed, completely unnatural for most men. Which she is not.

"You're a woman..." - you try to shape your point of view. - "dressed as a man...why?" - you can't seem to find a good reason at the moment.

"Oh, that's too much of a long story, I'll leave it for another time." - listening to her voice now, you can clearly hear how forced it is to sound more masculine. It's not because the poor Monsieur Corneille couldn't cough properly. Yet noone can achieve such change with just abuse over vocal cords. There's something else involved, some kind of chemical, perhaps?

"Then..." - you murmur, part of you getting excited to see the truth behind this person's story. You knew Monsieur Corneille was too composed to be a real man. But now you're truly invested - "at least let me see your face. You owe me wasted time." - after all a woman can't ruin another woman. Not in the way you desire, that is.

After a moment of hesitation, she nods her head, arms reaching up for the golden mask. - "As you wish, my lady."

Fifteen years worth of yearning and constant thinking about a forgotten ghost reveal themselves upon you within seconds. With the mask now gone, you see a painfully familiar visage, carved into your mind for eternity. She looks like you, with just a few slight differences - her cheeks are more pronounced, her jaw shaper, her nose is not straight like yours, but rather chippy, her lips are full and soft looking and her skin tone is just a bit lighter than yours. But her eyes, oh her eyes are practically made to match yours. One of them is blue as a furious ocean, while the other silver as bullet. You've never seen anything like that, except that you had. When you were around eight. When you first met this woman. Your obsession, your possession, your....

"Mirdin..." - a whisper among ghosts, filled with emotion a normal person wouldn't understand.

"Excuse me?" - she is lost, confused beyond reason, as to why this woman in from of her is looking like she's ready to devour or... worship. And that sudden nickname. - "Who is—?"

"What is your name?" - you cut her off, blood floating through your veins with fury, making you shake from excitement. Because you know, there is no Danamir Corneille. He's not real, only she is. - "Your real one?"

"Miranda." - she announces the sound of your victory. Oh how you wish to scream at the whole wide world your Mirdin is not dead, she has never been. And you knew it. You waited, all those years of despair. The only person you actually care about is standing right in front of you and you...wish to run away. The meeting being too overwhelming.

"I want to leave." - you breath in, almost forgetting you have to do this to stay alive. Your eyes move away, now searching for your clothes on that small chair. - "I want to go home."

Miranda can't do much to stop you. She tries, once. With leads to you slapping her hand away. And she doesn't go near you for a second time. She watches as you dress yourself, although ripping the fabric from rushing. The moment you get ready, you dash towards the door, turning around only for a second to stare at the confused woman.

"Goodnight." - you blurt out, wanting to say something completely different, but in the moment of unusual panic, you forget yourself. A fool, that's what she turns you in. - "No— goodbye, Mirdin."

With that you leave, not hearing Miranda's last words towards you.

"I—goodbye then, Vermy. Let us meet again sometimes."

*****

The inside Monsieur Corneille's mind, or rather Miranda's, is pure chaos. But in the centre of it, there is only one person.

She's perfect. Oh, so perfect. Sweet Vermilyea with the awful last name Lament. Perfect. Perfect for me.

She can't get you out of her thoughts, even by force, or the alcohol she consumed after you left. She's sure even the morphine she often takes won't be able to help her. Because finally, finally she has found the perfect woman for her project, for her rebirth. Her doll will have your face, which is way too similar to hers and that makes it perfect. Not only that, but you're also able to match her way of thinking, although she managed to beat you in your games, simply because she uses those same techniques when she wants something. And Miranda might not always get what she desires, but Danamir Corneille does and only that matters.

Even now, she's walking down the dark alleys of Veret, unafraid, because she's beneath the costume of her public persona. The golden mask being her protector. She's respected and praised for being a man. All things that never reached her when she was a woman. All she knew was pain, blood and violence. But now the world is hers so will be Vermilyea Lament.

She takes a sharp turn to another street, eager to get to the tavern she has decided to sleep in, as her home is not here, no, her mansion awaits her in Montverre, therefore almost a whole day worth of travelling. Despite her pleasant meeting with you, she also was between many other people, most of them unwashed and dirty. And she couldn't stand it. The purple suit she wears will be washed over and over until her hands bleed and she's going to soak in her bath for at least an hour. All to feel clean again, something she hasn't really felt since being seventeen. After that man ruined her completely. The same man that now hunts her own mind.

Suddenly, Miranda stops all movements, her cane, which she uses for her limping, hits the ground and she turns around. Endless void of darkness following her tightly behind.

"Is someone there?" - her voice is shaking, the effect of the special herbs she uses to make it more like a man's already wearing off. But she's sure she heard someone behind her. She is unmoving, eye perfectly good and one unseeing eye staring at the night covered buildings around here. Only then she hears another voice and calms down, taking in a deep breath before resuming her hurried walking. - "I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone."

In reality, Monsieur Corneille is completely alone.

[mamiya-a]

I love this art, even though it's already a year old

[mamiya-a]

Quick reminder that Miranda walks around the village in heels.

[mamiya-a]

based on a linguistic misunderstanding between me and my wife while in a loud building

[mamiya-a]

Sneak peek of a smutty/fluffy one shot coming out soon!

-

-

NSFW warning

Slowly, the water drains from the kitchen sink. Circling in a whirlpool of apple scented soap and crumbs from the sandwich you ate. You grab the hand towel directly beside you, drying your hands off quickly and neatly fold the cloth into a square. Once you have set the towel down you grab the ring you set aside to wash the dishes from your lunch. Your eyes follow the smooth textured accessory, watching how the diamond glints from the light above. You smile and push the ring onto your ring finger. You turn your attention towards the clock hanging above kitchen island, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock counting time. You sigh, push yourself away from the kitchen counter and pad out of the kitchen and into the open living room space.

The ceilings vaulted with windows covering most of the room in light. A large black couch sits in the middle, a dark walnut coffee table in front of the couch and a fireplace adjacent to the table. You grab a fuzzy blanket from the end of the couch, wrap the comforter around your shoulders and flop down onto the couch. You count the beams holding your home together until your eyes gently close shut.

You're awoken to the sound of a loud thump. You bolt up, heart hammering in your chest and eyes wide. Your eyes dart around the room, the room filled with darkness and the blanket no longer around your shoulders. Sleepily, you drag your legs off the couch and your feet touch the blanket you fell asleep with. Your left hand runs your fingers through your hair, your right hand picking up the blanket from beneath your feet and setting it beside you on the couch.

Had you locked the door? You asked yourself silently. The day had gone by in a blur. Doing the same routine continuously never made your day exciting and you made sure the door was locked before you showered.

“Darling?” A voice rings out.

“Mira?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing.

Your wife wasn't due to be back until tomorrow evening. Miranda had gone to England for a business trip and seemed quite stressed over the whole ordeal so as you always did— you didn’t ask questions, or at least not enough to annoy her. (Sometimes you did it on purpose).

The light in the living room flicks on. Your eyes squint and through the blurriness of sleep, you can make out of your wife leaning up against the wall.

“Sleep well?”

You nod and blink away the blurriness of your vision. You stand and pad your way over to Miranda, her arms open and inviting. You crash into her, your nose finding itself in the crook of her neck and your hands finding purchase on her shirt. Her arms wrap around your neck, her lips pressed against the crown of your head and she rocks you side to side.

“How was your trip?” You ask, mumbling into her neck.

“Quite boring without you there, little crow.”

Your cheeks flame, a small whine slipping past your lips. Her pet names always had you melting into a puddle, especially after not seeing her for a while. Her voice is so soft, inviting and seductive that you find her voice addictive. Every word that came out of her mouth was like a prayer to you, something so holy and making you want to get on your knees. “My sweet girl.” Miranda purrs, her hands moving towards your thighs. Due to your position with your face in her neck, it's quite awkward, but she does it anyway. She picks you up, a squeak leaving your lips. You move away from her neck and take a good look at her eyes. Scanning the steel blue with hints of yellow and brown. She holds you close, nose brushing yours until her lips press against yours softly.

Kissing Miranda always ends up one way: you naked somewhere in the house and begging for her to touch you. Of course there were simple pecks here and there and kisses good morning, but something about the way Miranda devours your lips makes you turn into putty.

Miranda slowly kisses your lips, teasing your bottom lip with her tongue and grazing her teeth against your flushed skin. She presses your back up against the wall, hitting a painting and hearing the decoration fall to the ground with a crack. You giggle against your wife’s mouth and her grip on your thighs tightens. Miranda pulls away, her lips swollen and lipstick smeared. Her chest rising rapidly, her hair askew. God— you’re fucking burning alive.

“Can I take you to bed, love?” Miranda arches an eyebrow, her lips forming a small smirk.

“Fuck– yes please.”

Miranda presses a chaste kiss to your lips and she sets you down. She takes your hand, leading you to the staircase and she suddenly picks you up bridal style. You squeal, and press your nose into Miranda’s neck. She holds you close while she ascends the stairs, walking into your shared bedroom and she sets you down on your bed. She stares at you, silently, stripping you with a predatory gaze and a sly smile. Her fingers slowly grab the hem of your shirt, tugging upwards and pulling your shirt off. Revealing your bare chest, your wife hums in approval. She leans over, her cold hands running down your sides until she finds the waistband of your sweats. There’s a bit of an awkward struggle, with your hips up and her giggling while she tries to take them off. Your underwear follows soon after.

Miranda’s on top of you. Her lips devouring yours, her right hand pinning your wrists to the bed and her hips bracketing yours.

-

“Fuck— Mira it won’t fit.” You gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets for dear life. Your breathing ragged, sweat beading your forehead and slick sliding down your thighs.

“It will.” Miranda growls, her hand massaging your right ass cheek. “And you’ll take it like a good girl. Won’t you?”

“Y—yes.”

The burn at first doesn’t feel great, until about halfway and then you’re practically moaning like a bitch in heat. Your wife’s hands hold your hips, her fingers digging into your skin and creating crescent shapes. Her teeth scratch your back, nipping at your exposed sweaty skin and moaning as your cunt takes another inch of her faux cock. Your knuckles fade into white as you grip the white sheets beneath your writhing body. You're panting, teeth scraping the white pillow beneath your chin and you're feeling lightheaded. Miranda’s hips slot to your ass, bottoming out and your jerk backwards.

“Good– good girl, feather– fuck.” Miranda groans, her hips twitching.

You let out a mix of a moan and a mewl. You arch your back, breathing heavily and you turn your head to make eye contact with Miranda. Your eyes travel down her naked form, taking in her breasts and the stretch marks lining her tummy. The bruise on her hip, she hit the kitchen table a few days prior and you watch the way her eyes trace your body. You want to take it, you really do, but right now it's too much and you just want to see your wifes face.

“Mira–” you gasp when your wife rolls her hips. You moan loudly, your face pressing into the pillow and you fight the need to thrash. “Fuck– Mira can we change positions?”

Miranda stops rolling her hips, her fingers tense on your hips and she pulls out nimbly.

“Of course, feather– are you okay?” Miranda asks, flopping down beside you and her hand runs down your back with light scratches.

“Yes, I just want to see you.” You whisper, shifting and laying on your back. The cool sheets feel great against your back, and you sigh softly.

Miranda smiles sweetly, her hands running over your sweaty skin. She maneuvers in between your legs, guiding them open and she leans over to kiss your lips. You wrap your arms around her neck, pulling her into you and deepening her kiss with a swipe of your tongue. With this new position, you can feel the silicone cock pressing against your thigh and you buck your hips; trying to feel anything at this point. Awkwardly, she slips her left hand between your bodies and guides the dildo to your cunt. Pressing the toy against your clit, sliding through your slickness and teasing you. Your moans fade into her mouth, her tongue gliding against yours in a battle you know she’ll win.

The stretch burns and Miranda distracts you with kisses along your neck and chest. Her mouth leaving bite marks and hickeys along your skin and her hand that once helped guide the faux cock, now circles your clit. You spread your legs further, whimpering and breathing strongly through your nose.

“You can do it feather.” Miranda whispers, nipping at your right earlobe.

Her praise, it sends a shiver through your spine. The strap sliding into you, filling you and you let out an animalistic groan. Your fingers fling from the sheets, now creating crescent shaped lines in Miranda’s back. Scratching over her tattoo, her scars and creating fiery red lines in their wake.

“Good girl.” Miranda hums, her eyes finding yours. “Ready?”

You nod. Your legs spread ing wider, feeling the burn from stretching as far as you’re able and your hands hold onto Miranda’s back. The first roll of her hips has your head lolling back and the second has another monstrous moan coming from your lips. Miranda starts slow, testing how much you can take with this new toy. Her hips thrust, a bit harsher and she speeds up.

[mamiya-a]

When you have a vision of a single scene and now you have to write whole fic around it

[mamiya-a]

This food looks soooo good.

[mamiya-a]

What would happen if Miranda's family were a normal family, in which her children are in adolescence?

Miranda and her teenagers (Request)

Here's Miranda taking care of her teenagers ! X)

Every child is different ! :D

[mamiya-a]

The obsession with her back is hitting again, glad I'm not alone. Also, I love how her robe is cut so her wings can come out easily. Outfit be so convenient.

Miranda's moldy back:

[mamiya-a]

Playing dangerous

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

Chapter 17: Fool

Summary:

Love makes fools of us all, despite how different the situations are.

There is something different in Miranda's bedroom.

Of course, being keen on your senses, you try your best to see it first. Observation is just the key to understanding. Later on, you can wander in the new open door and gather information. Your eyelids twitch, gently, under the pressure of silent air. There is no sun peeking through the windows this morning, due to the practically glued to the glass curtains. You stay in almost complete darkness, enjoying the environment. However, your mind wonders...why does it feels so warm inside the room?  It's strange, after countless times sleeping in Miranda's bed you've come to the understanding that you're cursed to spend your nights with her in shivering coldness. But now, even the blankets are charged with burning heat, almost awakening irritation. 

Upon opening your eyes, you're met with endless yellow void. Soft to the touch, as it's spread all over your face, and soaked with a sweet aroma of a very familiar perfume. Miranda's long hair has always been a favourite part of her for you. There's nothing like running your fingers through her soft locks or even twisting them when you feel a bit more playful. The sleeping next to you woman doesn't seem bothered about your decision to slightly move her honey coloured hair over her left shoulder. Now Miranda's nape stays naked in front of your eyes, the tips of her shoulder blades presenting themselves from beneath her nightgown. It's almost irresistible not to kiss, not to show love. 

You clearly feel softness of silky sheets and cozy blankets as you shift closer to your beloved woman. First you brush her skin with careful fingers, just to test the waters. It's surprising how Miranda doesn't even flinch, so unusual for her. Then come your lips. Tenderly placing a kiss at the back of her neck. You breath in her scent, your lips consume it, and your mind gets drunk on her over and over again. However, your wish to withdraw her even closer remains unanswered, because you quickly discover Miranda has trapped your left arm, the one so lovingly wrapped around her waist, under her strong and unmoving torso. Due to her position - curled up like a flexible cat, turned into half a circle, with her knees almost touching her chest, you find it difficult to try and rescue your poor hand. The fact that you've reached beneath her nightgown just to feel her closer doesn't help much. You decide to gift her a few more kisses, in hope she'll groan and shift her sleeping position, yet Miranda stays still as a rock. 

And then you hear it. Your ears catch it before your mind can acknowledge its existence. The difference in Miranda's bedroom. A soft, constant hum, broken only by the occasional gentle whuff as air flows through the vents. Your head moves directions, looking behind you with half squinted eyes. You suddenly understand as for why you've been so...warm this morning. It has nothing to do with Miranda's heated skin under the sheets or the bed itself, no. You're looking straight at an air conditioner. One that was definitely not there before your short departure. Your amusement forces you to crack a smile and eventually guides you back towards the sleeping woman in your arms. After a bit of a struggle you manage to at least free your thumb from its solid prison of flesh. After that you run smoothing brushes along the end of her ribs while your mouth falls upon her again. However this time - you kiss everywhere. 

"You perfect, perfect woman..." - your whispers are as low as the humming of the air conditioner. Miranda has made it clear many times that she doesn't particularly feel cold in the mansion, despite it not having a single heating source. But you find no memories in which you've told her about your displeasure from the lack of a warm place to stay in her home, especially during the upcoming winter. So naturally... you find it fascinating to think she has been this perfectly observing of you. And has bought an air conditioner, placed it specifically in her room, so you don't feel chilly while cuddling with her. 

Finally her shoulder slightly moves to a side as you place yet another soft, but needy, kiss on top of it. Then you move higher again, making your way through her golden hair, only to show love to her already overwhelmed neck. Miranda squirms in her sleep, doing her best to escape the external factor which seems to be ruining her dreams. But you don't stop. While your nose is rubbing along  the length of the thin, black strap of her nightgown, your lips dare to move dangerously close to those specific spots of her back that are usually forbidden for your touch. You don't know why yet, but you can only guess she's sensitive , since Miranda completely moves forward as you just ghostly touch her there with the tips of your lips. And just like that - your arm is released from beneath the woman's torso. For a few moments you can barely feel it - as if it has turned into stone, with the audition pricking of tingling. Meanwhile Miranda realises she has been robbed from her precious sleep. 

"Still so early..." - she groans in her pillow, her extended arm moving back to her body after she checked the time from her phone, which calmly lies on the nightstand next to her bed. Miranda settles back in her original position, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and hunting down a continuation of her dream. However, nothing stops her from the thought of you already being awake and possibly leaving her alone under the blankets. So she reaches behind herself, in search for your arm. You grin upon poking her just above the hip - both to tease and help her with the location. She quickly pulls your arm around herself again, allowing her fingers to stay intertwined with yours. - "Don't leave yet." - she whispers, softly but commanding. - "Rest some more, cuddle me again..." 

"In what world am I going to leave you again?" - you scoff, the idea sounding way too ridiculous for your ears. Your fingers dig into her flesh, both of you ignoring the fact that her nightgown is lifted barely above her stomach, effect of her sleep in curled up position and your need to hold her as close as possible. - "Especially when you're so  lethally soft and...vulnerable." - you bite your lips at your last comment, eager to see how she's going to react. But Miranda doesn't do much, still in her post sleep state. 

"I am not." - Miranda defends herself, voice a bit louder now. She searches for a perfect position to rest for a while and she finds it once her head sinks in the middle of her pillow while your fingers gently stroke calming lines along her stomach. -  "I'm sleepy - there is a difference."

“Oh, I see a difference, alright." - you suppress a laugh. The woman does nothing to stop you once your fingers take the decision to be more drastic and they move upwards, dragging your palm over her skin. You ignore her now exposed breasts, nightgown barely maintaining function as most of the fabric isn't covering her body anymore. At last, you wrap tender fingers around her throat, applying pressure on her jaw with both of them to make her turn her head. Miranda smiles the moment she looks at you. - "The woman who used to flinch from a feather touch is now drooling on the sheets.” - Miranda gasps - a reaction born from your too bold a statement. - "Because she's sooo sleepy..." 

"Weren't you violently drunk last night?" - You roll your eyes, not entirely ready to talk about the subject. You've embarrassed yourself already twice in front of her, after drinking. You shift in your place, taking a half sitting position while pressing Miranda down to the mattress, tightly squeezing her neck, but still aiming to place a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth. She turns her head, face almost lost in pillows, yet this act only gives you better access to her jaw, which you eagerly begin to kiss. Her hands push on your hips, just barely, in attempt to ease you. - "Don't you have a hangover...or something?"  

"You're changing the subject." - you grin against her, knowing she's also close to cracking a playful smile at you. But for now she's waiting for your clever reply. You squeeze her neck again, just to try her, and without doubt she bites her lower lip. - "Besides you shouldn't deny yourself." - it's certain she trusts you enough to sleep so calmly in your presence. Miranda allows herself to be vulnerable with you, and you love it.- "Do you know how many kisses it took to wake you up from such deep sleep?" 

"And you still decided to do it?" - finally it's Miranda who lifts her lazy head to claim your lips, hands now leaving your hips in order to grab your face and hold you still. She departs only to glue her forehead to yours and whispers, making it clear. - "To wake me up, hm?" 

"You were going to crush my hand!" - you dramatically exclaim, fingers tapping on her puls points around her neck. Perhaps you don't press there for enough long time, because you find no indicator for the normal work of her heart - as if it doesn't beat. 

None of you talk for a while. No room for more of the conversations, just both of you enjoying the other person's company. The air conditioner continues to hum even after the room fills itself with soft moans and lips crushing together. Eventually the blanket is kicked off from above your bodies, heat getting unbearable, as you continue to inflict your weight over Miranda. She accepts you with hunger in her eyes, fingers rushing through your hair, holding your wild locks with need. It's consuming, your constant desire for eachother. Yet no limits are crossed, you try of course - your hands slipping lower, in search for a place to be useful, but Miranda quickly tells you to behave, her voice rather aggressive. She kisses you one last time before shifting her head to a side, chin resting on your shoulder, and she takes a deep breath as if you weren't allowing her air till now, which would be almost true. Miranda runs her nails down your back, still enjoying the feeling of your lips along her neck. But you know the moment of passion has already passed. 

"Darling?" - the woman calls out to you, fingers stopping right under your shoulders blades, rubbing circles over your oversized, but perfect for sleep, T-shirt. Your answer is nothing else but a low hum. Nothing in Miranda's personality is easy to understand, especially when she wants something, but refuses to say it. Naturally you've grown to accept this fact and easily spot it, so after a few more rather uncomfortable now rough rubs along your back, you take the meaning behind her actions. Miranda wants you to move and so you do. Within seconds you're not above her, but on her left - busy with bringing her nightgown back down to cover her exposed body. She murmurs a soft 'thank you', before her dark blue eyes lock with your own and you notice the slight hint of concern over her face. She reaches out to you, placing her palm over your forehead. - "I know it sounded like I was joking earlier, but...I'm serious about your condition." - she speaks slowly, as if embarrassed to express how much she cares. - "If you're not feeling good you should tell me, it's only normal...after the amount of alcohol you consumed." 

"I'm fine, Mira." - you allow her to play with your hair for a little while, finding it extremely calming. However you realise she's completely right. You went too heavy with the drunks last night and it shows. You can barely remember a thing, aside from being awfully jealous over Miranda and seeing Mia at some point. But not much after that, or at least not yet. You're sure the information will come little by little, if not from yourself - then Miranda will probably tell you. - "My head feels a bit messy, but overall I'm okay. I'm not the type of person to usually suffer much after a drunken night." - perhaps that's the reason you allow yourself to go wild most of the times. 

"Good." - Miranda firmly says, bringing you close so she can place a kiss on your forehead, the simple act summoning shivers down your spine. At this moment you realise the thick blanket is still in your feet, yet you  feel warm and cozy. One look towards the air conditioner quickly tells you why. Soon the woman next to you forces your attention back on her with fingers smoothly running down your jaw. She has an awful grin on her face and you already know she's going to mock you about something. - "I just don't want you throwing up all over me again." - again???

"What? I— I did that?" - wonderful, Miranda is now not only grinning, but also barely able to contain her laughter. You're certain she's not making fun of you about last night, but rather your current reaction. Slowly, and a bit painful as it come with an annoying throb, a vague memory of you managing to ruin Miranda's perfect dress overcomes your head and you groan. - "Shit... I'm sorry, I should really stop drinking." 

"Everybody has their guilty pleasures, darling." - Miranda hums to you, looking down at her fingernails, clicking her tongue in irritation when she acknowledges they are getting a bit too long for her taste. - "Alcohol is also one of my many." - she assures, making you remember about her other bad habit of smoking, as well. - "If you like it - you don't have to cancel it after a particularly bad night, but I'm encouraging the idea of more limits." - then she adds. - "Or at least only drink only with me from now on, I truly don't want my old colleagues hitting on you while you're not fully sober again." 

"Anything else I embarrassed myself with?" - you groan, slamming your face in the pillow below you. Miranda chuckles, both of you understanding that the man from last night  completely lost reason of consent and is the only one to blame. Yet still you feel uneasy with with the thought about the situation. Giving Miranda a hard time, that is. 

"You truly don't remember?" - she asks with amusement. Her eyebrows slightly lifting, barely rooting out any wrinkles on her forehead. Miranda's skin is so very close to perfection, the colour, the texture, the softness. You have to stop yourself from worshiping it over something small as, for example, her just blinking. 

"Please just tell me it's not too bad..." - your tongue rolls uncomfortably in your mouth, so naturally your words come out murmured and lazy sounding. A hint of shame glistening in them. Miranda brushes her soft fingers through your hair, in a calming maternal way. Then she switches sides. Just like that - she pulls with little to no mercy at your roots, practically forcing you to look at her. You groan, looking up to her only to find her with a soft smile glued to her lips. 

"Darling, we danced." - Miranda declares. 

"What kind of dance... are we talking about?" - your eyebrows furrow with both anger and disappointment. Your whole ideology towards her is built on pleasing her and caving into her every desire. But God forbid you got intimate while you were still drunk and currently...not even remembering the act. Fortunately, Miranda is quick to give you a rather positive answer. 

"The kind of slow, improvised waltz... accompanied by  classical music." - Miranda talks tenderly, almost teasingly, hand not squeezing your hair anymore, but instead running down your face with soft, ghostly touches. Then she smiles and the room brightens. - "Only the best for us." 

"As much as I remember - you told me you can't dance." - she hums, clearly in disapproval. Your firm statement not meeting her expectations in the slightest. Yet she manages to flip the conversation to her personal winning side. 

"But I did." - her fingers tap on your jaw and she whispers. - "Like a fool."  - a pause - "And you were my perfect partner." 

Miranda deserves all the kisses that follow after her words, they manage to pierce your heart and force your hands, as well as your whole body, to overwhelm her with love and affection. 

.

.

.

The kitchen is filled with the pleasant aroma of croissants. Not homemade, of course, as both of you find yourselves too lazy too swirl around the cooking area. It's convenient to find leftover dough sweets, a food request by the girls from yesterday. Miranda actually drove to the nearest store to get them, after many arguments about her abilities to make them herself. But you convinced her to just buy them since she had to get ready for the evening and you know she likes to spend her time in the kitchen. Miranda, as well as you, is still in her nightgown, her hair messy from sleep, body feeling like jelly after a specifically long night, spent in unpleasant company. She sits in her chair, glaring down at the medium sized croissant on her plate and rolling her eyes. You can almost taste the complain about to leave her mouth. She doesn't feel hungry, right - she's never hungry. The most you've seen her consume is large amount of alcohol, which doesn't effect her the slightest. Before she can announce it out loud, you hiss at her, almost commanding her to eat. Miranda's lips quiver, however she bites down at the croissant, eyeing you while you chew next to her as well. 

"So..." - you begin, not very pleased with the silence around you, eyes locked onto Miranda. - "I noticed something new in your bedroom this morning..." -  you manage to spot the exact moment you steal her attention, her slender fingers carefully put the croissant back in her place and then she places her chin in hands, listening carefully. - "care to explain this... sudden appearance?" 

It's clear what you're talking about. The air conditioner in Miranda's chamber of solitude. She thinks for a while, as if unprepared for this conversation. Meanwhile your gaze wanders somewhere behind her, specifically stopping at the half open kitchen window above the sink. It's rather sunny today for a winter day, not exactly good weather, because there is still this furious wind, accompanied by the naturally cold atmosphere in the dense forest around the mansion. You sigh, still not understanding how the small family survives in such temperatures all year long. 

"I thought a change would be nice..." - Miranda speaks without hurry, somehow making you question how you didn't see the air conditioner sooner. Perhaps you were too busy to admire the sleeping woman next to you in both evenings and mornings. - "besides I'd like to put an end to the chatter of your teeth when you're practically too cold." - a slow humming sound escapes her throat. - "Sounds painful." 

"My woman decided to pity me by placing an air conditioner for me...in her  bedroom?" - You try your best attempt to tease her, finding it extremely satisfying to call her yours. But you also use a slightly different tone for the last part of your sentence, wanting to point out her own obsession over you. You can't question the fact that she cares, but instead of putting this kind of heat source in your originally prescribed bedroom, she decided to play it safe and install it in her own. Perhaps, to have you there for a longer time. 

"Yes, in mine." - Miranda surprises you, declaring the obvious. Then she clears her throat and continues talking as if the last bit of the conversation was not existent. - "And I believe you should pity me." - you crack a smile at her serious expression. - "The trouble I went through for this machine.... It was so irritating, the workers I hired were so loud, I hated every second of them being in my home." - it's very easy to imagine Miranda growing impatient with wanting to throw out the people who came to help her with the air conditioner. 

"You had it installed when I was gone?" - you take a bite from your croissant, while your hand searches for the cup of water on the table you placed earlier. 

"Yes, nearly a week ago." - Miranda nods, then her gaze softens, dark blue eyes looking at you with nothing else but affection. - "After all you told me you can't sleep without me and I guess I wanted to...make your stay in my bed a bit more enjoyable, in a way." - as if her being there with you is not enough. 

"You're so perfect, do you know that?" - you've told her this exact compliment so many time, and it still doesn't get old. 

"I'm not perfect— just thoughtful." - Miranda lets out a quiet chuckle, the tone of her voice sparkling with amusement. She doesn't even realise what she's doing to you. With every single act, every word, even when she does the slightest thing as breathing. You don't acknowledge how obsessed you're getting over her, but you allow that feeling to consume you entirely. This blissful kind of corruption can be dangerous, however, as it's already playing a cruel joke on your mind. 

You stand up, with the excuse to put the dirty plate from your already eaten croissant in the sink, yet once you finish this task you turn directly to Miranda, eyes locked with her back. For a moment you're silent, staring at the golden river of hair spilling down her spin, over her thin silky nightgown. Your eyebrows twist in an emotion you can't exactly name, your lips soon following with a similar reaction. It's certain fingers shouldn't shake, so the reason yours currently are is probably not healthy, yet you lift them and soon they end up tasting Miranda's skin, as your arms wrap around her shoulders, your body slightly bent down, so you're on her level while she's sitting. From this angle you can note how her plate is still full, the croissant just bitten once. But you don't argue about that anymore, not when you have something else in mind. For the most of your actions Miranda stays still, as if well aware of your nature already, however as she opens her mouth to ask why the sudden hug, you cut her off. 

"Miranda I'm sorry for yesterday." - your apology is murmured against her firm shoulder, almost silent but sincere. - "I was... terrible." 

"You were drunk, darling. It happens. " - Miranda, the ever lasting calm woman during arguments, well...most of the time, aims to assure your actions were due to you not being sober. Which could be correct, but you know better. That burning feeling inside your chest everytime you see her wandering away from you. Just how many steps until she disappears into the void? A tender tap on your forearm makes it clear you're a bit too heavy on her shoulders, so you lift yourself up, leaving just one hand wrapped at the back of her neck. You gently squeeze, as if to know she's real, and Miranda gasp, making the tension in her neck completely visible for you. 

"It wasn't only the alcohol, I just..." - your thumb moves upwards, rubbing circles just behind her ear and her head almost drops down, a quiet sound of relief travels past her open lips. - "...I fear I'm not enough for you." 

"Not enough?" - there is honest disbelief in her voice, dripping down her words. She turns her head to a side, not fully facing you, yet still locking eyes with yours. From this angle her hair is destined to fall to a side, revealing her skin and giving more freedom to your fingers on her neck, which continue to massage her muscles in a silent apology. - "Are you hearing yourself?" - Miranda scoffs. - "If anything, you're too much, darling." 

"Is that bad?" - you freeze, faced with the other end of the spectrum, however Miranda only laughs. 

"I appreciate how you treat me, little deer..." - you're tense, waiting for her honesty, something in the back of your mind telling you the scene is not going to end well. But Miranda's words don't confirm it. - "At times I truly think I don't deserve you, however it hurts me when you give so much to me and still end up underestimating yourself." - she sighs. - "these intrusive thoughts shouldn't cross your mind like this... you're good to me, too good for me." - that last bit is quiet, almost passing past your years without you acknowledging it. 

"And you... don't mind that attention?" - you start to wonder if you're really going too far. After all you've known this woman for around half an year and you're ready to sacrifice the world for her. You've always be the one to cherish the other in a relationship. With Philip is was... definitely different, but you managed to show enough affection...or so you thought. With Miranda is so much easier, because not only she appreciates the small things you do for her, but you also share similar love languages. You can't remember the last night you cuddled with Philip, meanwhile with Miranda it's a daily activity. You don't even want to comment on the sex, because your ex boyfriend can't even begin to compare. Naturally... you've grown addicted, yet you refuse to let yourself be annoying for her. And so you ask. - "You don't think I'm pushing you?" 

"I love your attention," - Miranda announces, her response sharp, but so truthfully sounding. - "but I'd love it even more if you weren't overdoing it out of fear, because you think I'd leave you." - the bites her lip after that, realising that this inner fear of yours is possibly her fault. After all she was the one to push you away when you declared your love for her. She's still struggling with settling down with this fact. 

You stay silent after that, out of words. You know this conversation is just another one of your jealousy  outbursts, yet you can't help yourself, after all Miranda is...well Miranda. You can drown her with your love all you want, but it's not an indicator of her returning those feelings. She's passionate, you can see that clearly, however sometimes you can't help, but think you're simply not enough. Mia is perhaps your main reason. Miranda was so fiercely declaring her love for her, ten long years of her life and then she just... decided to be with you? How can you not compare yourself, despite knowing Mia treated her poorly. It's bad enough to imagine Miranda sharing her precious love with that evil woman. And perhaps last night was your breaking point, so many people from her domain, you just felt like you don't belong - not only there, but with Miranda in general. 

Your own head will kill you someday, it will swell with so many negative thoughts that it will fall of your shoulders, spine breaking away from skull. However instead of your own, it's Miranda's head dipping down at the moment. You let go of your chaotic thoughts just so pay attention to how much she's enjoying the neck massage your fingers are giving her. Her muscles feel much more loose under your touch now and she ends up almost hitting her forehead in the croissant in front of her when you move to scratch her scalp. Eventually the plate is moved aside and she lays comfortably on the kitchen table, face in folded arms. You pull waves of messy golden hair to the side, exposing her neck. Then you bring yourself lower, applying a tender as cotton kiss to her skin, which makes her murmur. 

"Can you...do something for me?" - you whisper close to her ear, lips slightly touching her numerous shiny earrings.- "I think it would make me feel better." 

"Mmm...anything." - Miranda slowly nods her head while agreeing and you swear her voice does something to you. If she gave you permission, you would probably bring her back muscles to life from top to bottom and then the opposite, but you know she's going to hiss and squirm out of your hands if you do that. So you focus on her neck again, paying attention to all these knots under her skin. 

"Mia is still calling and texting you everyday, correct?" - you ask fast and firmly, giving her almost no time to process, sounding like an investigator. You press at the sides of her neck, then you move your fingers down with circular movements. Miranda groans close to the table's surface. 

"I don't answer—" 

"I know you don't." - yes, because sometimes you check her phone when Mia is eager and Miranda is not around to turn off her phone. It takes a lot of self restraint not to pick up and tell her to just leave Miranda alone already...and other mean stuff, probably. - "But it drives me crazy, call me possessive if you want, but I'd sleep better if you blocked her." 

"Block her...?" - Miranda lifts her head in curiosity, her tone suggesting lack of knowledge about the topic. You've grown to understand when the woman doesn't understand a specific topic. And she barely uses her phone, so you grin, not minding explaining what you want her to do. 

"It's like a online restraint, she won't be able to contact you." - as your words help her find reason in your request, a shiver runs down her spine, born from the feeling of your fingers going back up, between the roots of her hair, she absolutely loves it when you play with it. - "You didn't know you could do that?" - of course she doesn't, you just like to mess around with her from time to time. 

"No..." - the blonde woman breaths out. - "do it instead of me, just...don't stop, this is pleasant." - your smile widens, the tips of your lips almost touching your ears while you continue to massage her scalp, a weak squirming movement possessing her here and there. In the meantime you reach out for her phone, so conveniently left on the table next to her. She was checking it almost all morning, waiting for a call from Alcina about her girls. While unlocking her phone you lift your eyes up to look at the digital clock and you find out it's almost time to go pick Eva and Eveline from that spooky castle. You waste no time in going to settings and blocking Mia once and for all, a wave or irritation almost ruins your mood as you see all the desperate messages Mia has sent to Miranda, begging her not for an actual quality time together, but instead just to warm her bed again. It's disgusting, but gone for good, with just a few clicks from your fingers. The phone is left back on the table a second after. Another kiss is placed on Miranda's skin - this time longer, making it easy to take the hint that you're finished with the little distraction of a massage. 

"There, she won't bother us anytime soon." - at least you hope, Mia knows the address of the mansion after all. 

"Are you happy?" - Miranda questions you, voice a little hoarse. She misses the feeling of your clever fingers against her neck already, however she doesn't ask for more, keeping herself composed, as if she wasn't drooling on the table just a few minutes ago, because it felt way too relaxing. 

"Extremely." - a strong statement. 

"Good...shall we go get the kids, then?" - Miranda raises from her seat, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of the leftover, already cold, croissant in her long forgotten plate.  Instead of paying it any further attention, she turns to you with a smile. - "I miss my girls." 

***** 

You have avoided them before, however this time you find yourself not so lucky. 

 "You're not precisely her size..." - the youngest of the three says with a low voice. Daniela has hair, mesmerising as the setting sun over the ocean and yellow eyes like the first rays from the same sun, returning back to the open sky in the morning. You've came to understand she's the youngest of her sisters, cheeky and always smiling. 

"Her size...?" - one of your eyebrows shifts upwards, in a questionable manner. You've somehow managed to stay still during their long and curious questions, honestly felt longer than whatever humble interview you had with Miranda in the past. Speaking of the woman, you are currently debating if you should seek her, because the moment you both arrived in the grand castle she just left without a word. Soon you found Eva and Eveline giggling and hanging out with Alcina's daughters. Yet, unfortunately for you, the girls had to leave in order to gather their luggage for back home. With still no sign of your girlfriend, you were left alone with the three other very... interesting girls. Or rather women, they were clearly older, but in regard of their behaviour...they covered that of a rebellious teens. 

 “Well, from all we know, Miranda prefers them tall." - Daniela's sister joins the conversation with a vague comment. - "Intimidating." - she lifts a hand to cover her mouth as she laughs loudly, raven coloured curls bouncing on her shoulders. Cassandra is the middle child, the center of the three. From your observations you can say she's a bit more composed than Daniela, yet still remaining a tease. Oh, and what a wonderful topic they've chosen. It was better when they were asking you for your previous jobs. - "You know… people she has to tilt her chin up to kiss. Meanwhile, you—can you even reach her properly?” - her large smirk is practically mocking you. 

“I manage." - you hiss at them, crossing your arms in a protective manner in front of your chest. The three sisters share glares, their lips parting in smiles, as the move even closer to you on the sofa you're currently all sitting. You then scoff again, noticing they are expecting something else from you to say - "Pretty damn well, actually.”

"Sharp tongue..." - you shift in your seat, hearing the voice of the oldest daughter. Bela stands tall, perhaps even coming close to Miranda. Their physical appearance is also somehow similar, both with long and nicely cared for hair. You lock eyes with her, however her personal smile is something much bothering than her sister's, as if she's testing you. She observes you for a while, switching from your lips to your eyes, to your nose and back down. Then she softly adds.- "...but such a pretty face." 

"Miranda is probably in love with both." - Daniela joins a teasing comment. The woman, indeed, loves them, but they shouldn't know that. 

 “Why are you even interested?” - the question strucks them just for a second. Meanwhile your fingers uncomfortably pull on the fabric of your jeans, trying to distract you. You don't know why you're getting nervous about talking for Miranda. Perhaps it's because of this more and how you're jealous of the people around her or, as you choose to think, because Alcina's daughters are a bit too offsetting, something about their eyes doesn't seem right, however you restrain from asking, as you know Miranda has cured them from a bad skin condition in the past. Perhaps the yellow colour is a side effect. 

"Curiosity, that's all. But you..." - Bela tries to explain, but her black haired sister cuts her soon enough, stealing the spotlight. 

"Why are you answering so.. fiercely?" - she lets out a cheerful, yet mocking laughter, which echoes through the grand room the four of you are currently in. - "Eager to defend your pride?" 

"As if we could put an end to your attitude, Mother says it's severe." - they bounce their free speech like a beach ball around themselves, barely giving you time to process their words and eventually give a full answer, this time the ball is back in Daniel's smug hands. 

"Is this about last time, I wasn't even—"

"Relax, darling, we're just talking..." - Bela joins again, of course cutting you mid sentence while you're trying to remember most of what happened the last time you visited the castle without going further to the same evening when Miranda came home while you were... pleasing yourself on her couch. Still best and worst night of your life. Still, you tilt your head at the familiar nickname the blonde sister decides to offer, you're only used to hearing it  from Miranda, so it definitely catches you off guard. And they notice. - "Oh? This is what she calls you isn't it?" 

"Darling..." - Cassandra rolls the word on her tongue, almost in the same manner Miranda sometimes does when she's sleepy, but you desire more of her. It's hard for you to keep a straight face, because if you didn't know better this would be straight up bullying, yet they find it extremely amusing. You refuse to feel humiliated. 

"It's...yes, Miranda calls me that." - after a sharp breath, you spit it out, the agreement. Your fingers are already tired of pulling on your jeans, the fabric way too thick. You glance around the walls, searching for a clock, eager to know how much time, hopefully minutes, there is before you have to leave. You clear your throat once you meet their faces again. - "Even so, why is that information relevant?" 

"Unbelievable, you two were right!" - Daniela exclaims, pointing a long nailed finger at you. - "Her expression is exactly the same!" - she nudges Cassandra with her elbow, her eyes still locked on you, lips parted and strong, white teeth presenting themselves to you. - "Oh, lucky you..."

 “…What?” - you make a pause before throwing out the question, not exactly understanding what are they suddenly talking about. A nerve in your leg twitches, making it slightly jump, a clear indicator you're getting angry. 

"The flames in your eyes are identical to the ones mother has in her when the topic is...specific." - Bela's voice is melancholic and calm, devoid of extreme amusement like her sisters, yet it's pretty clear she's enjoying not only the scene, but the view in front of her, as well. 

"Miranda?" - you swallow a dry lump in your throat, not liking where the point of the conversation is moving to. 

"You understand quickly." - the middle of age sister says, dark curls hoovering over her face while she plays with her necklace, almost looking bored and needing a distraction. - "Miranda likes them smart, doesn't she? But also a little bit naive..." - she makes a pause and you notice the rolling of her eyes. - "Mother also fell into her cage." 

"Not like she's making any progress to escape, that is." - a scoff from Daniela and two more head nods from her sisters. It seems like they are pretty understanding when it comes to their mother and Miranda...for some reason. You're still confused by what they are pointing at. 

"What are you three trying to—" 

"Oh, she doesn't even know...poor you." - Bela  coos at you, the sonority of her words dripping in fake pity. Her next sentence doesn't fail to irritate you, as they continue to walk around and dig into the topic, like a funnel, however its clear end is never revealed. - "Do we even have the right to tell her?" 

"Tell me what?" - they all grin at you, evil looking smiles with sharp ends like horns. Nothing good will come with that desired answer of yours, if anything it's going to make your head throb even more and you're already feeling the pain of a migraine forming. Once the sound reaches your ears, you know you're cursed to be absolutely correct. 

"That our mother once shared your precious lover's bed, as well?" 

The newcome information is razor sharp, you can imagine it cutting deep into your skin, enough to draw blood. Cassandra announced it with a playful tone, unaware of the effect it would cause. You're silent, thinking, thoughts running and spinning in your head like wild animals. It shouldn't be true. If Miranda actually slept with Alcina...then why is she still visiting her and leaving her daughters her like it's a common practice? You blink slowly, feeling an overwhelming pressure in your chest. They said it was in the past, yet it still hurts. You understand that people sometimes stay friends after cutting intimate contact, but...

"She did...?" - you ask with a shaky voice, still trying to deny it. 

“She doesn’t talk about it often. But when she does, it’s rather poetic." - Daniela seems more composed mow, while explaining, her eyes check up on you every other second, as if she's afraid they've actually hurt you. Not like what follows is any easier to swallow. - "She says Miranda is probably the reason we’re mortals. 'Because whatever God created her knew that every other person after her would be at her feet,’ she said.” 

"How didn't I think of that?" - part of your love language is informing Miranda how lethally beautiful she is and how much you adore to worship her, but now you feel like your words don't shine as bright. Of course she'd be closer to gods than humans. The hand playing with the fabric of your jeans is now fully squeezing your knee, out of pure anger. 

"Calm down, they are not like this anymore, even though..." - Bela notices your slightly concerning reaction and tries her best to reassure you it's fine, it's the past. - "...mother is still yearning."  

"How many more of her exes do I have to fight off to be with this damn woman?" - you don't even realise how hard you're flexing your jaw muscles, threatening to break your teeth. You remember the way Alcina spoke to you the last time you were in the castle - like something less and deserving rough treatment. But now you see it as it is, the woman simply wanted to keep her relationship with your  woman, and you were an obstacle. Almost the same thing could be said for Mia, although the situation with her is a bit more complicated. How many more women really are there? You're too lost in your head to pay attention to the curious reactions you rooted out. 

“…Oh.” - Bela simple opens her lips, the sound barely there. 

"Ohohohooo." - Cassandra continues with an upcoming laugh. 

"They were more?" - Daniela finally breaks the chain, excitement running through her like electricity. If it weren't for the modern era, you would have guessed the three sisters in front of you are noble ladies, who happen to enjoy gossip from all around them. - "I thought Miranda likes it fast and easy to put and end to,not...engaging." 

"Well, she's pretty interested in engaging with me." - you spit out through squeezed teeth, not even looking at them anymore. Just trying to prove a point, which only adds  more fuel to the already big enough fire. 

"In that case... you shouldn't keep us waiting, come on, tell us how she is." - Bela, as the one now sitting closest to you gently pats your hand, as to gather your attention back from staring at the wall instead of her and her sisters. - "Mother only says devine and Goddess like, we're a bit sick of hearing it." 

"Is she mean? Or soft?" - Daniela purrs next to the blonde. 

"Is she in control or she lets you pull the reins?" - Cassandra is at the end, but she surely doesn't make herself look small or unnoticeable. She gasps as a new idea for a question pops into her head and places a hand over her twisting lips to slow down her mocking laughter, before she speaks it out loud. - "Oh, and how about her stamina? You're young, I bet you can keep up?" 

"Yeah, I'm not answering these questions." - at last you decide you've spent way too much time being humiliated by Alcina's daughter. You stand up, fixing your shirt as it's one or two sizes too big for you. While adjusting the collar, you pray they don't question it as well, because they'd probably guess correctly that it's precisely Miranda's shirt you're wearing, you borrowed it before leaving, although... you don't plan on returning it soon, as her perfume is all over it, reminding you of her every second it manages to hit your nose. 

"Leaving us already?" - You hear how Daniela whines  behind your back, a hint of disappointment in her voice. 

"We were just going through the good part!" - Cassandra joins in to complain, although her reaction is more out of irritation rather than that of her sister. That's good, you're angry too. 

"Why don't you go and ask Alcina about it?" - you turn to them just enough to throw the response at them, feeling sick of the conversation. - "If she likes talking about my woman that much, she might as well give you the information you so desperately desire." - Then, without waiting for anymore clever answers, you turn on your heel and begin walking out of the room, back to the many, rich decorated corridors of the old castle. With a deep, cleansing breath, you take a step out, now eager to find Miranda and have a little talk with her. Meanwhile the three sisters are left around, looking at eachother with eyes widen in amusement. 

"Oh, the attitude! I like her." - Daniela comments with a giggle. 

"Even using Mother's full name like this..." - Cassandra shakes her head, however a smirk is ghosting over her pale lips. 

"Someone is jealous..." - as per usual, Bela reveals the truth at last, with a calm and calculated voice, tapping on her knee with a thin finger and waiting patiently for chaos to be born. 

.

.

.

The Lady of the Castle's bedroom is remarkably beautiful.

 Its high walls are covered with marble and gilded columns, long dark curtains cover the windows and kiss the floor with a ghostly touch. The interior immediately catches the eye, not because of the obviously expensive furnishings, but because of the way it looks - curvaceous, graceful, covered in the details of a precise craftsman. But amidst all this loveliness, there is an undeniable sense of antiquity. The room is a reflection of the woman who lives in it. Her bed looks huge and aristocratic, but it is unmade and the sheets are rolling on the floor beside it, reflecting her inner battle to even make it first thing in the morning. And yet two or three remarkable dresses are thrown over the naked mattress, their dark fabrics overlapping. Anyone determined to cross the doorway would immediately recognise the smell of dirt  and wine, struggling against the caresses of heavy perfume which tries to cover it, however fails, because the aroma has been dancing around the lady's guest's nose for a while now. 

"Everything seems to be good, your results are nearly identical to the last few, which means you're finally entering a stable stage, Alcina." - the curved smile, so nicely positioned on Miranda's lips, seems genuine. The woman has taken a cozy seat on a large armchair, richly coloured in rouge, white and black. She lifts an arm to gesture towards her own hair, although it's clear she's aiming to point out something from the woman across from her. - "Any body changes you haven't told me about, except..." 

Her blue eyes land on the few strings of snow white hair on Alcina's head, starting somewhere from the beginning of her curled bangs, all the way down to the end of her chosen hairstyle. She openly refuses to dye it and Miranda knows that. She wouldn't even point it out if she didn't though it looked quite pleasant for Alcina's appearance. 

"Oh, please don't make a comment, I despise it." - the much more taller woman scoffs, tracing her hand over the surface of a small table, close to her. So many books and ripped papers left to rot on it, as they are covered in spilled wine and clearly of no use anymore. 

"Why? I rather like it" - Miranda tilts her head to the a side, pretty common habit for her. She flexes her fingers over the paperwork in her hands, filled with reports over the lady's blood, body and overall health. Both of them are used to these checks, which Miranda provides between a few months time period. However after everytime Alcina's condition gets better and more stable, therefore it limits the amount of meetings they are supposed to have. Oh, how that bothers the woman. 

"I'm getting older." - the white hair, the wrinkles, the fatigue... Alcina hates to feel that way, yet it's more and more severe with each passing day. Her age is not that great, but she fears to what it would lead. 

"Getting older is a normal process of the human body, and in your case — it's much more healthier than before." - Miranda, the ever scientist, is quick to give her a verbal solution, only forcing the other woman to roll her eyes. 

"I once laughed at the face of death, because I knew I'd live long enough to see it disappear like a forgotten virus over the years." - Alcina speaks as if spitting venom from between her teeth. She forms a fist with her left hand, resisting the urge to slam it down the table, but instead she behaves and rolls her palm open again, gesturing towards her companion's direction. - "And here you are, Mother Miranda, digging my own grave." 

"I didn't grant you immortality back then, Alcina, I only took from you, for my own selfish reasons." - the blonde woman already senses where the climax of their conversation is going to be. The topic is old and unpleasant, yet Alcina brings it up almost every time they talk. She's not the one to blame, but Miranda would be happier if she could accept her new life already, just like her daughters did.

"I gave myself to you, because I believed in your reasons." - a declaration, expressing possession. Miranda sighs. 

"What I did to you, to them...was wrong." - she begins to play with the ends of her sleeve, rolling the hard fabric between her tender fingerprints, eyes not daring to lift up while her tongue takes on the action. - "However the past can't be rewritten, the only thing we should do is let go and try to change." 

"It's not so easy. I've been next to you since the day we met, I've been following blindly, I've tortured and I've killed for you, for so many years I lived to be your favourite. My pure reason for happiness was you and now... you want me to let go?" - Alcina places an almost trembling palm over her heart, swallowing hard when she feels it banging against her ribcage. - "Of...all the love I have for you in my heart." 

Even presented with the freedom to fly away, a bird that has known only its cage all its life would never leave it. 

"Love alone is not enough to make something healthy." - Miranda tries to sound as convincing as she can, cutting roughly the other woman's words, even though a hint of remorse is swirling around her chest. - "I can't give you back what you so desperately desire, I'm only returning what I took. Your life before you met me was, I believe, more suitable and it's your right to get to live it fully." 

Silence falls between them, so rich with intimacy and spoken truths, that the air begins to thicken, making it hard for Alcina's lungs to work normally. She takes a deep breath, this time narrowing her head down and whispering softly. 

"I miss the glory days, Mother Miranda." 

"There was no glory to begin with." 

Perhaps it's the way Miranda says it, the voice calm and unbothered, or the fact that Alcina still remembers how in the past her beloved leader would demand more than glory for herself. Alcina has learnt to worship and obey. However now, when told it was all for nothing, she can't help but laugh in the face of her false creator and long dead priestess. 

"You're a changed woman." - Miranda, unexpectedly, returns the mocking comment with a slight smirk, barely curling the edges of her lips as she finally decides to look the other woman straight into the eyes. 

"We are cursed to change, besides I don't see reason to continue after everything that happened. I...got what I wanted and I'm more than happy." - Alcina listens carefully, faking her understanding by nodding her head. Inside she's already screaming, from both pain and anger.  And a third thing, which she can easily name out loud, yet endure it for the sike of being polite, although her patience  is running thin. At last, she decides to leave reason out of the already overwhelming conversation. 

"And are you happy with your new girl, as well?" - she taps on the table, in order to remind Miranda of your existence.  - "Is she enjoying what's left of your glorious affection?" 

"This is irrelevant." - the blonde woman hisses in return, earning herself another wave of laughter. 

"I wonder what your mighty self will do...once it comes time for her to die...will you give her another one of your 'gifts' or... suffer the way I'm suffering now." - Alcina's speech is slow and curved, aiming to throw questions without answers or rather unpleasant ones. She still remembers how soft Miranda's lips were that doomed night, how her skin felt, how she sounded...to think she's sharing herself with someone else now is criminal. And Alcina knows Miranda rarely care about her partners, she's a creature of need and whatever she wants - she always gets. However, it's crystal clear how her eyebrows furrow as she listens, because she cares. Alcina hates it, you haven't given nearly close to enough of what she has given. Anger almost takes her out again, breathing carefully is her saviour, although she's moment away from slamming her hand over the desk, the idea for releasing the anger too tempting. Yet she wants to know where her game will lead her to. - "After all, you remain your past self...no matter how much you talk about change." 

"Alcina..." - she sees a crack in Miranda and immediately takes advantage. 

"Leave my chambers at once." - Alcina's voice falls on the blonde woman's ears like strong and relentless thunders. Unexpectedly, Alcina stands up to point to the comically large door of her bedroom. She blinks a few times in that direction, wondering why is it slightly ajar, she remembers Miranda closing it tightly after entering. 

"You're... commanding me?" - to put it mildly Miranda is shocked, face reacting with amusement while she wraps a hand around the base of her neck and gently rubs, feeling that awful burning sensation in her throat. She has known control all her life and Alcina has never acted against her, loosing this power strikes her down. All her big talk about freedom and giving back what she owes is thrown out of the window in just seconds. Alcina can't help, but laugh again, a point she was trying to prove for a while finally shining in true colours. 

"See? In your head you're still The Mother Miranda, no matter how much you tell me to stop calling you that." - she makes sure to speak out the title loud and clear, noticing how it makes one of Miranda's eyes twitch with annoyance. - "You can't never let go, neither can I." 

"Your point is...reasonable, but my decision is final." - Miranda clears her throat, looking down at the paperwork in her hands, only to find it ruined from squeezing. She shifts in her seat, telling herself it's for the best to leave already. She has allowed this conversation to continue, knowing well it's completely useless for both of them. As she slowly raises from the armchair, however, her head spins back to the door, which is now squeaking, the crack getting bigger. She curses under her breath, a scoff dancing near her ears. 

"Gods, you still talk in the same manner." - Alcina is still having her fun, still mocking, but she too has noticed the door. In fact, once she begins to stare at it - she's undoubtedly met with another pair of eyes curiously peeking from outside. 

"If you are done mocking me, I would..." 

"I believe this is the end of our conversation now, don't let your girlfriend wait for you, Miranda." 

It's hard for Miranda not to rush out of the room. She wouldn't shame herself with running, yet the fast dashing she uses to escape and get to you as quickly as possible is already saying enough for what she considers important, and it's definitely not the Lady of the castle, at least not after you made your presence clear...and awfully loud. You don't even have time to step away from the door, red in the face over the fact that you were caught spying and listening to their private conversation. In less than a few seconds, Miranda's hands firmly squeeze your shoulders, her face close enough for your noses to almost touch, as she practically shoves herself to you, in a need to hide you...or herself from what she just walked away from. 

"How much did you hear?" - gods, she sounds almost pathetic. You don't allow her pretty eyes to steal your attention, you stand still, not yearning to touch her or pull her into your embrace. Because the truth is... you didn't hear much, however you did manage to catch Alcina's words about how neither of them can let go of the past. And it shook you to your core, making you realise the three sisters weren't just teasing you a few minutes ago. Would you have heard more if you had discovered them sooner or...would you have seen something you wouldn't have liked? 

"Enough to root out questions, not enough to answer them." 

"Are you...mad?" - Miranda looks more scared than guilty and you can't decide which is worse. You make a step back, forcing her to bite her lip from uncertainty, a whine  almost leaving her mouth in order to stop you. However your actions are only taken in order to look her up and down, carefully observe every little detail on her body and clothes. You take a deep breath after finding no indicators she has been in some way intimate with Alcina till now. You don't even know why you were thinking she would do it right under your nose and yet...

"I just have to know...if you...have you and Alcina..?" - you lift your hands to make some outrageous gestures with your fingers, but Miranda doesn't react sharp, even after quickly understanding what you're asking her. She just shakes her head, so you assure her. - "You don't have to lie to me, Mira." 

"...only once." - after a short pause of pure silence Miranda answers, voice close to a whisper. 

"And...?" - you urge her to continue, despite her clearly not wanting to talk about such topic, not because she's embarrassed, but because she doesn't think you should be discussing it right now. 

"It meant nothing to me." - the truth is painful and quick - the type of death Alcina often imagines will find her now that's she's back to being an ordinary person, a normal human, which doesn't have to devote herself to worship, someone with emotions and a free will... someone who can't accept said truth. 

The door of the castle lady's bedroom is slammed closed within seconds after Miranda speaks her mind, but she doesn't have time to react. Not when a strong hand goes behind her head, like a quickly attacking snake, and pulls her down until her lips crash with yours. It isn’t elegant — it’s chaotic and reckless and hungry. She gasps into your mouth, startled, and you take advantage of it, tongue pressing in with no grace, just need. Her hands find your shoulders, digging in like she’s afraid you might disappear. You kiss her so fiercely it almost hurts.Miranda doesn't pull away, if anything she returns your actions without a care in the world and that... exposes her whole. 

"Are there any other women I should be worried about?" - you whisper into her mouth, breath ragged, wet and throbbing lips brushing as you speak. 

"None alive." - Miranda's reply is nearly a moan, her hands still holding you firmly and impossibly close. 

You bite her bottom lip, not to hurt her, but to mark her.

“Good,” - you growl.- “Because you don’t belong to them anymore.”  

***** 

There has been an irritating pressure lurking under your scalp from the moment you took off back to the comfort of the gothic mansion, which you're not afraid to say it's a second home at this point. Not like you've been to your own house in...months already. There's nothing for you back there, with your father in the hospital and all of your important belongings with you, there is no reason to turn back, especially when you've already grown addicted to another place and its residents. Your whole being calmed down the moment Miranda parked right in front of her isolated home, part of you finally understanding why she prefers to live deep in the woods, after all the troubles from the castle. You ignored it as you stepped out of the dark jeep back then - the forming headache and the dull pain in your muscles, however currently you're struggling to even keep your eyes open. 

The paper screen in front of you changes pictures, or rather slides, for you're currently sitting uncomfortably through a presentation made by Miranda's daughters. Once you realised your head is not hurting like the usual migraines you get from time to time, but rather continuing with full, relentless power, you decided the only thing you desire is to throw yourself onto a soft bed, preferably Miranda's. But you weren't that lucky. Eva and Eveline surprised you both with pulling out a flash drive and demanding you to sit through whatever they had to show you from it. At first you wanted to refuse, but after hearing the topic you knew it's best to stay, because there was no way Miranda would agree to their wants. Meanwhile you wished to allow the girls to have a bit more freedom in their lives. And so now you're trying to keep up with their words, while with a throbbing headache and a raw feeling of almost vomiting, listening to why exactly they should be allowed to stay home alone. 

"I don't understand...how did you even do this?" - Miranda asks, her hands spreading open to guide attention to the paper screen, the current presentation slide explain the benefits of trust or something similar. She is rested at the end of the movie room's sofa, with crossed legs and serious expression. She's taking this too seriously, you can note that by seeing how still she is, not arguing, at least not yet, as she's still forming her strong points. Miranda is reasonable enough to allow her daughters to express themselves and protective enough to deny them after they wrap up the presentation. - "since when do you know how flash drives work?" 

"Well Bela was very enthusiastic to help us out after we...ugh—" - Eva tries to explain, her strangely mature manner of speaking suddenly disappearing, luckily her sister cuts her off just in time. 

"After we shared our burdens about..." - Eveline bites the inside of her cheeks, trying to make a good point, although Miranda's raised eyebrow is derailing her speech. - "...how you don't believe we're old and trustworthy enough to be left alone from time to time when you're too busy with work or going out or dating—"

"I see," - Miranda clears her throat, giving you a quick look as if it's your fault. You would have laughed if it weren't for the unpleasant pressure in your chest. Instead you move closer to your girlfriend, she doesn't hesitate to wrap one hand around you once you curl up next to her torso. - "and so you decided to convince me with a slideshow? Do you think that would work on me, my loves?" 

"Oh, come on, it's fifteen slides long!" - Eva rushes to go through them all, even stopping to show the last one, which is filled with cat pictures and hearts. It almost makes Miranda gag, they know she hates cats and still added them. 

"We put a lot of thought and effort into it." - Eveline crosses her arms in front of her chest, determined. You lift your head to see Miranda's face - a twisted rainbow of emotion. While she's smirking, it's pretty clear her right eye is twitching from irritation, yet she won't fully reveal it in front of her children. 

"Two whole hours." - Eva makes it clear, almost rooting out a laugh out of you, but instead you let out a dry cough, forcing Miranda's fingers to grip on your shirt. - "and the sisters also helped, we're practically five against one, mommy, at least think about it." 

"...Fine, but what do you even get out of this?" - as if sensing something is wrong with you, Miranda's tender touche moves to your head, running her fingers smoothly through your hair and you almost whimper out, undoubtedly a shiver shakes your whole body, yet the pain is nowhere near to disappearance, in fact your headache is getting so bad, you can feel the skin of your face dripping off it. - "You'll be alone and...what? You're going to mess up my kitchen? Wander in my office? Play hide and seek in the basement?" - she gives a few examples, her voice softly providing reason. Then she sighs. - "I don't understand what you're going to achieve..." - except stressing her out, maybe. 

"...You'll learn to trust us." - after a brief pause Eveline announces, sounding slightly uncertain, yet she holds her group, their crafted presentation still bright without her. Miranda shifts in her seat and you can say she's staring to feel uneasy, her fingers digging into your scalp, without much pain of course, confirm your specifications. 

"What makes you think I don't trust you?" - her eyebrows gently twist, a thin line forming between them. 

"We know you do, but..." - Eva begins, hesitation dancing in her eyes, for should she run to her mother or not. After all she has you in her arms, currently being her emotional support, so she rejects the idea. - "it seems like it's not enough for you to rest assured we're going to be okay, in our own safe home." - the girl specifically rolls her tongue during the pronunciation of her last words, aiming to make a point about the mansion being the best place they can be left alone. 

"And if something happens?" - you manage to hear the slight tremble in Miranda's voice, being reminding of how much she deeply cares for her girls, how uneasy she is when they are away drom her even for a day. - "Something bad like...before." 

"If anything is to happen...it wouldn't matter if we're alone or not, with Alcina or you, mother." - Eveline is confident with her point, which makes excellent sense. Still, Miranda is just on the edge of saying she would prevent anything if she's around, but she silence herself, taking a deep breath instead. She's happy her daughters are mature, not like it's something new, however there's a grand part of her not accepting the fact that they are capable of protecting themselves of being careful enough to escape from danger. After all, the past haunts her in her dreams something's and she doesn't know if she's strong enough to experience it again. 

Just as your eyes are on the verge of closing, the throbbing pain in her forehead making them heavy, while your temples are burning and your mouth is going dry, a sudden movement pulls you out of this trance. Miranda gently tugs on your hair, making you twist your head upwards and look at her deep in the eyes, your neck barely performs its function as a support. 

"What do you say, darling?" - she forces out a smile, clearly not ready to take the final decision. 

"...You want my opinion?" - she nods, a warm wave of assurance spilling through your veins, knowing she finds your word important. 

"Yes, help me out a bit." - your attention shifts from the blonde woman towards her two daughters, their eyes practice begging you to say yes. Perhaps you've caught some kind of virus from Miranda, because you know she too can't resist the faces they make when they want something. You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. Instead you begin to wonder what exactly is going through Miranda's mind as a mother now. Of course you would agree with the decision to leave them be alone when there's noone to be around, but an image of them getting hurt and you not being there to protect them flashes through your mind like a quick electric shock. You've grown too fond of them to be unbothered by this and perhaps there is something deeper behind your thoughts...At last you make up your mind, not even once thinking of the the fact that allowing them this freedom means you loose your purpose as a babysitter. However that's a long forgotten case, your title has changed already, for the better. 

"Let them be free, Mira." - you voice out, enjoying the smiles meeting you as a response. Then you clear your throat, looking at them a bit more firmly. - "But you two have to promise not to make me or your mother freak out, okay?" 

Eva and Eveline make their vows in dramatic, childish voices, forcing even Miranda to crack a smile at them. She can be so soft around her family, around you as well. Eventually the girls ask if they can continue their presentation, arguing about how they skipped most of it and they are really proud of all the pictures they put in it as examples. Miranda still makes a grimace every time she sees a cat, no matter in what cute position it is, which reminds you of the promise you made to Eva not so long ago - about somehow convincing the cat hating Miranda to buy her daughter one for her upcoming birthday. You don't even want to think about how many times you need to press her against the mattress and satisfy her until she agrees. However a promise is a promise and if Eva and Eveline prove to be trustworthy enough to stay home alone without trouble, then perhaps...you can arrange that kitty for the small copy of Miranda. Speaking of the woman, you can't help but shiver once she decides she's getting rather bored and her hand subtly wanders under your shirt, fingertips roaming over your skin until you squirm, partly because she's tickling you. 

"Miranda..." - you whisper close to her pierced many times ear, not wanting to give the wrong idea to her daughters,  while they are so into finishing their presentation with finesse. But unfortunately the blonde woman doesn't stop her touches, if anything she presses down, face turning to look at you. 

"You're warm..." - her hand disappears from underneath your shirt before you can even acknowledge it, instead landing in your forehead, palm now over it. - "Too warm..." 

"Yeah? I have a headache, could be from that..." - you refuse to let her know you're practically sick at this point, not knowing from where you suddenly got a fever. 

"...Darling, you're burning." - her lips pressing on your forehead might have been more pleasant if the the circumstances were different. Instead of allowing yourself to enjoy her soft kiss, you tense up, hearing an annoyed coughing somewhere close to you, or rather in front of you, not like you have the power to move your head much. 

"Hey!No kissing during our presentation!" - Eva, a bit grossed out, exclaims, rooting out a pleasant laugh out of Miranda. 

"I believe I've been worrying about the wrong people all this time, darling." - Miranda gently pulls your chin towards her, you know your lips are dry and you probably look like you're dying, yet she still looks at you like you're something precious. - "I should have been concerned over your condition. You're not okay." - she places another kiss to your forehead, barely smoothing out the pain. - "You're running a fever." 

.

.

.

Even with stuffy nose you can still catch that familiar, sweet aroma, dancing so very close to you, one might say it practically hugging you at this point, soaking in both your flesh and the sheets beneath you. Just how strong is her perfume exactly? 

The blanket over you, thrown on top for warmth and comfort, is sticky for your body once you begin to shift from one position to another. You're sweaty, skin burning, movements uneasy. You roll your head against soft pillows, breathing in with a struggle, cheeks rubbing into thin materials. A dead person needs a coffin, and that's exactly how you comprehend the situation you're in - with your body feeling like useless dead meat and the bed, which welcomes it warmly. Of course, there's something additional close to you in times of sick demise, or rather someone. When you stir in your already ruined sleep yet again, you manage to hit your forehead, not too hard but enough to make you open your eyes, into a solid obstacle next to you. And then you hear it, through the overall silence of the room, the quiet paper sound - the turning of a page. 

"...How long have I been sleeping?" - you swallow, confirming the idea alright having a sore throat. You bring a hand up to the base of it, hoping rubbing circles there would somehow help you. The feeling is almost identical to extreme thirst, but you're certain water won't save you now, even if you drink gallons. 

"Several hours." - a strong statement from a steady voice, sounding almost bored. Miranda's shining in ocean colours eyes follow your lazy movements for just a second, before they return to track lines from the book in her hands. She has her back pressed to the bedframe, a pillow between her spine and the rough material. Another page is flipped, she reads quickly. - "...half a day, actually." - you swear you almost see her smirk. 

"Gods, what kind of pills did you give me?" - you groan, torso ascending from the bed, supported by your elbows. Miranda is positioned on your left, upon looking at her with visible tiredness under the eyes you notice how her hair isn't brushed back in her usual convenient way, but it's rather twisted and pinned with a large hair clip. She looks good like this, more composed, almost normal — as much as a woman like her can be. 

"Effective ones." - her jaw barely moves, yet the answer is clear. She then reaches out to you, the focus of her attention remaining the book in her hands. However, eventually she runs the back of her palm over your cheek, her touch as tender as cotton. Then she moves your hair to a side, grabbing at your neck instead. You don't have much time to react once you find yourself back down to the sheets, with the difference of your head now resting partly on her inviting lap. -  "If they were normal you would be still struggling with a headache even after so much time spent in resting." - a pause, another page flipped - "be thankful." 

"Yeah, but it's not like they will cure me for a day." - of course you're thankful, you don't know how Miranda does it, but she always has the solution for everything, even if served as an outcome you should be cherishing like something sacred. But you would, for the sike of staying close to her like this. On the other hand she truly is right — your awful headache is barely there, you doubt it's gone entirely, yet it's currently not present and that matters the most. 

"No, but it would be faster than the usual." - her hand stays to caress your neck, despite the silence, which suddenly emerges from thin air. You enjoy the moment, just the two of you in such a loving, cozy atmosphere. The air conditioner, placed at high spot near the ceiling, hums softly, blowing warm, invisible waves towards you, eventually overwhelming the temperature of your already heated body. Miranda's fingers are playing with your earrings while you slowly move the blanket off yourself, finding it a bit difficult from the lack of power in your muscles, you sense a smile on your girlfriend's lips once it's lifted fully. You're not late to understand her reaction. 

"...Why am I wearing your nightgown." - you raise the question out, hint of confusion in your voice. Miranda was the one changing your clothes before commanding you to go make yourself comfortable in your bed. Perhaps, given the fact that you were shaking from overly consuming fever, you didn't pay much attention to what she's putting on you. The material is soft, kissing your skin with silky lips, yet it's short and ghostly, almost if you're not wearing anything. There's no denying it, however, it's insanely comfortable. 

"You were sweating, still are, didn't want to put you into something irritating like your usual sleeping clothes." - Miranda still talks with that unbothered, almost bored tone of her voice, too busy reading whatever story she has picked from the endless bookshelves in the library. Nothing stops her from adding one last thing after her quick explanation. - "Besides...it looks good on you." 

You're more than ready to argue. Currently Miranda is wearing a similar nightgown, since she has a lot of them, with small differences like colour or design. You can't exactly say for length, due to her legs being covered, yet something is whispering to you that the one given to you for wearing is short, not merely because you were sweating. Part of you would begin to tease her, these types of actions not being exactly foreign to her, but your mind is somewhere else. Especially when Miranda lifts the hand, which you already miss on your neck, to rub her eye with a gentle movement. First of all, she's clearly tired, forcing you to take a probably correct guess about her staying by your side the whole day, and judging by the clock it's already late at night. And second of all...

"Also why are you still here?" - your sudden and vague for her ears question makes her blink, finally putting at end to her attention span towards the book. Miranda tilts her head in your direction, her eyes scanning you up and down. - "I appreciate your help, but I don't need pampering, and if you get sick I—"

"I'm reading." - oh, say less, you didn't notice at all. 

Before you can even think of a clever or any type of response, really, she's already turned back to the inked pages, flipping yet another to reveal a new chapter. You scoff, people are so ready to comment on your attitude, but they haven't seen Miranda. However you know well enough it's no use for you to argue with her. Yes, you worry she's going to get sick as well and you don't even want to imagine what it would be to look after her while she's in no good condition. But you know her well enough to comprehend she's going to make a fuss about not wanting to leave you alone, or how her immune system is better or whatever else she thinks of. Naturally, you decide to let her be, leaning more to her and rubbing your forehead on her stomach, silently demanding her soft touch again. 

"Fine, read for me as well then. Entertain the sick." - you're happy to receive her loving hand on your neck again, carefully cut nails slowly running up and down the skin, summoning shivers down your spine. For your surprise, Miranda chuckles. 

"Mmm...that's not the type of story for a lullaby." 

Your head raises from the comfort of her lap just enough to distinguish the many different words, written over the white pages. Miranda is even kind enough to lower her book down, making it easier for you to see. You find it convincing she doesn't wait to be told in order to offer you help. However you quickly find yourself debating if this time it was really needed. It's literally at the beginning of her new chapter, few sentences in and...She moans with a weak, desperate voice while the woman between her legs adds a third finger to her already burning, dripping core... 

"Miranda!— How do you even read these with a straight face?" - you force yourself to look away, shaking your head and holding a chuckle of amusement in your throat, though it's eventually released once Miranda lets you know the answer. 

"Experience,... I suppose." - with that she turns another page, teeth softly biting into her bottom lip while she crosses her legs under the blanket. 

You observe her attentively, out of words and smiling proudly for uncertain reason, she's so casual about it, hypnotizing you with her nonchalant behaviour to the point you miss the quiet knocks on the door. You only acknowledge it creaking open after a few seconds. 

Eveline enters Miranda's master bedroom with a shy step, almost expecting to be immediately sent away. However you spot the slight shift of light on her emerald coloured eyes once you lift up your head, greeting her with a smile. You suspect Miranda does the same, judging by the sudden change in the raven haired girl's standing pose - her back straightens and she takes another step in. But before she can truly run towards the both you in, Miranda raises her hand, allowing the book to flop down the sheets, lucky with the cover facing upwards, and Eveline stops in her place, unmoving. Miranda doesn't say anything, just throws the heated blanket over you again, covering your bare legs. Then she stands up, and you stop yourself from cursing her under your breath upon seeing how her own nightgown is almost touching the floor. And with that all of your previous doubts about her chosen sleepwear for you get confirmed. 

"It's late, sweetheart." - Eveline is fisting the fabric of her own pajamas, arms subtly shaking. Her mother knees down to her face level and immediately takes her worried hands in her own, rubbing comforting circles over her knuckles. Miranda lifts her eyebrows upwards with a smile. - "Can't sleep?" 

"I...understand Eva and I spent a lot of time... convincing you we're big and mature, but..." - Eveline hesitates, avoiding her mother's eyes, instead looking to a side, making herself even smaller than she already is. Truly a contrast to her behaviour early today during their mighty presentation. She takes a deep breath, before continuing. - "but I—" - a sudden pause, Miranda's grip tightens. - "It's happening again,... It's haunting me and I'm scared. Make them stop, please, mom." 

Miranda doesn't react the way you expect her too. Of course she kisses Eveline's forehead and then whispers something in her ears, which makes the girl nod and slowly wave to you, before exiting the room. However, Miranda's coping with the situation is too... natural. Almost if she has expected it. It's weird, yet casual in the same time. Eveline didn't come to  complain about nightmares, in fact what she told her mother strangely reminded you of the past and your first, very confusing days in this mansion. Your girlfriend makes a full circle backwards, facing you again, her expression calm and soft, too relaxed to seem even real. You don't have much time to shower her with questions, you can barely pull yourself in a sitting position even, since she's hoovering over you before you can even open your mouth. And she's leaning in close, too close. You flinch, acknowledging she's clearly going for a kiss. But you don't think it's the best idea, after all you're sick, with dry lips, runny nose and sticky skin. Miranda doesn't seem to care, regardless. 

"Mira, you shouldn't." - you warn her. 

"But I want to." - she whispers. 

The blonde woman captures you in a more tender kiss than you've originally guessed. She even finds a way to push her tongue inside your mouth, groaning softly when you return her gesture. If it weren't for the fever, you would say your temperature is getting high just because of her. Eventually Miranda pulls away, a string of saliva connecting your lips to hers, she leans in one fine time to kiss it gone. You're certain now— she's definitely getting sick after this. Yet you force yourself to not think about germs at that very moment. Miranda cups your face and you shallow hard, your throat burning while your eyes are pulsating in anticipation. 

"I'll sleep in Evie's room tonight, darling." - she announces, catching you a bit off guard. Her fingers trace your naked collarbone until she hooks them under the slipping strap of the nightgown and carefully brings it back over the curve of your shoulder. - "She's not as mature as she thinks she is. But you...I believe you can survive one night without me." 

"In theory." - you chuckle, trying to mask the fact that your chest tightened from the new information, but you're in no position to steal a mother from her daughter. 

"If you don't feel well, come find me, okay?" - she brushes your hair to a side, so soft it's almost criminal. Then you feel pressure on your shoulders and you allow yourself to be guided down, until your back hit the mattress and your head nests in a fluffy pillow. - "Tomorrow I'll make you something easy for consumption, so you can take your pills again." - she drags her thumb over your bottom lip. - "How about soup? " - knowing how well Miranda cooks, your mouth is already watering. 

"I would like that." - you guide your fingers over the exposed skin of her forearm, looking slowly at her. It's clear both of you don't want to depart soon, Miranda is the one to speak it out loud. 

"Don't even think about me leaving your side for the next few days, until you get better." - she leans for another kiss, stopping right before your lips, then pulls back in hesitation. You can feel her ghostly breath over your skin, it's torture. Then she makes up her mind, placing tender feeling of lover in the corner of your mouth. Miranda whispers to you, as if you're her forbidden lover. - "Tonight is the only exception." 

"You're really going to mess me up." - if it hasn't already happened, that is. And that assumption is to very close to reality. This maternal care and attention that Miranda showers you with without even paying attention to it is...your father tried, of course, but Miranda fills a void inside of you, which has been dead and empty for years. - "You've giving me something I've never had." 

"And do you like that?" - her gaze is piercing, your answer is solid. 

"I love it."  

***** 

Miranda is a liar. Perhaps all the hate talk behind her back , in reality, is true — she's a hypocrite. The way she left you alone after you fell asleep just the next night after promising to stay with you, explains everything. 

The hospital is completely empty, as it doesn't work at night, unusual for its main purpose, but during the day it's for the people, during the night it's for selfish creatures like her. Miranda chooses wisely, she doesn't want suspension. As it would be a lie to tell the whole building is not under her control, regardless. The  lights hum with a low, almost accusatory buzz, casting a pale, sterile glow across the linoleum floors — floors that reflect more than they absorb, so every step she takes echoes twice: once in the air, and again in her mind. Her legs eventually guide her to a desired destination, a familiar room. What she doesn't expect so soon, however, is another person making an entrance. 

"You're here without her." - a calm voice, slave to a dark figure somewhere close to the wall. Miranda can see the man clearly, as she's not bothered by the  devoid of light, her eyes work perfectly well. She even checks her watch, making a grimace as she realises it's not he, who's early, but she, who's late. She blames it on your adorable for her eyes sleeping pose and how she stayed staring at you for literal minutes before making up here mind and taking the path to the hospital. 

"That doesn't matter, does it?" - Miranda walks forward, hand gliding smoothly over the wall until she finds the lamp  switch and the whole room lights up with a cozy, yellow colour. Inside those four walls a few things are revealed - Miranda herself, the man close to a corner and a patient, unmoving on the bed, but not dead, not yet. The blonde woman lifts her hand, forcing the man's chin to follow it like a puppy, which owner's holding a treat. The small capsule between her fingers illuminates the light, making it shiny. - "The only thing you care about is the sample in my hand, Terrence." 

"It's Thomas." - the man corrects her, slowly shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter." - Miranda hisses, repeating her words from the beginning of their contract. 

"She's his daughter." - Thomas points to the bed, the other man lies on it like dead meat, the only indicator of life is the slow moving up and down movement of his chest. He's clearly older, long past his prime, yet his face is as innocent as a child's. 

"And everything else?" - Miranda tilts her head to a side, moving forward again, circling the bed while her sharp eye s observe Thomas with careful precision. She only stops when she finds herself in front of the bed, the beeping of machines near it loudly ringing in her ears. - "You and your team, this entire sector if not the whole hospital, even her role in it? It's all me." - her point is perfect made. 

"You really are the type of woman, who gets everything she wants." - a laugh, a faked one. Thomas's hands slip inside his pockets. 

"I believe I made this clear in our first meeting, Terr—Thomas." - Miranda is not usually the one to correct herself, but she likes to keep it professional. Meanwhile her bad relationship with remembering names is not as professional. 

"So..." - the man is quick to change the subject, rolling his tongue in his mouth, his eyes avoiding Miranda's. - "One mold sample for us now,... then we follow orders like obedient pets for you, we help..." - he grins, showing a set of white teeth. - "and we get a vaccine for the side effects?" 

"If we make the vaccine." - Miranda replies sharply, her voice cutting the air like a pair of sharp scissors. She rolls the capsule in between her fingers, fighting it hard not to take pleasure in the way Thomas's eyes linger on it for a second too long. - "My previous attempt weren't so successful." 

"You wouldn't be searching for us if they were." - he speaks out the truth she skipped on purpose, aiming to make her look desperate, which in a way—she is. - "Your last company didn't help much?" 

"The Connections failed me." - a hint of hatred in the tone she chooses to use. Then suddenly she throws the sample in his direction. Panic rushes through Thomas's eyes for just a second before he catches is. Miranda allows a smile to swirl at the end of her lips. - "I...don't want the same mistakes." 

"Well then, we will try our best." - he squeezing the capsule in his palms, trying to test out its security. Not soon after he's walking past the door, not even looking back while exclaiming. - "I just hope you know what you're doing with all this." 

Miranda, finally alone, sighs in frustration. Part of her is eating her from the inside for lying and leaving in the dark over everything, even now...when she's supposed to be cuddling with you in bed. She misses you. She thinks of you while walking around the bed again, pulling another silver capsule from her coat's pocket. She thinks of your lips while grabbing your father's arm and shamelessly searching for a good vein to pierce. She thinks of how loved you make her feel, while transfering the second mold sample into a syringe and positioning the needle dangerously close to his skin. But...she thinks of her daughter, of Eva, while injecting the mold inside your father's organism. Miranda brings a hand around her neck, the guilty feeling begging to be released in her least favourite way. Her blue eyes quickly search for the patient's name tag as she has even forgotten your father's name, but she's not certain she bothered to remember it in the first place. 

"I have high hopes, Mr.Liam." - Miranda lowers herself over him, observing in the same manner she does with you, when you sleep. Then she takes a deep breath, whispering her final desire. - "Will you truly heal my daughter the same way yours is healing me?"  

[mamiya-a]

[mamiya-a]

mama crow

[mamiya-a]

Treated myself with the Bloodborne artbook and Im obssessed with the concept art. The Plain Doll is my baby and i will protect her with my life!Also Lady Maria is such a cutie! Based off La Pieta by Bouguereau

[mamiya-a]

wings of a crow

[mamiya-a]

Prince! Miranda.. Got the idea by a Pinterest photo and couldn't resist drawing her in uniform

Also me clinging on her back because she's so beautiful dressed like this...