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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [mature]  goodbye, my hopeless dream; anyone
    #11
    when you're dreaming with a broken heart
    She has never been a strong girl, or at least, she has never thought so. She has withstood more pain and heartache than most should; she has been dealt the worst hands and though some would argue that she was strong for building herself back from all the broken pieces, she feels weak for breaking at all. It would be so much easier if she could have never felt at all, if she could have simply closed everything up and locked it away. If she could have taken the pain and humiliation of what her father did to her and buried it in some dark corner of her mind, if she could have replaced Plume instead of spiraling into despair, she wonders how much different things would have been.

    Instead she had broken.
    Instead she had fallen apart beneath the weight of it, had succumbed to heartbreak instead of fortifying herself with it.
    She had become the weakest thing she has ever known, and it’s not really a wonder that everyone chose to discard her.

    She can nearly taste the pain in his voice, and when he steps forward again she does not move. She watches him with watery brown eyes, where tears glitter along the rims of them, and she knows that she cannot walk away from his pain the way he had done to her.

    “Okay,” she finally relents, her voice a broken whisper, and the tears settle into the cracks. She is not calloused enough to reject him, not in any capacity. She is not strong enough to recognize her own worth, to see that she is being used like a bandaid, a balm to cover a wound that she will never heal. She is unlike her mother in almost every way, except perhaps for this one; she would rather be used than to be unwanted. “Okay,” she breathes again, and this time she fills the space between them with her body, and hesitantly she rests her damp cheek against his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating against his skin where she is pressed against him, and she tries to remember what she would have wanted when her heart was freshly broken. She can’t remember if she had wanted anything at all.
    the waking up is the hardest part
    ANONYA
    Reply
    #12

    It is a miracle anyone has ever known Plume has a kind soul. A miracle they have not been able to see straight to the wretched core of him—to the wicked, neediness of him. To the calloused way he handles love. He has left so many hearts in his wake, swallowed the hearts and left nothing but destruction.

    The worst of all has been her.

    The worst of all has always been her.

    And here he is, repeating the same sins, making the same mistakes.

    She is beautiful, he thinks. Lovely and kind and nothing he deserves, but it only makes him crave it more. Crave the kindness of the girl who holds him close. The security of it. She leans against him and he sighs, letting loose of a breath he wasn’t certain that he had been holding. “Thank you,” he whispers at the feel of her cheek against him—at the feel of her pressing into his chest, the thrum of her heartbeat.

    His hunger is not sated though. It does not ease. He leans down to run his mouth down her neck, lingering and feeling the way that she feels like silk beneath the velvet of his lips. “You are still so beautiful,” he whispers—and this is a truth. His heart clenches in his chest. “I have never been able to forget just how beautiful you are,” another truth as he presses a kiss to her spine, to the delicate curve of her back.

    He should leave.

    Before he causes more damage.

    Before he makes a mistake.

    Before he ruins her.

    But she rests against him and it’s the first time in days that he has been able to quell the anguished cries in his head. The first time that he has been able to dull the knife in his chest.

    He kisses her again and the rest fades away—and he cannot leave. Not now.

    PLUME

    but my heart, it don’t beat, it don’t beat the way it used to

    Reply
    #13
    when you're dreaming with a broken heart
    She wishes that being curled against him meant that she was forgetting everything, but it doesn’t. She wishes it meant she was being caught up in a moment, that maybe her brain was full of fog and haze. But it’s not quite like that. His heartbeat is the background music to all of her clear, rational thoughts. The ones telling her this is a mistake, the ones telling her she is being used. The ones asking her how absolutely stupid and weak do you have to be to console the man whose heart is broken because of the woman he had left you for.

    So many lifetimes, and still she is the same stupid, stupid girl.

    There is no glimmer of hope in the darkness when he touches her. Even though her skin trembles at the way his touch slides down her neck, the words that he whispers feel like a lie, and the kiss that he presses to her skin feels like a trap. “Do you actually think that?” She asks him, soft and wavering, like maybe if he says it again she will believe him. She isn’t sure if she wants to believe him. She is afraid that believing him will set herself up to fall again, and she already knows what happens when he catches her.

    Her slender neck arcs, her pale nose touching to his chest. He still feels the same; still tastes the same. It makes her heart stutter and stop, and she wants to fall into the lie that he is feeding her. “I’m sorry, that I didn’t love you the right way before,” she murmurs into his chest, before lifting her head to rest her cheek on his opposite shoulder. The weight of him against her fools her into a false sense of security, fools her into believing this strange, twisted dream might be a reality. “Maybe you can teach me how,” her voice is tentative and unsure, but there is a quiet desperation hiding in the tremors of it, “Maybe I can do it right this time.”
    the waking up is the hardest part
    ANONYA
    Reply
    #14

    He hates himself in this moment.

    Despises every breath that escapes him, that poisons the air between them. It breaks him, the way that she folds into him and every decent bone in his body screams at him to stop. Screams at him to break away and leave her be—leave her alone. But he is weak and the scream is not louder than the one that tells him to stay. That relaxes into her touch. That finds solace in the softness of her body pressing into him.

    Plume chokes back a sob at her question. “Yes,” he says, fervently, pressing a kiss to her neck. “Yes, Anonya,” this time, more urgently. How could he not find her beautiful? How could he find her anything but what she was? “Oh god, Anonya, you are so beautiful.” His voice is husky now and there is something hot in the back of his throat—self-loathing, perhaps. Need. He can’t tell anymore.

    She breaks him further though and if he were a better man, it would be the final straw.

    It would be what drives him back into the shadows to howl in anguish, to die of his own pain alone.

    But he just pulls her closer. “Don’t apologize,” he says as he kisses her again. “You’re so perfect, Anonya. You’re so beautiful and wonderful and I don’t deserve you or your love—I never have.” His lips find her jaw and sweep down to her mouth. “Don’t apologize. Please.” His need eclipses everything as it screams to life against his pain and he is blinded by it—smothered by it. Completely drowning in it.

    “Teach me to love you right,” he whispers into her. “Help me be good enough for you.”

    PLUME

    but my heart, it don’t beat, it don’t beat the way it used to

    Reply
    #15
    when you're dreaming with a broken heart
    He keeps kissing her, and she keeps fighting the feeling that is trying to bloom in her chest. She refuses to water it, refuses to give it the chance to grow, no matter how badly it wants to blossom from beneath the layers of ice she has crafted over the years. He could melt them all if she wasn’t so vehemently guarding every piece of herself that he has already broken –  the pieces that were so carelessly stitched back together, the pieces that would fall back apart if she looked at them for too long. Time could only heal so much, and she had already been so irreversibly broken before he delivered the final blow that left her changed in ways that could never be fixed.

    She knows nothing good will come of this, or at least, not for her. She knows she will spend the following months or years or lifetimes regretting this or replaying what she did wrong to make him leave, again, because she knows this will only end in him leaving.

    She’s starting to think it might be easier to cave, if only to prove to herself what she has known all along – to prove that love doesn’t exist between them anymore.
    Lying to herself, convincing herself this was some twisted way of her maintaining control of her own heartbreak, would make it easier, she is certain.

    His lips drag down towards her jaw, and the gravity of his touch pulls her down with it. Against everything she knows she lets him in, she lets herself walk into what is sure to be her undoing. She stares her heartache in the face, and she pulls him in.

    She is tentative at first when she touches him back, a fluttering touch to his cheek, and then his neck. “I missed you,” she whispers, the ache of tears returning to her throat, her heart trembling and stumbling in her chest. “I used to dream of you coming back,” a confession murmured between the kisses she leaves on his neck, and across the familiar slope of his shoulder. “You already know how to love me, Plume.” She pushes against him, lets her delicate nose bury in the tangled strands of his mane, lets herself be immersed and drowning in him. “You’re the only one that has ever loved me at all.”
    the waking up is the hardest part
    ANONYA
    Reply
    #16

    There is no happy ending for this.

    Something within him knows that.

    Knows that he is careening toward an ending that will only spell heartache for the both of them. Because he is incapable of giving her what she deserves, even though it’s the only thing that he wants in this very moment. He wants to give her children and stability and a life filled with warmth, but you can’t plant flowers of stability in the soil of despair. He can’t start that life when he is so broken beyond repair.

    Still, he doesn’t stop the forward momentum.

    He doesn’t pull himself back from the way that he plants kisses down her neck and under her mane. The way that he lingers on the sensitive skin behind her jaw, nipping gently at the tender skin of her lip. “Okay,” he agrees, smoke building in the back of his throat. “I missed you so much,” he whispers and despite everything, this is true. He has always missed her—always loved the thing that he let go.

    “Let me love you then,” he whispers as he trails kisses down her neck and down her sides. He bites softly, always following it with a kiss—trailing lips and teeth and tongue down the body he has known so well. It blurs the pain in the back of his mind with need. Buries it underneath the desire and he nearly sighs with relief as that floods his veins instead, as she dulls everything else into a roar of need.

    He comes to her hips and lingers, feeling heat explode in his chest.

    “Anonya,” he whispers into her flesh, waiting for that final consent, that final word.

    PLUME

    but my heart, it don’t beat, it don’t beat the way it used to

    Reply
    #17
    when you're dreaming with a broken heart
    It becomes easier once she finally decides to give in.
    Once she decided she was done resisting, once she decided that she would let him have her just this one last time (she knows that is a dangerous thought – that every time becomes one last time), all the well-crafted walls and barricades crumbled at his feet. For once, she decides to abandon all logic (and hope), she decides that she will wreck herself against his shore just once more. He pulls her in, and she is helpless against him.

    His touch stokes a long-dead fire inside of her, and suddenly she is illuminated beneath it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wishes he would stop using the word love, but in this bright and perfect moment, she becomes drunk on it. “Love me,”  she whispers, her slender neck curving so that she can press a warm kiss to his throat and down to his chest. She lingers there, feeling the throb of his heart beneath his skin, the heart that had once, fleetingly, belonged to her. She feels the cracks that begin to lace across her own, like ice that can't hold the weight of this mistake, and she ignores it.

    He is against her hip now, and she does not fight the way that she is drawn back into him. He says her name, and already she feels ready to come undone. His breath rolls across her skin, sends a shiver that races the length of her spine and makes her nose tuck into her chest. But he is waiting for her (and what does it mean, then, that he is the only one that ever has, the only one that has never just taken without asking?), and through the ache of want in her throat she murmurs, “Love me like you used to, when I was yours.”
    the waking up is the hardest part
    ANONYA
    Reply
    #18

    He is intoxicated by the heady feel of her and the dulled pain. It is ecstasy to forget, to lose himself in this blurring of body and heart and memory. The release of himself from the cage of his agony makes his head swim with relief, with joy, and with a carnal need for more—for the moment to never end. He waits though. Holds himself back until she sighs, until she gives him that final word. He groans low and deep in his throat as he rises, lifting himself and then pulling her under him in one swift, definitive movement.

    “I love you,” he groans, and he is too lost in the moment to think it’s a mistake. To think of anything except how real it feels right now. How easy it is to forget about everything that exists beyond this moment and to just think it is the two of them again. Plume and Anonya, young and carefree and facing a world that feels so utterly simple in retrospect. It is just the two of them, and she feels so right.

    It’s the only truth he knows.

    Each joining of them brings the truth closer and closer to its core. He groans her name. Whispers it into the silk of her mane. “You’re mine,” he says because his mind has anchored on this idea. Because this is the only thing keeping him alive right now. The only thing keeping him on this plain at all. “I’m yours,” because this is the other side of the coin and because he is drowning, because he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and all he can do is kiss her neck, pull her closer, grab her and drag her into the undertow.

    Let them drown together.

    PLUME

    but my heart, it don’t beat, it don’t beat the way it used to

    Reply
    #19
    when you're dreaming with a broken heart
    She is ashamed of how easily she melts beneath him.

    She is ashamed of how quickly her body recalls how to react with his, as if they had not spent lifetimes apart.

    She is ashamed because she knows it means she is weak, and not nearly as strong-willed as she likes to think.

    It would be easier if it was not all so seamless. It would be easier to sever the ties again, to walk away and never look back if he did not make it so impossible to ignore all the warning signs. If with every movement he did not erase a lifetime of hurt, if with every breath she felt expelled against her neck, she did not forget how he had left her shattered beyond repair once before.

    She forgets, even if it is only for this moment. Even if she knows that by tomorrow the clarity will chase the fog away, and she will be left empty and broken and alone. She forgets, and she lets the high fill her, allows herself to get lost in the feel of him like it is the last thing she will ever have.

    “I love you, too,” she whispers, and the lie tastes so sweet on her tongue she could almost believe it.

    The way that he keeps saying her name drags her further down into this sea that she is drowning in, and instead of fighting for air, she lets it kill her. “Yours,” she reassures him with soft, gasping breaths, “I have always been yours.” But somehow, even lost in the moment, even when drowning in this sea that he pulls them under, she does not believe that he is hers. Even when he makes her shudder and cry out beneath him, he still does not feel like hers.

    He never had been, and that was a reality she had accepted so long ago that not even this long-forgotten fantasy that had finally come alive could steer her from the truth.
    the waking up is the hardest part
    ANONYA
    Reply




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