#joesme

[sacredsanguine]

pillow talk: iii a joesme flash series | parts (i), (ii), (x), (iv), (v), (vi)

They’d planned to spend this night together, likely snuggled close under soft blankets after the heady heat and laughter of a few drinks had faded into pleasant, weightless sleepiness.

Joel had joked over the morning coffee she’d brought him about bringing over a pillowcase of groceries in case Esme forgot to pick something up to supplement the wealth of alcohol, tea biscuits, and condiments currently residing in her cupboards. She’d stuck her tongue out at him good-naturedly and made some silly reply about knowing which tomatoes were best for sauces and which were better for cocktails, thank you very much.

That had been before. Now there’s lightness at her ring finger and betrayal bruising violet in her throat.

Esme raises her head just enough from her kitchen table to pour herself another tumbler full of vodka. Her hand shakes, but the bottle and glass are already blurry. At least there’s no one in her apartments to scold her. The groceries she’d had time but not the will to put away stare accusingly from the counter.

“Santri,” she slurs before the vodka peels her memories one layer farther from painful proximity as it burns down her throat. Against her own will and all the odds drained from the near-empty bottle, a memory lurches to the forefront of Esme’s mind: warm hands in hers, the smell of sun-warmed violets, and a low laugh like pure sunshine.

I’ll teach you to toast in the old Aixoisi way.

Joel’s eyes had sparkled in response to her teasing glance. I’d like to teach you to heal even if you didn’t offer. But that’s a fine deal.

Teach me to heal? What an interesting proposition, Physician. Trying to get me to stop coming to you for every little scrape and sorrow?

A laugh that felt like summer. Never.

Liquid hits Esme’s lap in cold, thin drops. Neither the burn of the vodka or the sweet golden spice of involuntary ginger warm her. Not with the way the ache in her gut insists on freezing her from the inside out.

She’s always been lonely here. Of all lessons to learn from Pheles, how to wake up alone was one of the first. Foolish to think that this would have been anything different.

Glass clinks onto wood; the sound is hollow.

Joel inhales and lets himself slouch back into his chair. The sun will be rising soon and he will be expected along with it, but for now he is alone with his thoughts, half a bottle of wine he’d bought with someone else in mind, and a rosary whose cool, well-worn beads cannot clack loud enough to silence the hurt hurricane in his head.

It spins faster, juggernaut thrown between the deep-set ache of a wound that does not know why it was inflicted and Joel’s automatic desperation to prove himself worthy, if not innocent and maledicted. If not good. His hand flexes—not as if into a fist, but to grasp something already slipped away, fingers digging deep into flesh as in the aftermath of missing a rope already swung by.

The sound that rolls from Joel’s throat is not a growl or a sob but a creak; violets and gold burst from his hands in swirls too soft for what he feels. The incandescence of the unspeakable illuminates green glass as Joel reaches out to turn the label of the bottle away from himself until the crimson paper is just a dark shadow through the bottle and its lightless contents.

Even without the label’s pensive cherub staring beseechingly at him, Joel’s thoughts do not quiet. He sips, alternating between the last of the cherry-red wine and the water beside it, and wonders if he will ever learn how to stop bringing things upon himself. If he will ever stop wanting to.

His dearest wishes repulse their subjects, perhaps with their fervency. His ragged sigh flutters against the hand he raises to press to his face, uncomfortably flushed and swollen from an earlier round of crying.

Joel knows his scripture by heart, but it was not verse that taught him that unfettered desire of something corrupts it.

Joel the student, Joel the healer, Joel the man who strove to be the best he could, the man he had needed as a boy—and none of it enough. Good, but never good enough to keep things in his grasp from withering at the force of his want.

He had always wanted a family. Always wanted a child. Children. Had walked with open eyes and arms into wanting the woman whose name he now cannot speak without feeling something sharp rising to choke him like an unholy noose.

The city loves him like a son, but for all his glory, all his radiance, Joel could not keep something from being too good to be true.

They’d planned to spend this night together. Alone, they share instead an echoing and inescapable emptiness.

[lapinlunairegames]

tag people you’d like to get to know better

tagged by @lifesupreme-if and @magiciansvoyage !

last song: CROW (カラス) by UPIKO (うぴ子) (though I will take this space to recommend Caesar on a TV Screen (Ides of March Version) by The Last Dinner Party! Fun fact: the font they use in the video is the same one I use for headings in Elsinore: After Hamlet! IM Fell English ftw)

currently watching: Detective Anna season 2! The 1890s Russian medium detective soap is extremely bingeable and I'm furious at Viktor Ivanovich and the fact that they gave all the women extremely modern-styled contours in this season. (Arlo the trailer for The Prince is making me FROTH AT THE MOUTH i am going to watch it as soon as I can, very much up my alley!!!! thank you thank you thank you for sharing)

three ships (in no particular order):

Florence Vassy x Svetlana Sergievsky, aka Queens: ships in the night, women from different worlds, disdain for the other's, shared suffering both imposed and of their own making.

The Evergiven - yes, yes, i hear you crying out for the Suez Canal. I hear you. I occasionally agree. What a beaut. My creative brand stems, at its heart, from recognising Shakespeare's hand in today's world. How could I not adore the Evergiven, doomed to a taste of love that destroys its own success? Every shipping journey in service of a greater happiness, at the price of never knowing an absoluted union again. Such a taste of suffering, as sugar atop two-day shipping.

Joesme - finding each other in every life. loving one another knowing that the tale is already written and that it does not end as happily as they would want for each other. Making that choice every time because the ecstasy is worth the agony. Francesca by Hozier. the occasional sprinkle of divine abstinence versus mortal hunger. what the mouth speaks against what the hand does.

favorite color: ice blue / wine-dark sea

currently consuming: London fog

first ship: honestly no idea, probably something from a magical girl show or a ballet lol

place of birth: a courtyard in the east of the celestial palace, west of the peach tree of immortality. I moved to the moon shortly before I started making IF

current location: Full disclosure I have been slowly filling this out over the course of like two and a half weeks lmao, but at the moment I started this draft: very brightly lit airport terminal

relationship status: depending on who you ask, either in a committed and questionably toxic sapphic relationship, a nontoxic one, or in a secret polycule

last movie: dune (part one)

currently working on: JSST (<- acronym for secret project) & Cherry Cola Mezzanine (tentative working title)

tagging: i'm getting to this quite late, so i'm not sure who's been tagged already...anyone who'd like to is more than welcome to jump in! @gamesbyalbie @allieebobo @defiledtomb @thesophiades @manonamora-if @phaedraismyusername if you feel so inclined, darling friends

[kittenishdelights]

and joel hugging esme after healing her..... this is how joesme can still WIN

[sacredsanguine]

pillow talk: ii a joesme flash series | parts (i), (x), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)

An early morning calls, generally, for an early night to precede it. The night before the water festival, dinner wraps up early, leaving a quiet conversation on Joel and Esme’s respective early starts the next day for the pillows. That had tapered into wishes for sweet dreams and easy sleep while Joel’s call to Sam’s side and Esme’s return to Shatterlily were still clothed in the far-off rosiness of a dawn yet to come.

The night deepens into the sleepy, liminal velvet of a time moving like dark water in an unlit river, soft and ready to sink into. Sleep, then, should be the logical progression.

Still, doing something against what she should is not unfamiliar to Esme, and as she traces a gentle fingertip over the curve of Joel’s shoulder, navigating by touch and the soft rhythm of his breathing, she wonders if it’s just her, with all the warping she’s grown into at court, who finds something special about this stolen little morsel of time together: of knowing each other in the veiled dark just through touch and the low murmur of being loved in wordlessness, in the slumber-swirled promise of rest, in comfort without need for sight.

“We should get to sleep,” Joel murmurs. The callused fingers of one warm hand brush a stray curl back from Esme’s face and pull the blankets up more cozily over her shoulders, palm flattening for a moment against her back to make sure she’s covered there too.

She nestles close; the terror of it, of trusting this man’s hands and the quiet, unstringed brightness of his smiles, has faded now, though her heart races if she lets her thoughts settle enough to realize its initial slowing. “Maybe I’m just talking in my sleep,” Esme whispers. “I’m dreaming right now.”

Joel chuckles, low and warm, and the faint susurration of it against her hair curves Esme’s lips up into a smile. “Then I’ll come join you.”

They agree that they should both really be sleeping, but below the murmur of that concord is the unspoken, humming agreement to treasure this time together—stolen from its future as it might be, for now it can belong easily to the both of them.

“Good night,” Joel murmurs sleepily; Esme feels but cannot see his weight shifting slightly beside her, arm laying over hers. She had never said anything about it, but now he was always careful to let some part of their bodies touch like this when they shared a bed, a wordless promise that he’d be there in the morning—or if not, that the door would be locked behind him and the covers pulled back over Esme so that she’d wake warm and cared for, not cold and used.

The mere fact that he’d taken notice—that he’d seen signals she’d learnt to ignore in herself the way everyone else seemed to—petrifies her core, teaches sublimity to every fibre of her being as though standing on a precipice overlooking the vastest and most unimaginable of seas.

She looks into the darkness for a moment and imagines that she can see the gentle curve of each long, dark eyelash fluttering with the rise and fall of Joel’s breathing.

“Good night,” Esme whispers back, and for the first time allows herself to think that perhaps even if this is a matter of martyrdom and exchange for him, maybe she is doing the unthinkable. Maybe she is falling in love.

Esme looks at the darkness overhead, then shuts her eyes and looks at the darkness inside them. The warm weight of Joel’s hand decides her: Esme chooses then to put her trust in the hand that holds hers as if to guide her through it: against all else, the history of her senses shrieking caution and shying away from the vulnerability of trust when she knows not where she would be led.

As she falls asleep, Esme thinks it is very nice to stand alongside someone for once, to feel the fear of falling but trust your flight in the strength of your teammate’s word—no slip-ended oaths, no empty almost-but-not-quite promises.

[sacredsanguine]

pillow talk: i a joesme flash series | parts (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)

He’s warm, even when he isn’t casting. He touches her hand first—not her mouth, not her thigh, not her hip—and holds it in his for a while, long enough that Esme thinks to herself that it really, truly seems that Joel would be content with just sitting there beside her, fingers entwined.

She rests her head on his shoulder cautiously, eyes flickering from their clasped hands to Joel’s face—what she can see of his expression, gold searching the fine crafting of his profile before Esme turns on her side and brings Joel’s hand up with hers to kiss his knuckles.

“Do you want to?”

Esme has spent too long in court for her voice to sound afraid, but there’s a hesitation there that catches the glassy silk of her accent like a briar and tears it sheer over words said just a little too quickly. Joel looks at her—into her eyes, not dipping into the soft edges of shadow where Esme’s unfastened nightgown gapes over pale skin—and says quietly, “Only if you do too.”

She leans up and kisses him before she lets herself think too much, hand going from where she braces herself on his shoulder to cup Joel’s face, fingers sliding into his hair as she settles over his lap, releasing his hand to splay her fingers over his chest. His skin is pink-hot under her hand, trembling and tender. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Esme wonders if the reason he kisses her back is obligation too—even if it tastes like gentle want. She’s always been good at making herself believe traces of sweetness.

Her pulse is thudding in her fingertips, echoing the one she can feel under his skin. Esme tilts her head to kiss Joel again, sinking into the plush, solid heat of him with a sound drawn long and soft from her lips. She reaches to guide his hands, but they’re already at her waist, centring the roll of her hips and massaging her back with callused fingertips. His eyes are earnest and somehow the warmth of that is so foreign that it hurts, a kind of security in the unnameable depth of his wanting that scrapes Esme clean of all the sultry, sacrificial skill that she’s clung to for so long.

“Show me what you like,” Joel murmurs. “How you like it.”

Esme laughs. “Stealing my words already.” One fingertip traces down the contour of Joel’s nose, ghosting over his lips and pausing before its pressure is replaced by Esme’s thumb in the centre of his lower lip. “I like your hands there. Where do you want mine? Tell me where to stop.”

Her thumb presses in a touch harder, indenting his lip around the pad of her finger before Esme smiles and trails her hand down Joel’s jaw, fingers ghosting slowly over the expanse of his chest while she watches his face, drinking in the flush blooming there, pink made dusky by its tanned base. He’s pliant but not passive, smiling up at her; hands attentive to the faint purr that rolls into her breath when he kneads the muscles at the small of her back, eyes still making her ache with their earnest light.

He makes a sound when her hands go flat, palms pressing into him, that isn’t quite a moan but not quite a simple exhale, and Esme lets her thumbs curve, nails scraping lightly over skin through the weave of his shirt.

This will hurt when he leaves, she thinks. It will hurt if she lets him in, lets herself believe in that eager to please smile and the tender warmth of his touch; she can trace with her tongue the spider-silk cracks where the nameless cavity in her chest has already fractured, know the weaknesses that Joel’s promises will shatter anew when they inevitably break, where all this aching, unspeakable thing welling inside her like foolish, overripe nectar will spill out from.

The fall will hurt as terribly as it feels heavenly now. Esme tells herself that she will land on her feet.

She doesn’t have the strength for anything else.

“Lie down. Hands by your sides,” she tells him, as she presses him back into the pillows—and corrects her initial order: “Or wherever you want to put them. You can pull my hair if you want.”

He takes a moment to kiss her first before obeying: first on the forehead, warm hand cupping her cheek so gently that Esme has to keep her eyes shut so he doesn’t see the tears she’ll soon try to blame on overeager gagging, then on the mouth, sweet and almost chaste—more given than taken.

He holds her afterwards, comfort freely given even after the mortification of Esme’s panicked apologies for crying and the obscene offers of compensation that burst in a frenzy from her lips. It’s a dream that begins long before she slips into sleep, hand laid lightly over Joel’s, blankets tucked in around her shoulders.

She’s cataloguing everything she’s learned from his reactions, gaze going slightly unfocused under the defence of a pretty, doll-like smile while she makes her mental notes as she always does—

“Esme? Are you feeling alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

The ache in her chest cracks into exquisite agony under the pure concern in Joel’s voice, lit like a votive by the dark warmth in his eyes, catchlights glimmering like drops of the sun itself.  Esme presses a hand to her mouth, presses hard until the pain of her teeth imprinting into the tender skin of her mouth breaks the sob in her throat into pieces small enough to swallow.

“N-no—you were amazing—that was good. Perfect. I liked it. I liked it a lot.” She sucks in a breath, trying to still the shudder in her frame, and smiles at Joel. Her eyes glitter, wet, and the colour of greed sparkles a little darker under a nod that’s meant to be comforting. “Thank you. I was just thinking. I’m sorry.”

The concern in his eyes pools deeper, softens like the touch of his hand over her shoulders, sweeping gentle over her back without a single tease lower. “You have nothing to apologise for,” Joel says softly. “I asked because I was worried about you, Esme.”

He searches her face a moment, one thumb brushing away tears, before smiling—a little hesitant, a little shy. “What were you thinking about?”

Esme pauses. Swallows. Tries to stop herself from memorising the feeling of his touch like it’s a certainty that she’ll never know it again.

“Ask me again tomorrow morning,” she whispers, and for all the years she’s trained herself to know better, Esme can’t stop herself from squeezing Joel’s hand like that might seal some ritual to ensure that he’s there when she wakes up. “I’ll tell you then, I promise. Wake me if I’m still asleep.”

She hesitates—there’s a quip about how easily Joel seems to coax out “please” from her buried deep in the fallow of her chest that she doesn’t have the sunlight to make blossom—and Joel just nods. He is warm when he holds her, breathing steady and even, and Esme thinks that she could die for the smell of sun-warmed violets winding around her.

“I will.” And he does, with the aroma of breakfast wafting through the air of her apartment. Joel can’t stay for long—the world keeps turning, even when dreams seem to be coming true—but there’s time for talking over perfectly-cooked eggs and coffee.

He kisses her forehead and holds her close before he leaves, and Esme sits on her kitchen floor for an hour wondering if she ought to see another physician about the distressing flutter in her chest.

[sacredsanguine]

butterfly court ships as lyrics to threnody

verse one i. balisongsters (nikolai x andrey) ii. lockjaw/lunesme

pre-chorus iii. e squared

chorus iv. scaredycat (parlan x sam) v. november (the horned king x the algid)

verse two vi. joesme vii. matrory/matparlan if you squint

bridge viii. penelope x power ix. yvettobin

[sacredsanguine]

come gentle night, come loving black-brow'd night (joel x esme; joesme)

Neither Joel nor Esme keep particularly early nights, though it’s by occupational habit for one and occupational necessity for the other. Midnight is a fleeting moment; quiet, velvety darkness softens the first of its sixty seconds as Esme rolls to comb gentle fingers through Joel’s hair, thumb brushing tenderly over his forehead before her lips touch the spot where a few strands have rooted silver among rich deep brown.

“One.”

He stirs, dark eyes blinking up at her in the few precious seconds it takes for them to adjust to the low light, before a fond smile brings up the sides of Joel’s mouth, dimples warmly illuminated. One hand rises to brush softly against the side of Esme’s face and she leans into the familiar touch, a soft purring hum of contentment thrumming against warm calluses.

“It’s bedtime, love,” he hums, voice burred low and swirled with sleepy purple. “What are you doing?”

“Counting,” Esme answers. Her whisper slides into a soft giggle as Joel pulls her gently in for a kiss and she turns her head so his mouth lands on her cheek while she nuzzles into the side of his face instead. “Don’t make me lose my place! Or I’ll have to start over again…” The delighted, teasing sparkle in her eyes suggests she wouldn’t mind so much.

“Two,” she murmurs, as she turns to kiss the center of Joel’s palm, then each of his fingertips. “Three, four, five, six, seven.”

Esme nuzzles her face into the curve of Joel’s hand again before guiding it to rest on her back, warm through the chiffon of her chemise. “Eight,” she kisses softly into his left eyelid, followed by “Nine” into his right.

Her hands have been massaging his shoulders, thumbs working deep over trapezii to loosen the tension stored up there during the day, but as Esme adds to her counter with a trail of kisses and murmured numbers down Joel’s face, her hands glide up to cup his cheeks, tilting his head slightly to give her better access to every softly shadowed contour of his features.

“Thirty,” Esme whispers, a little teasing giggle curling over her voice as she leans in towards Joel’s lips, then swerves at the last second to kiss very deliberately at the corner of his mouth, then places the next over his dimples.

She pulls back just enough to look adoringly at him for a moment—thirty-three seconds of midnight taken so far, twenty-seven left to tick away—and smile, gold eyes curving into crescents like a summer moon hanging low and reflected in still water.

“Thirty-three.” A careful kiss over Joel’s freshly-shaven chin.

“Thirty-four.” Lips press soft to the cartilage at his throat and curve up sweetly when it bobs in response.

Esme’s smile brightens as she shifts her weight to lean over Joel’s face again, close enough to press their foreheads together. With twenty-three seconds of midnight left to slip between her fingers like unstrung pearls before she threads them between Joel’s, Esme’s lips brush against his. “Thirty-five. Happy birthday, my love.”

The kiss is tender, a celebration in its own quiet, precious trove of three seconds thrice over—not that Esme keeps a particularly faithful count beyond the first three, smiling into the kiss and losing herself in the feeling of something blooming warm and sweet like impossible sunshine between them.

Joel makes a soft sighing sound in the back of his throat when she pulls back, dark eyes bright and impossibly soft as Esme brushes a hand through his hair again. He cradles her face with one hand and tips her into another kiss, plush and deep as the dark night around them.

There’s an edge of mischief glinting over Esme’s reddened lower lip when she grins at Joel and traces a winding path down the column of his throat, touch lightening as her fingertip passes collarbone. “Still a few seconds left of midnight, and so much more of you to celebrate. I want to make sure you start today very happy.”

[sacredsanguine]

"I think I'm allowed to be a little selfish, for once. I think we've both earned it."

Never enough time. For once, we ought to carve out a slice for ourselves. - Joel Ryder

"Just you and I. You, here with me."

all of our love fillin' all of the room / your low, warm voice / curses as you find the string / to strike within me / that rings out a note / heard in heaven / (heaven, heaven) - heaven (mitski, 2023)

heaven (mitski, 2023) / you and i (reprise); chess (1984) / magical gurls (butterfly court, 2023)

[sacredsanguine]

The convenience of Esme's anger is the silencing of her fear; the foolish advantage of her heart is that it does the same.

[sacredsanguine]

voicemails: a vignette (modern marvels. joesme, modern mafia au.)

"Hey, angel - hope you've had a good day. I just wanted to let you know I won't be able to call tonight, some last minute business came up for after the after-party." A sigh crinkles over the low latency of the voice-mail message. "But there's a redeye back home - set dress in five! Music! - so I'll catch that and see you first thing tomorrow. Give Ember a kiss for me. Love you. I'll see you real soon."

Sharp tone. One and a half seconds.

"End of message. To replay this message, press one. To mark for deletion, press seven. To return the message sender's call, press -"

---

Faint strains of Borodin colour an irritated voice, strings barely scratching through a low but imperative timbre. To quote an old interviewer: a voice as smoky as his hair, glistening with the same elegant sheen of well-wielded pomade and good taste. There is something of the Old Country's spirit in him, a keen spark burning through the adornments of his adopted country.

"Have some faith, dear boy. My family knows its capabilities - if she could not return, she would not be an Etoni. You see? Exactly. Yes - of course, very understandable. Please, feel free to stay there, much more convenient than going back and forth. Taran has also been...struggling with the sudden circumstances. The two of you would be of solace to each other, I hope."

The phone clicks onto its receiver. A second, crystalline voice echoes from a previously silent corner of the room: "Solace?"

"He is a deeply faithful boy." Clink: metal on porcelain. "Perhaps enough to make up for the wayward girl."

"Perhaps."

---

"There are no new messages. Previously saved message: Hey, angel - hope you've had a good day. I just wanted to let you know I won't be able to call to -"

Click. Dial. Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Sorry, the number you've dialed is disconnected or not in service." Click. Click. Dial. Ring. "Hi, you've just missed me. Leave a message after the tone and I'll be in touch."

Beep. Pause. Long breath. Click.

---

"Kitten, pick the fuck up." Car engines idling through thick glass pane. Ambient music; the scream of milk frothing. Click - metallic, alarm - cash register.

"The longer you take, the more rounds of chess I have to play with subpar pieces. Do not prove my parents right. Do not prove me wrong. Jesus."

---

Refrigerator hum. Click. Beep.

"Look, wherever you are, please just come back. Mom and Dad are losing their shit again. Please come back."

Pause.

"End of message. You have one new message and one saved message."

Whir.

"It's Kristi calling for Esme - I left a few messages on your cell. Call me back as soon as possible. We need to discuss the next show."

"End of message. You have no new messages and one saved message."

Whir.

"Saved message: It's me. He's saving this on the apartment voicemail in case you came here before any of us found you." Static silence. "We're looking. I'm looking."

Long silence. Beep.

"There are no more messages. To return to the main menu, press one. To play saved messages, press two. To hear or record a voicemail inbox greeting, press three. For more options, press seven. If you are done, you may hang up."

---

Ragged breathing. Ruptured lung - new tissue too thin. Pain or death: easy choice. Not new at all.

"Christ. She still going?"

"Mhm. Think we can set a new record. Broken at least five today - how many are there total, again? Go for a strike."

"Ha! Shit, I dunno."

"Bet she does. Hey, pretty girl - how many bones you got?"

One finger - bruised, swollen, caked with old blood - rasps up from the thick bundle of rope attaching wrist to wood. "Go fuck yourself."

Crack. "Bitch. Not so pretty now, huh."

Crack. Crack. Crunch. Buzz.

"Aww, that's cute. Who's Italian Delivery Slash Takeout? They've been calling for days. You must be a real loyal customer."

---

"Delivery for Joel Ryder."

Thud.

---

"Oh, Lord."

---

Click click click. Metallic. Bated breath. Shallow hurts less; no anticipation. Slice.

---

"Put the knife down. Now. Don't make this harder on yourself."

Click. Click. Metallic. Slide.

---

Cardboard unfolding: thick, stiff crinkle. Wet splash. One finger, severed. Gold chain unraveling - imprint of cross over two joints. Charm falls. Bubble wrap rustles. Black fur - crusty, dark - flakes.

Click. Whirr.

"Hey, angel - I just wanted to let you know -- whirr - Hey, angel - I just wanted to let you know -"

Paper unfolding. Soggy scrawl. "She's not so sweet without her heart. Five million alone at the airport, tomorrow 8 pm."

---

"Do not negotiate with them, boy. We have it handled."

Click. Clink.

"His disappointment will be dangerous."

"Ours isn't already?"

---

Slow, steady slide. Slice. Squelch. Sternum separates, silver flashes. Keloids bulge, swell like bark fungi after rain; clench.

The size of a pomegranate, glistening red and fatty, pink-streaked white. Silver flashes. Scream. Severed hand over snipped heart. They wet the stamp with the sweat off her neck.

---

"Hi, package for you. Yeah, it says to sign for it."

Scribble.

"Thanks! Enjoy."

Pause. Study. Slice. Unfold. Gasp. Thud.

Heart, one ventricle slashed, folded into the gentle grasp of a hand missing one finger. Fresh. Slowly oozing. Chipped nail polish: glossy sheer gold.

Laminated paper. Blood streaks over plastic, black twelve point serif. Left the ring finger for you, if you still want it. Fido says thank you for the delicious dinner. She didn't go down quick.

---

"Fucking bitch is right."

Spit. Cold eyes roll back. Viscera underfoot: squelching. Stolen jacket rustles. Cold metal on mangled muscle, burst blood vessels under skin like poison nebulae. Two shots; all business. Broken nails on tempered glass screen; quick taps.

Tap tap tap. Ring. Ring. Beep.

"Oh ye of little faith. I want steak and soft-serve when I get back."

Tap. Heartbeat of hesitation. Sharp crack. Plastic snaps. Tap tap tap. Ring. Ring.

"Hi, this is Courtney at--"

"Tell the angels there's a sinner crawling out of hell to get back to heaven."

Beep. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Footsteps fading fast.

[sacredsanguine]

OdetteWatches: Magical Gurls

THIS EPISODE?????? like I know I've been going a little stir-crazy because of the hiatus, but HELLO????? MY MIND IS BLOWN!!!!!

you already know i have thoughts and feelings. they're long.

Weird amount of camera time on Taran this week without him having a lot of lines...and I am LOVING the set for Razac's manor! The vibe, the decor, it all feels so him - and you can tell where Penelope has her little touches too! The teeny tiny little rosary beads detail around the edge of the doorknob is so cute.

Penelope power!!!! I have so many theories about what might be causing her magic to spike - I still think it's got something to do with the fae - and seems like Luna has some ideas about Zeke being a magical creature?? I wonder if she and Yvette will talk about it....

Aurora is a super powerful mage, so I wonder if she can sense anything about Penelope's powers? Andrey could, I think, because of how he's attuned to inner magic, but he's busy cuddling with Nikolai lol!

Okay speaking of ships....LOVE this positive relationship turn for Andrey. RIP Luna. I felt SO bad for her this ep, like she just kept taking turn after turn into psychic damage. :( I wanna give her such a comfy hug ;n; i hope we get to see the convo between her and esme afterwards though....like i hope it HAPPENS and also happens on-screen.

JOESME NATION RISE UP THO. guys we are FED today, amen thank the larva and st. cassius! We got hands touching, we got close contact. We got the absolute Moment of "Breathing sounds nice." WE GOT JOESME KISSES. PLURAL!!!! WE GOT CONFESSIONS!!!! (like okay. "you're here, of course i'm alright" had me DEAD. the silent KISS TO THE CROWN OF THE HEAD??? cremated. "i rather like having you to myself"?? ASHES TURNED INTO DIAMONDS. "all yours. always. no matter what-" AND HER INSTINCT BEING TO PROTECT HIM??? WHAT WAS SHE GOING TO SAY BEFORE THAT??? i am the CORE OF THE EARTH. "i think i'm allowed to be a little selfish, for once. we've both earned it. never enough time, we ought to carve out a slice for ourselves"??????? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I'M SOBBING GUYS THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND THEY'RE SO HAPPY AND IN LOVE IN THIS STOLEN LITTLE MOMENT TOGETHER I'M NEVER GOING TO BE NORMAL AGAIN

also omg squeeee at balisongsters having their silly cute hallway moment!!! nikolai is such a bully (gay, affectionate) and drunk andrey is so funny. i have a microwave compartment just for them

razac and taran are either eating in complete disgust and silence or making out furiously in the dining room. you know which one i'm choosing to believe.

I WANNA SEE MAGICAL GIRL PENELOPE!!!!

[sacredsanguine]

I get that you're new here but girl...how do you ship JOESME and E SQUARED and then go on a rant about tarame? like lunesme isn't much better about the age difference but jesus. literally no morally acceptable ships in bc

Radium if this is you, you should know that I'm about to block and report.

first of all: as much as i love it and wish it were real, bc is *fiction*. we're all just having fun playing with pretend people. some people have jpegs to play with like dolls, we have a whole book series (and a tv show no movie tho)

second: if you'd actually read my posts about tarame and *why* i have issues with it, you'd understand that there are way more toxic things about it than their ages. anyway, i'd link them but you're not getting more emotional labor out of me.

go touch grass.

[sacredsanguine]

i don't want to jump into the Discourse in the fandom, but like....some people need to chill out with the ship wars. Like, look at Andrey.

I'm diehard Joesme, but like....she's got two hands, guys. It's not that serious....

[sacredsanguine]

WHAT WAS THAT. LITERALLY WHAT.

Ik i say this basically every week but WHAT WAS THAT EPISODE. so we're like, not following book plot at all anymore, which is cool (but I do wonder if the algid is gonna show up again? also if we're ever gonna see outside of Pheles! also....um, hello Val. hi. you didn't exist in the books. LMAO) this means he is free real estate for amer to revolutionize with sexy sexy chocolates

guys this episode gave me specifically so much food. like that parlan x sam thing I posted recently was a SIGN or something, did you guys SEE WHAT HAPPENED?? HE THREW HIMSELF OUT A WINDOW FOR MAT. i can't. Do I smell a revolutionary polycule? I s2g if parlan sacrifices himself for Mat though. ....

JOESME IS MAKING ME CRY AGAIN. we got like two minutes of esme being her og hot catgirlboss self (even if she was only flirting with enoch lmfao esquared gang rise up we have been BREAKING EVEN! gorgeous functional couple until they were back in the same geographic location) and then she got so soggy so fast. ughhhh poor jojo, emotional rollercoaster for him the ENTIRE TIME </333333

i'm kinda like 👀😳 but also like 😨👁👁 at leonora. i'm not the only one, right???

evil power couple tamwyn and leonora. how much do you think they're paying mads mikkelsen??? like a lot of the cast are unknown/newer actors and then BAM.

Cassius was having a Time this ep and honestly i cannot blame him. kid's gonna have some hella trauma tho. Dinner party from hell at the Remington estate except there was no dinner, no party, and i'm pretty sure he was just sitting there getting ignored/roasted by his grandparents the entire time before that??? ouch. at least he had Joel AND THE BUTTERFLY YARN BROOCH (my otp is fucking schrodinger's ship rn)

Nick. Nick Nick Knickolas Knackolas What the Fuckington. Sunday service at the Imperial cathedral is gonna be awkward. i'm not even catholic and that felt like Gooey (Glass Animals, 2014).

And POOR LUNA. Walking into the lion's den and taking IMMENSE psychic damage from every direction.

[sacredsanguine]

just so you know. my queue is so full to bursting with banger posts. Feb 25 you're all going to scream.

also the joesme pillow talk series is still happening! just got a little bit blocked on the pacing of the next chapter.