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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


    resurrect the saint within the wretch; flower
    #12
    Flower
    I'm only steady on my knees
    No one is ever firm with her, so she is bewildered by the shape of it when his brow is suddenly furrowed and his mouth turns down at the corners. Even the snort throws her a little, and it is all she can manage just to blink back at him quietly, wrestling with a curious kind of uncertainty. “Are you mad?” She wonders, those luminous golden eyes widening as her head tilts in an inquisitive way. She even goes as far as to reach out and brush those cool ruby lips to the unhappy lines in his brow, and then the others around his mouth.

    But he answers her with a softening of his expression, an undeniable solemnity in his quiet, almost resigned, tone. “So?” She says almost immediately, a scowl on her face now as she stares stubbornly back into his ancient, weary eyes. “That doesn’t mean I can’t help put the pieces back together.” Her glare is eternal, and she focuses it on him like a laser beam, daring him to try and disagree. But he disarms her so easily with his lips against her cheek and beside the crook of her ear. She does not fight it when he pulls her in against his chest, choosing to settle back against the beating of his heart. “You just haven’t encountered willpower like mine yet.” She disagrees stubbornly, relaxing into this embrace like she’s known him forever instead of just one night.

    It surprises her though when he speaks again and his voice is tight with something she does not quite recognize. She leans forward a little so she can turn to face him again, frowning so carefully as though it is the weight of this uncertainty that pulls her mouth down at the corners. “I can’t stay here forever.” She points out, and though her tone is as light and airy as the lift of feathers in a wing, there is still a weight in her golden moon eyes as she holds his gaze and searches for the answer to a question still yet unasked. For how long?

    She settles back on her opposite shoulder, leaned very much away from him but only so that she can continue to hold his gaze. It is certainly not a distance she craves. “Don’t you have someone who would miss you if you stayed here with me on this beach forever?”
    I’ll run the risk of being intimate with brokenness


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    RE: resurrect the saint within the wretch; flower - by flower - 08-25-2020, 08:42 PM



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