“terrible things happen to good people every day. consequentially, she is NOT one of the good people. she is one of the terrible things.”

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@headtripped-blog
“terrible things happen to good people every day. consequentially, she is NOT one of the good people. she is one of the terrible things.”
The first time he looked at her he felt: everything will burn.
Anaïs Nin, from A Spy in the House of Love
someone’s going to get hurt, and it’s not going to be me.
modern female hades.
( RAVENNA BATHORY )
alright, so that gets them grinning a grin of their own. no super sharp teeth for narcissism. no sir. ravenna stoops, plants a kiss to the bridge of her nose.
” so i hear. i hope that changes around soon, dear. we might live forever but that doesn’t mean i have the patience to wait. “
there's quite the affectionate coo with the kiss. her hand comes up to brush along ravenna's jaw, fingernails barely brushing the surface of their skin. of course, it's not even close to enough to hurt. her hand dropping to the elder's chest with a smile.
"please, try? and be nice to regret, won't you? he's going through -- quite a lot right now. with work and the Mockingbird. we'll find the time, i promise."
( INDRA REILLY )
as of late, indra tended to stay in some places longer than she would have before. she connects that with her time in scotland —- the only real place since greece that’s she considered home. she spent two hundred years there, too. and started to understand how beneficial staying in one place really can be. ❝ you’re too kind to me. i’m only here for a few days —- we’re doing shows. i’ve been in california, you know? hollywood. ❞
she's trying. but there's a restlessness that has built itself into her bones. it keeps her from remaining dedicated to one place and one place alone. if she finds that she's growing too attached too soon, she'll flee and leave that attachment behind before it can hurt her. "that's exciting. will you be terribly busy? we need to spend a day -- to catch up. that's so great, though. how is hollywood these days?"
( INDRA REILLY )
that’s a good thing. for as long as she’s been alive, you’d have thought she would have gotten this all together by now, but even though she’s never exactly voiced it, she kind of likes the feeling. but all things have their end, also.
❝ i had such a nice time. an unforgettable night, i think. i didn’t tell you about tristan, did i? i’m sorry about that. yes i know. but he also told me he enjoyed himself a little, at the party, so i think that’s a good sign. if you need any help with that, you tell me. ❞
she doesn’t know anything about weddings; the closest she’s ever gotten to that was ira getting married, if that says something, but she’ll support the two of them, of course. there really is no rush, if they plan on spending eternity together anyway.
❝ she is good. she’s better busy. i think the trip to vegas was good for all of us. ❞
regardless of that, she'll nestle her cheek against indra's shoulder before snuggling into the crook of her neck affectionately. she inhales the smell of perfume and sea water deeply, keeping it locked inside of fabricated lungs. thin arms coil themselves around the other's abdomen with a low purr.
"tristan? -- he, sounds familiar? what about him, darling?" there's a tired but bright smile at the mention of her husband. "he's a lot -- softer, once he's comfortable with someone. everyone thinks he's so, bad but. he's honestly not. that's very kind of you, indra. it's mostly the planning, and we're both so busy and we promised a friend that we wouldn't skip out on wearing our wedding outfits. it's -- a little stressful."
but she wants to marry him. she wants to be able to take his hand and brush her thumb along his ring. they're practically married, that's true but it's all about making it official. indra isn't wrong; there really isn't any kind of rush. isolde's just anxious, as always.
"i'm so glad. vegas was -- so much fun. thank you, for inviting me."
( STRANGER )
luke doesn’t actually know what this building represents. he doesn’t know how easily it will crawl underneath his skin. how he’ll end up dreaming about it for nights afterwards. how it will crawl inside him like an infection, a disease. he watches this woman’s head tilt slightly, something strange about it. it looks warm. it looks friendly. but this place’s lighting turns the angles cold and sharp and horrifying. it unnerves him, but he keeps a straight face.
"yeah. it definitely isn’t."
he’s going to be blunt. he’s not comfortable enough to lie. he’s not comfortable in general.
"i’m not planning to drink tonight. sorry."
but he’s betting she might try to convince him.
it's a special kind of place. the kind of property that leaves an imprint on those who encounter it. it lives inside of them, cradled against their spine where it could seep in between their vertebrae. ask her. if he were to take a few steps down the reddened hallway (not that he would get that far before the Mockingbird shifted, changed), he would see the shrine of skulls and blood made in her honor. the lights above them shift and shine, moving around the club. the glare off of the stage floods the room in a dark crimson color that slides itself over isolde's skin, making her yellow hues stand out.
"well, is there -- anything i can do to make your stay more comfortable?"
there's a ringing to her tone. a smokiness that will stick to the surface of his skin like the smell of vanilla perfume and cigar smoke. he won't leave here with someone (something) on him.
"c'mon. there has to be something. cranberry juice and vodka, maybe?"
the charm is so sharp, it could slice through him.
( REGRET )
[That’s a fairly apt observation. Regret picked up this form on the cusp of its death. Perhaps it was even dead for a single second or two. And dead tissue is much harder to heal than living tissue. Wounds set in. Wounds last. He has had multiple bullet wounds in thsi form and it shows. Unique scars that aren’t on any other form of his. Isolde’s going to see them sometime, even if he’s still slightly uncomfortable with wearing this form around the House especially. He isn’t sure how he’s going to explain it.
He doesn’t even like the explanation that he gives. He leaves out the parts about death. He makes it sound like he simply picked up this body in its last moments, not its final moments. And there is a difference.
Regret does believe that the closeness helps him. Having her near comforts him a little. It makes it a little easier for him to say exactly what he has to instead of lying.]
It’s not a particularly good war story. Not that there really are such things.
[Any war story that is good, any war story that has a moral - is also a lie. War is never particularly good or bad, not heroic or brutal. It simply is. This form simply is, with its flaws and its advantages and disadvantages. Its history and its disuse.
Regret’s smile is struggling at her question.]
In a way, yes. There were a lot of things to fix. It was harder than usual.
[Oh, God. He’s let a sort of side detail slip.]
( And she'll treat those scars the same way she treats all of his scars. Carefully, lovingly. By now, she was pretty used how marred her husband's flesh was. Whether it was his knuckles or his chest, or the collection of tissue over his lung; Isolde had learned to take it all in stride. Backing away from him and being disgusted by it was not what he needed, and it would have been quite hypocritical of her. After the years he had spent kissing along the exposure of her spinal cord and ensuring her that the scars across her stomach were as beautiful as she was; she couldn't do that to him.
But there's something rigid. Something missing in the air between them even though they're pressed together. Something that he's -- not saying. It tugs at Isolde's ribcage and began gnawing at the very pit of her stomach. She does her very best to not be hurt, to not be angry that he's leaving bits of his story out. Because this wasn't about her. And Regret has never -- flat out lied to her, so to speak. He's never been dishonest. He shares things with her when he's ready, and he's honored that.
Tension is beginning in her jaw, making the bed of her tongue feel heavy and taste bitter. Her thumb continues its path over his jaw, brushing continuously before stopping. She shifts her hands to rest against his abdomen, pressing her palms there. )
I'm -- so sorry. I can't imagine how. Difficult that must have been for you.
( There's a weight on her chest. It presses until she allowed herself to subtly inhale through her nose. She'll ignore that dull ache for now (most likely allow it to eat at her later on, but that was besides the point). It was incredibly hard when she could feel it; feel that he wasn't telling her everything. )
What is it, darling? What's wrong?
You are the prettiest thing that has ever scared me.
okay okay /okay/ now isolde vale
abel ludwig would absolutely not. ever punch isolde vale on purpose. all i’m saying is. maybe he’s putting up his dukes to punch out some ignorant schmuck for discriminating against his gnomes and in some error of fate. clocks isolde vale. also if these two were ever to try fist bumping because. enthusiastic minimal bodily contact between pals, duh, it would probably be. a doozy that ends up with isolde vale getting fist bumped in the face.
history will hate you, but they’ll never forget your name.
( REGRET )
[Regret loves watching her do exactly what she wants. He loves watching her tear people apart, something animalistic right at the edge of her skin. There is a very vocal part of him that wants to tear apart an entire city with her just because he can. Because it would make her smile. Because he could bring her close to him and explain that whatever part he had in this was really just in her name. They don’t need temples because they have this, the act of destruction and annihilation. They have all the worship they need. But they can always get some more. The fact is that Regret would get on his knees for Isolde. If she asked right now, he’d move away from her and drop onto his knees like it was nothing, like it was second nature. He would never do this for anyone else.]
And I like being important to you, since you’re just as important to me. Always.
[They balance each other out in all things. Even these two forms - Regret takes more from Isolde, Isolde takes more from him. Live with someone long enough and their influence will carefully crawl in underneath your skin, especially when one’s influence is as alive as theirs is. Her arms drape over his shoulders and he reaches up to take her hand in his. Then he moves her hand over so he can press a few careful kisses along her knuckles.]
Of course. You can always ask me whatever you want.
( Of course, it was the worship she lived for. It might nothing to Isolde that men fell to their knees for her at the Mockingbird. Because none of them were Regret, none of them mattered to her the way Regret did. And the satisfaction she received from making her husband drop to his knees for her wasn't something that could be surpassed. Not even by a nation, ready and eager to kiss her feet. It came from the respect that she had for him. The strength that she had witnessed, centuries of it rummaging beneath the surface of his skin. Isolde knew that Regret has suffered. She could feel it sometimes. Whether he knew it or not, Isolde could feel that loss. She could feel that empty space that wavered inside of him. It was part of the reason why she did everything she could to tug him away from it. To show him that he was worthy of worship, he was worthy of being revered and adored. Her free hand cards through his hair, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. )
I know, darling. And I'm glad for that.
( It's a quiet exchange. Her voice is rather hushed in such a large House as she leaned down to press a kiss to her husband's forehead. She doesn't mind the touches, the kisses to her hands. In the dim light, they look incredibly dainty and smile. Black nails filed down from their usual sharp angle. Her digits stretch slightly, a low hum rumbling in the back of her throat. She's going to kiss him in a minute here.
Right now, she's just enjoying holding him. Supporting him like she was supposed to. But Isolde paused for a minute to chew on her bottom lip, cheeks reddening. She's embarrassed, about something. Clearly. )
You -- won't stop wanting me, will you? After you've -- been with me for a long time. Husbands tend to -- tire of their wives and they -- stop making love to them. You won't, right? You -- won't stop finding me attractive?