petitsdieu

[petitsdieu]

With his head in her lap, an elysian rub to the shell of his ear to his temple and back again.

❛ Never, raison d’être. I’ll take time off. I’ll be there for you. ❜

@petitsdieu

"I cannot do this without you."

[petitsdieu]

... 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟; 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑡; 𝐴𝑝ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑒’𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒.

[petitsdieu]

Put beguiled out to bucolic. Along with lambparts and faith. The only way he nurtures is for blight.

Dewy-eyed and credulous, she had come to him ⸺ but it had not been kismet that made it happen. It was desperation. He seems to mock her now explicitly for it. She does not know what she expected ... making a Savior out of a Slaughterer.

Did she not think of this: the only way to get away from her family is the cutoff of them? And did she not understand that to stop the death by their hands more death had to be administered first? And then what, to what end? It seems grief knows no end.

Did she romanticize their meeting to better swallow it or because she was illusioned the savior romantic. Her needs have blinded her.

An unwell feeling travels along her fascia and makes the ichorblue go cold. Her faith in all things (her)holy is fading. He must know he's killing her the slow way.

❛ I beg you ... end our union. ❜

@petitsdieu sent: ❛ the king has been killed. ❜ (like 9 months ago.)

“Yes.”

And overhead his profane chair an ater shroud, winding down from the shrine of its mouth the shadows that have haunted her ad nauseum, a nativitate. Ren has arbitrated his hungry though ultimately atrophied castle for years, decades, has bedded this darkness tolling now upon it for millennia, since before there was a language upon which millennia could stand.

He looks down on the pilled, fleshy mass she calls a king, watching dark blood leak into a sump on the lowermost floor.

The Ren trickle like pearls on strings, down the pearly steps, around him. Surri-Diae holds in her arms the head, what is missing from sagging shoulders. She rocks it like a babe.

“How long has he been dead, do you think? An hour? A life? Is your kismet an approximation of faith, votive lamb?”

Ren still does not turn to the heir.

[petitsdieu]

“I believe in love at first sight but I will always believe that the people we love we have loved before. Many, many, many times before and when we stumble through grace and circumstance and that brilliant illusion of choice to finally meet them again, we feel it faster each time through. The one glance that set life alight is two sets of two eyes staring through the layers of lifetimes and stolen glances and first kisses and hands held; the brace against the weight and unrelenting tide of waiting. I believe in love at first sight but am not burdened with the misconception that it’s a first sight at all.”

— Tyler Knott Gregson

[petitsdieu]

She's ⸺ one of the woman that was supposed to be saved, her name was Colette or Mary or Elena ⸺ is never going to walk 6th arrondissement with Angel Lung and go into Pierre Hermé to get one of those white peach éclairs with the vanilla bean glaze and the peony petals all in a row. Colette or Mary or Elena couldn't stop talking about them and how she always missed them for their seasonal showcasing. Angel Lung ⸺ who always says its not just about the physical well being but the emotional one too ⸺ promised they would go.

She told her everything would be okay. She, in all-honestly, believed in an all recovery mission. It's like the hopeful music motif prematurely played.

Sometimes, you don't have enough time.

If there was anyone that would have come out here to get her, she would have thought it would be Sigmund and the Labarms. Maybe Aposynthos. She did not expect anyone, let alone Spectre. Sometimes she feels as if she were born lonely ... never realizing its by design artificially.

Like everything else, it's little by little and then all at once; a few tears trickle down before a harsh sob moves her breaking the long-standing stillness of her.

She feels sick to her stomach.

He moves closer. Slowly. A step at a time, careful. His frame fills the space but does not crowd it. He has learned the scale of himself—how to enter a moment without breaking it.

He kneels beside the vehicle. His hand lifts, hesitates—he's not sure where to touch, if he should. Blood has never stopped him before, but her silence halts him more than any wound.

Still, he places his hand lightly on the edge of the seat. Not on her. Just there. Close. Steady.

"There was nothing that could have been done, Angel." The words fall heavy, but gentle—like soil over a grave, not stone on glass. "I saw it. What you did. You tried. We both know you never stop trying."

His gaze lingers on the dried pattern across her knuckles, crimson constellations across a divine architecture of failure. He does not look away. He does not flinch. Death is not foreign to him. He was built from it, for it. But grief—that is different.

[petitsdieu]

“I. Paris swallows the laugh she pours into his throat, coming away from the bowstring curve of Helen’s lips with his mouth smeared crimson, gasping for breath. II Her voice a hiss in the shell of Agamemnon’s ear, she whispers that he’ll live to regret forgetting the divinity pulsing under her skin III. She watches, careless and idle, the way Paris’ eyelashes, dark and long, flutter as a war rages outside for her. IV. Paris looks at her like she is holy, and she takes his hand and runs until her heart is a bird beating at the cage of her ribs, and she’s breathless, helplessly gulping in night air. V. Her blood wells up bright red, deceptive, and forgets it should be gold. Forgets that ½ of her is ichor. VI. Gods have never given much thought to the nameless troops that died in their names.”

— Helen // w.t.o (via wordstumblingout)

[petitsdieu]

di petsa's venus prayer headpiece

[petitsdieu]

Rash decisions might be postponed until the next scene, sadly. But we’ll see.

❛ Sonically similar … Yours leans more casual though. ❜

Which is a gentler way of saying the he sounds less confident overall. The powdered sugar on his shirt agrees.

She thinks if she were put in a room with both of them blindfolded she’d mix them up at least half the time. She nearly nears figuring it out but doesn’t. The idea of them being the same person doesn’t even cross her mind.

She drinks. Before and … ❛ You interview him a lot, yes? What do you think of him? ❜ after.

That’s the opposite of what they can do now. Darn it.

Clark’s register jumps an airy octave, trying to de-escalate an explosion smack-dab in the middle of an urban area. Not that rural ones are any easier.

Angel Lung still has time to rethink any rash decisions.

‘ I sound like Superman? Sometimes? Like when, when I say what do I sound like Superman? ’

Cool guy, he means. He reaches for one of the flat pastries on the tray between them just to have a stress ball and gets flakes all over his new shirt.

[petitsdieu]

forgive me, Lady Jessica, please know that i tried.

"Oh sweet child, there is nothing to forgive."

Between meaningless pleasantries at the Landsraad and a deep blooming under Caladan skies, the Princess Hara has become valuable.

Value: of regard, of worth, of usefulness.

But what could she have done?

Better to buy her own safety with her silence than walk a futile gallant path.

Jessica feels the probing stare that Alia sends the girl's way, and has to will herself to acknowledge it. You're being jealous, my daughter, she thinks. It does not become you.

When she rises from the paladin, she holds out a hand. Her palm caresses Alia's head quite naturally, instinctually. Is it a loving mother's instinct? Or a grieving widow's?

Before her, a Princess who once dreamed of whimsy thanks to Jessica's tale of love.

"There is nothing you could have done," she says, and shrugs, and wills the memories to go away. Let them sink into the sand like so much deadweight. Caladan is her ocean of memories; but Dune is where the shipwrecks are buried.

[petitsdieu]

— a selective, low-activity Anakin Skywalker roleplay blog.

[petitsdieu]

“Battered and wrecked, I come to you, you first—”

— Homer, The Odyssey (tr. by Emily Wilson)

[petitsdieu]

i hope the beloved mutuals don’t think me unintellectual for this but i love romantic subplots i gobble them up delightedly with very few exceptions. ‘oh fuck yes a little bowl of seeds for me’ etc 

[petitsdieu]

@id1eyouth, spectre ... “  i’m here to help you.  ”

Long since home from a mission, Angel Lung hasn't made it out of the garage. Or maybe she hasn't left the nanosecond tragedy turned to pink dust of people. *They now are oxidizing rubies on her attire. Sitting in the groves of her fingers. The gore splatter dried on her face.

Angel Lung does not take loss of life lightly.

Somewhere deep inside she registers him —there's a soft body shift within her. But she can not react to him. There's little flow in her to dethaw. She's still in the car. The only thing that has changed since arrival is her position. She's laid down in the backseat.

[petitsdieu]

@topshelfperverts, gwim ... "come here , let me look at you."

Princess Hara triggers a life-lesson in the clement cup of her hands. The fish was destined for a guest plate (Hers) now has its life headed in another direction. It takes one moment — One person — for all-change.

The silk might get ruined in the process. She's knees deep in riverwater when the release happens. The fish wiggles out of her palms and disappears in a blink.

In another, Princess Hara notices an audience. One.

❛ I can not. My dress is stuck on something. ❜

And even if it weren't, it wouldn't be proper for a Princess to come just because she was asked ... now would it?

[petitsdieu]

The sounds of pain elicit a visceral reaction. She heard him from all the way on the westend of the estate. He should know by now she can't ignore the suffering; she knows by now that every time she finds him injured he's stubborn in the way all men are to aid.

Her face falls and suddenly she looks like the wounded one.

Normally, she'd give that moment or two. You can't save everyone. Especially the ones that don't want it. But she'll straddle that middle ... respect he doesn't want to jump right into recovery but help him hold himself together.

Bending on her knees beside him, she cradles a hand over his. The other slots behind his neck to brace the rest of him.

❛ It hurts, watching you hurt. ❜

❛ We need to get you to med, Spectre. ❜

Angel Lung finds Spectre alone and badly injured. / @petitsdieu

Spectre sits slumped against the wall, one arm cradled awkwardly against his ribs. His chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged gasps, each breath forced through clenched teeth. The once-impenetrable black of his suit is torn in jagged streaks, the fabric scorched, flesh beneath mottled with bruises no normal man could survive. The ground beneath him is scorched in strange patterns, as if something barely contained had erupted and failed. He glances up when Angel Lung finds him. Annoyed, he grunts, (he thought that he locked the door).

"Don't," he rasps before she can speak, voice low and raw like gravel dragged across steel. "I just need a minute." It's a lie so thin it barely holds its shape. One arm clutches his side like he's holding himself together by will alone.

"Maybe two."

[petitsdieu]

“There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced.”

— L.M. Montgomery, Rilla of Ingleside

[petitsdieu]

His body is her body, you'll come to understand. It is not just his eyes that reach her but the ache where his teeth root. And by teeth, we mean things that harmonize with appetite. And, need.

... need love.

She'd get on her knees, too, like wives do if he would only mention in the bridge he needs to get off his own chest. Which means in the same breath she attempts to self-recovery, she'd use it to marry him before midnight if the idea was voiced. Because to say she'd want him as her boyfriend would to put him in packaging he wouldn't fit.

She needs from him more.

There's a throb in her hand. ( To touch ... or not to ).

Her expression softens in the time it takes to filter weighted-images between his gaze and her own. The green in hers seem to dull as they lower to the floor. It takes a swallow-back to realize she's done what he did.

Another seed issue: She doesn't feel safe with him. This is both his fault and not. She's been laying on a dinner table, waiting to be hurt. She fears he'll eat her heart. There's already teeth marks where he's feed ... the wrist ... the neck ... the—

She fears wanting to be the fruit that sated him, like ten fingers in the gush-gush-gush of his heart. Who is eating who. Does it matter when they have the same mouth?

He. Skins her.

She's a Fitzgerald fool.

❛ You frighten me. My feelings for you frighten me. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what I am to you. ❜

Don’t leave me here like this.

You know I can’t be trusted,—— he threatens bitterly, again not through the thinkmuscle umbilical from his navel to hers, but through his eyes. You know, because he’s simply turning her mind essays to that sun she loves so pathetically, at full illumination. No excavation needed, it’s right there; it’s coiffed whipped cream to collect at a finger-skim. Marilyn’s hair.

—— in the sheets, ah, yes, that’s what she thinks. Whom he lends his body to bothers her, not his heart, because to her they’re one and the same. Why not voice it?–even if he finds the conflation rudimentary–Is it perhaps the recurring sore throat issue that makes acknowledging his importance a superhuman effort.

He’s full as a bomb and desolate at once. He longs to make it across to her on his knees and never to see her again but for condoling by the him-created mass grave of the family she pretends to stand.

Today is a charade at his expense. Hara adds another unfortunate anniversaire to his unending amassment. So he asks: Who’s the cruel one? The one abusing her power?