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@poiseandivory
poise & ivory
is an analysis on playing hide & seek with one's faith; exploring the complexities of reality, heaven, hell and all that is in between. a characterized examination of the themes of self-hood, identity, spirituality and the definition of one's purpose - an understanding ( or lack thereof ) of the metaphysical. an uninhibited exploration of juxtaposition, defiance and controversy. please heed warnings. '
carrd. pinterest. musings. #TRACKING : poiseandivory.
they should make a substance to abuse that has no consequences
this just in, athalia is actually an lesbian happy first day of gay month
it is written.
The L Word (2.02) "How did I let this get so fucked up, Shane?"
this just in, athalia is actually an lesbian happy first day of gay month
As Athalia moves forward, Pierce does not move back. Typically, he would be so used to his indestructible makeup that he would very well expect that if she tried to plunge that knife into the center of his throat, it would bend or break the blade. Now, however, while he can feel his Grace thick and mostly restored in his veins, he doesn't know if that is what would actually happen, but also, Pierce isn't scared.
If his charge raised her knife to him, he didn't deserve to live anyway--there is something fitting about his end resting in her hands. He's resigned to this life, and if anybody should deal the deciding blow, even if she didn't know him, he would rather it be her. He looks down at her, expression completely disregarding the knife while he watches emotions escape from her frame.
After the emotions come, the barrage of questions appear next, and Pierce goes from still to perplexed as she vocalizes her thought process. It's not until she stops talking that he shakes his head slowly. "No. This isn't a scam or trick or anything." He replies, deep resonant voice escaping his lips as he watches that knowing dawn on her features. "I'm your guardian angel."
And then, as if that previous sentence isn't fucking crazy to say out loud, he continues, "You can call me Pierce."
i'm your guardian angel. athalia presses her lips together tightly — entirely unimpressed and lacking in amusement. a few beats pass, with nothing to fill the silent space, save for the ordinary trill of crickets in the night air. disbelief and disregard, she thinks, are usually her default in such occurrences. yet what bubbles to the surface in the moment is a sharp and righteous form of indignation, an aversion that had brewed over time but she paid little mind to. a mistake.
all the words of ontological possibility, the books and the essays she'd read and written herself, but more importantly the time she'd spent in places and pews with the world's most sinister people seem to drag down all rationality, bogging down the important skill of suppression she's spent the past five years of her life honing. though athy appears to be looking at pierce, the shadows in her eyes show, that she is to see through him and into her past. it's a clear image; cowardly beings with their blind eyes turned towards heaven, with only ignorance in their hearts.
she nonsensically begins to indulge him. against her own right mind, and up against her own built in self-protective measures. ❝ okay, ❞ an obviously disbelieving chuckle escapes her at last, the need to smoke this shit away itching up the span of her spine, ❝ not a trick. not a scam. just an angel. ❞ athalia shakes her head, digging in her bag for the nearly desolate pack of virginia slims at the bottom. ❝ sure. ❞ she uses her nails to retrieve the cigarette first, then the lighter. ❝ let's go with this. pierce the guardian angel. ❞ the flicker and snap of the flame ignites her ease, and the first drag is a relief. but shaking hands reveal what she'll never expose herself : dismay, terror, the foreboding nightmare of a holy rejection.
❝ fine. ❞ a billow of smoke in the other direction. she's not that rude. but the cloud still catches a stray lightning bug that flitters past. ❝ what is it that you want with me. pierce, the guardian angel ? here to take me to hell ? shit, it's about time… ❞ the effectiveness of athalia's sarcasm is tainted, shaded over by an obvious malfunction in her ability to write this off all together. in her ability to remain unshaken by the unshaken state pierce is reflecting back at her. the outburst that was building, has suddenly arrived — unmistakable in tone and expression, entirely reckless and brash. ❝ if you're here to fucking kill me wherever you plan to take me just fucking do it already ! ❞
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ if you ask grace, the worst part about business trips isn't the idle chatter with sixty-year-old psychopaths, and it's not the whole 2-minute nonreciprocal intercourse sessions with her drunk fuckass boyfriend (though that aspect is a close second). no. the worst part is the way those trips pile up, rendering her unavailable for weeks upon weeks, and as the weeks turn into months she starts to forget who she is. her brain melts into grey matter, and nothing but blind primal rage bubbles within her; her natural choleric disposition cannot be tamed by yoga and pilates, as it turns out. she needs an outlet, she needs control, she needs praise and attention and recognition…
but that's always been part of the job description; she knew what she was signing up for when she courted that middle-aged moron. men don't like when women know things; it's better to smile and nod, to let them do the talking as you fill their cups with more outrageously expensive, somehow equally shitty champagne.
meritocracy is a myth, after all-- the only skills grace had needed to access wealth were an easily sexualized body and the ability to shut the fuck up. don't mind the pedigree, forget about the medical school history; in the grand scheme of things, it's her ability to cope to a certain degree with mediocre white men that got her where she is today.
it also got her a burner phone.
which led to several ghosted one-night-stands.
but it also led to athalia's bed. again and again and again.
and though she's well-versed in the act of pretense, she can't deny the pang of excitement in her chest, her heart beating just a little too fast for her liking as athalia greets her.
❝ eager, are we?? ❞ her voice comes out airy and light. ❝ come on. not even going to compliment the dress?? i picked it out for you. did you miss me that much ?? ❞ she pulls athalia into a tight hug, which she's learned is a special attack thanks to her superior anatomy. ❝ ugh, i thought i'd never be free again. work has been a messsss !! i hope you've been luckier in that department ... ❞
despite all internal defenses, a deep swing unsettled athalia's stomach at grace's embrace. an anticipatory swing. her senses implore her towards withdrawal, but she just can't actionably comply, the scent and the press irresistible. the commentary isn't helping. ❝ oh ? ❞ the insinuation that the dress is for her leaves the look of conceited amusement on her features. though her contentment is given away, it is at least accompanied by an air of playful presumptuousness. ❝ well, usually when you buy the dress, you buy the lingerie to go with it, so i can't say i have any shame. you know your antics. ❞ and athy returns the hug, one hand rested dangerously at the small of grace's back, an obvious ghost of desire that brushes briefly past before she pulls away all together. a nod towards the kitchen welcomes the other inside. what the night delivers next is an unspoken thing that hinges itself between them.
the notion of work prompts a final drag of smoke from the taller woman, just before clipping the dull flame away into the glass ashtray on her kitchen island. it's an oddly artistic ashtray that you could only obtain in a city like san francisco actually, from one of those trendy studios that she'd attended a grand total of zero times since moving here. a gift from a colleague. go figure. ❝ i'm still making money. ❞ an offhanded response to grace's note on luck. but she's more concerned with the other's plight. ❝ a mess, though ? ❞ she grabs a duo of wine glasses from the cabinets. her words are dipped in curiosity — perhaps with a tinge of concern. little of it was athy's business, but the little that she remembered of grace's life at current displeased her.
it wasn't a form of underestimation. it was more than clear that direct control and interpersonal exploitation were at the top of grace's list. it was simply that, athalia didn't indulge in the enabling of lackluster lifestyles. at the expense of anything. even ease. or whatever it was that landed her there. ❝ more business trips ? i hope there's no trouble in paradise… ❞ the second half is an unnecessary quip that athy never fails to make. ❝ tell me, how ever is the hubsy ? doing great, i'm sure. ❞ it's a rather mischievous approach to the topic, but it's a familiar tactic when in need of information.
if my cat doesn't like you then neither do i. Fuck you
Pierce gets why The Fall turns angels into demons. It's not just exposure to the secularity of the world below, or the fact that demons walk among them with goals to corrupt, it's the searing pain. Not just the emotional pain of being forcibly separated from his brothers, but the fall itself is excruciating too. It's like a comet falling from space into the earth's atmosphere, heating up and burning while gaining speed. It tore his wings from his back feather by feather, leaving a trail of holy ashes carried away in the wind. He'd slammed onto the shore of a beach bare, alone, and unconscious.
It'd taken such a long time to get back to his feet, falling in and out of consciousness while his Grace restored his human form, but it'd taken even longer to repair his wings and find his charge. His charge.
The reason he'd been ejected in the first place.
All angels had their purpose hardwired within them like DNA, and some angels had the willpower to reject that, but Pierce always adhered to the rules--more than most did, until he'd finally listened to his gut. And it landed him on Earth, wondering and wandering until he found her.
Pierce had always been imposing in stature, even his true from was bigger than most, and his human form reflects that too. Intimidating height, heavy-duty arms, and an expression that looks broody and untouchable until he smiles. In this case, with a knife pointed at him, he's not smiling. His eyebrows are pinched together, surprise coloring his features. Typically, his charges cannot see him, but the fact that she can must mean his powers haven't fully returned. Or maybe that ability would never come back. "Sorry." He replies, hands slowly going up. "I'm not here to hurt you, Athalia."
bewilderment latches onto athalia's features. next, confusion. at last, incredulousness — lifting the height of her brows to make itself known. it is rather important to her, that the one thing that does not paint her expression, is fear. it's what she feels inside, alarm bubbling beneath the surface, subdued for the sake of protection. it was a place she knew too well.
and yet, the other's voice resonates in her ears like a familiar old friend, an undisclosed instinct that athy kept hidden. why were her defenses so low ? she almost felt unlike herself, standing there between a stranger and switch blade. but her name. most people hardly addressed her by the full version. athy felt easier. suspicion wrapped itself back around her mind, a reminder of her predicament. ❝ right, ❞ she says, taking one step forward rather than backwards this time, ❝ you follow me down the alley behind the office building, ❞ another step, ❝ then alllllll the way through this parking lot… ❞ and another, ❝ until we got to my fucking car. so what exactly was your plan then ? ❞
there isn't any steps left to take. they're face to face. and all of the frustration and anger, in which her wilting spirit has been steeped, seeps from her presence now, the blade fisted tight in her steady hand, nearly inches from the stranger's chin. ❝ who sent you ? ❞ the tension drops just like the blade does, newly at athalia's side as she steps outwards, her eyes scanning the parking lot for some bullshitting marketing bro colleague of hers to be present. clearly this was a set up. ❝ is this really what the reject actors from LA are doing these days ? this isn't fucking funny. ❞
out into the absolute void of the parking lot : ❝ and you guys still aren't fucking good writers ! ❞ it should be of no surprise to a fallen angel, that his handful of a human is both delirious and fed up with life. it'd be astounding to anyone, but the next few beats of a realization — that the circumstances at hand were not a prank — prove to be breathtakingly silent. well that just made things awkward. a slow turn back towards her new stranger. ❝ you weren't sent by my shitty coworkers….were you ? ❞ there is a sense of already knowing, written well within the woman's tone.
my rules are hella sparse because back when i set up that carrd i was in a rush and felt limited by the space on the template & i'm gonna make a fleshed out dash version when i get the chance, but i'm off for now !
*bottles up emotions* this coping shits easy
