#idolatriia

[berylcluster]

⊰ CONT. ft. DEVON & SALLY @idolatriia ⊱

➫ SALLY thinks on this for a second, before she taps the arm of the other, shaking her head with a slight pinch to her features. "No - No, no. Definitely not. That's just man-code for 'half-way through the movie I'm allowed to start feeling you up'." With a shrug, she goes back to painting her nails, it's a bright red, and next comes the painting of Devon's nails, when she's done, of course. "Dating muppets would be easier, wouldn't they? Oscar the Grouch would never let me down, now that's a real man."

[petitsdieu]

𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆.

@idolatriia : ²⁾ “i know, i know it hurts but hold on for just a little longer and we’re done, yeah? think you can do that for me, pet?” — Spike ( That’s his baby 🥺 )

❛ Les vampires sont horribles! ❜

She's crumbling into an accumulating upset — where her panicked voice raises a white flag and she can't filter herself or find second languages to communicate with him. Does he understand French? Who's she to remember when she's eclipsed in so much pain.

She, who is too warm from non-humanity, reforms into a snowball. Picking up traction as it spins out of control, and gathers layers,

becoming bigger.

And bigger yet.

He, the father figure, has to click back her bones and remake the surrogate daughter. Her face is swollen and red pulp. She's been efficiently juiced. But she made it out alive in one piece? Questionable.

❛ Je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas… S'il vous plaît, arrêtez, mon père...! ❜

She begs with him. The grace, the stroll in her voice pinched now. All her words pack together. No air in-between. No wispy fill. No connection. She feels sun-walked and exhausted. She doesn't think she can do what he says, bare it a little longer.

[clawsextended]

@idolatriia asked: [ CLOSENESS ]: after having been apart for a considerable length of time, the sender sits into the receiver's lap just to be close to them. ( Gillian )

it’s all very natural born killers. in a complicated turn of strange events, she gets lent out to shield for an unexpected week to prevent the apocalypse.. whichever one this is. and she hates it, packing her attaché case, the containments therein is a sniper rifle so well-put-together the most seasoned veteran would weep. but she lingers and it’s frustrating, selina has to admit to herself, to find her life uprooted when she’s gotten somewhat comfortable with a life at all.

but she’s well-grounded when bruce reminds her without her they won’t have a life to come back to. suddenly that ammo bag weighs considerably less, and her catsuit slides on like the second skin it is. she says goodbye with an exuberantly tremendous hug — surprisingly for all — and swears, promises she’ll be back in half a second. two shakes. she blessedly takes protection spells and little trinkets and deposits them in her utility belt.

it’s a week until she’s finally back. it’s the longest week of her life. it goes on and on and on, caked in blood and sweat, until finally her heels find soil she’s surprised to find feels familiar. the homecoming dies down, everyone too aware of how selina hates the attention. eventually there’s a subtle silence she takes to comfortably, tucked in the corner of the couch with a copy of moby dick in her lap. she’s never read it, but she knows holly has to. can’t help what she doesn’t know.

—and then the book is gone, and it’s replaced by a pile of soft fabric and a halo of sheer and utter gold. she blinks, tilting her chin up with a slightly skittish blink. it settles, lids closing, opening gradually. secure. there’s a hello kitty bandaid plastered across a cut at the highest point of her cheek, and her right temple is spotted with three indelicate dots, the barely perceptible remnants of gunpowder.

“thank god, i had no clue what the fuck i was looking at. one more minute I would’ve died.”

sometimes this shit goes over her head. she cranes her neck a little — gillian’s taller than she, though that’s simply the nature of the sun.

[clawsextended]

the cat tries to find comfort. it’s strange, crawls up and down her spine. up and down, up and down, a constant jolt of nerve signals. and woe is the guilt she feels when it comes to holly — holly, holly, hollyanne, how easily her talent is to just.. fit. and the comfort it brings the kitten’s mother is enormous —

but selina? the cat isn’t meant for company and sound, not for revelry or joy. she’d taken two sips of a midnight margarita before gillian, entirely without a word from her mouth, had taken it and murmured that she didn’t have to drink it. it had been enough to watch pink lips touch the delicate stain of blood red glistening in its faint promise at the unassuming rim of a margarita glass. selina can hear the din therein, but she perches at a jut off the roof by the kitchen window, a vigilant feline sentinel ever keeping watch.

the waves lap quietly beneath her. she stares down at the water sometimes, cradled and jostled at once by the imagined act of only floating. she takes her gaze away from something too beguiling, something as open as the sea. heels settle in a click back on tiling. the sound from kylie’s room has died down to a silence, the rambunctiousness of youth finally snuffed for the night. it’s the old making a fuss.

the cat takes a deep drag from her cigarette and hopes against hope her absence won’t go noticed. (it will, she knows, somehow, an intuition she isn’t quite sure of.)

@idolatriia did not ask but here i am.

[petitsdieu]

Spike is an efficient killer, sneak attack, and quick drain unless collecting a personal vindication or trophy.... Hara however...Falls in love with every bite. — @echolaliia

❛ Don't be in a hurry to close this. ❜

How many moments have to die too quickly? It is inelegant as it is devastatingly sad. Theoretically, they have all the time in the world. What could possibly wedge them out of their family pattern? She's got her ten sappy fingers on his shoulders now. A foot in before the door closes.

As clinical and swift as he is with his eatings, she can see the bleed on his sleeve. He's got one big heart himself. And if it could gush a melody for her, she knows it can and has elsewhere. She does not pry into his personal life much but maybe she should. And maybe she's reading too into the small changes in his mood.

❛ I mean it. I care for you so much I could weep. ❜

And she has; the Serotonin levels go both ways for tears. Happy, sad, pleasure, everything and everything else in-between. She never thought she'd love someone like a father — a word that had only known derogatory term finally learns the sediment side. That was all his doing.

❛ Please, talk to me. Is there something wrong? ❜

[clawsextended]

@idolatriia asked: ❛  believe it or not, i do enjoy spending time with you.  ❜ — Gillian O.

her joke falls flat. right on its face. she can’t hate herself in front of gillian.

she always has something to say that changes it, that makes her mind flip like her own famous breakfast pancakes. she turns the knife inward and the witch stays her hand before she can dig it in to the hilt.

she blinks, always taken aback. rubs a hand along her jaw anxiously with an apologetic crease of her forehead. she looks every bit the child about to be scolded.

“yeah. i guess you do.”

[clawsextended]

@idolatriia asked: 🌷 🌷 🌷

send 🌷 receive smooches.

gillian’s hair is a wonder. selina doesn’t understand it. halo gold and obnoxiously pretty and shiny soft and perfect perfect perfect. selina can’t repress the desire to touch it and touch it and touch it. her hands are in it almost immediately and it’s too lovely, precisely as lovely as she thought it would be. which is an insane concept. she’s completely enraptured by the very idea of such silkspun yellow, a little black cat who can hardly ever control her curiosity.

she loves her. it’s a simple truth to understand because love, for selina, is religion. it’s what she follows with head and knee bent, a feeling sacred. she holds it like a candle, it venerates so much of her life. love has saved her time and again.

she presses a kiss to one cheek. the other. before she leans to softly bestow one to those lips because truly, if she thinks about it for another second, she’s going to liquify.

[in-the-pocket]

"Take a breath. It's not over yet." — Greg

He was right. They were barely halfway through when the shaking and tears started. His index and middle finger continued to move from side to side. Her ear was ringing and her eyes were struggling to keep up. After a few more moments of choked crying, she let out a sob as his fingers came to a halt.

Everyone on the internet was in such a hoopla about "EMDR" therapy and its benefits for processing and healing trauma. Pippa didn't think of her "relationship" with her now imaginary friend to be traumatic in any way. But it must've been in some kind of way if she nearly threw herself off the Brooklyn Bridge after seeing him with an older woman, right? Right.

Pippa took a deep breath through tight lips and buzzed it back out, trying to calm her nerves. She thought of her father, dying slowly in bed while she soothed him to sleep with his own trumpet. She thought of her mother, and how longingly she'd look at Pippa when she got behind their grand piano.

The sentiment of living your life for yourself first and foremost felt like the most stupid thing ever. Because if she subscribed to that, she'd be long dead by now. Tonight, crying in her therapist's office, she decided that she'd do this for her parents, then her peers and fellow musicians, then her audience.

She needed to get better. They needed her to get better.

A soft sniffle echoed in the empty room followed by a staccato grunt. Pippa reached over the small pile of used tissues next to her to grab another clean one and wipe her face.

She looked up at Greg and nodded.

"Okay. I'm ready to keep goin'."