#miscreating: li.

[timetear]

@miscreating​  for li manchester!

          “Helloë Lílìth Mænchæster.”

It is behind her. Standing under the awning of the diner. It is smiling. Its mouth opens like a wound.

          “The níæíæght spreæds once more aloft the skyæyæ ænd yoü are foünd alone beneath it.”

It tuts and the noise echos within its mouth, cavernous. Delayed and rigid at the wrist joint, it wags its finger.

          “I cannot leave yoü.”

It does not blink. Its black gaze does not leave her, but if it did she would not know.

[timetear]

she looks at the top shelf. she looks at her romance partner. she looks at the top shelf.

Its black gaze follows hers, delayed in its comprehension, the only hint of this mental process being the turn of its chin as it pivots to and away and to again.

It grips Li's wrist, its hand large enough that its fingers can curl into a fist. Without any strain, it lifts her off of the ground by the wrist and holds the attached hand in front of the tea bags she was eyeing.

[timetear]

@miscreating

          “Li. Short for Listicle. Your Taste In Diner Foods Will Reveal What Type of Friend You are! Pick a breakfast. Waffles, please, party friend!”

[timetear]

she draws behind it as a looming shadow, advantageous of its settled form. the back of the couch, her hand on its shoulder. li bends at the waist, kisses the crown of its head, the subtlest buzz against her mouth. ‘ goodnight.’ / li and ro, of course.

A shadow is not so far from what she is to it. A shadow. Something to be cast upon. When she kisses its head, life screams there, scratches there, like a living body panting in a casket. It's a startling, welcome sensation. There then gone.

          "Do not waste yoür words of poëwær on me, Íæíæ do not requíæíære sleep, yet Íæíæ will pærfoërm this ritüal: Good níæíæíæíæght,"  here it drawls out 'night' beyond its natural tongue,  "—Lílìth Mænchæster."  Its hand curls around the one she placed on its shoulder, and drags it close to kiss the back of her hand.  "Do not let the bed bugs bíæíæte."

[timetear]

it is on her couch. she is in an armchair across from it, legs tucked beneath her. she looks at it as steadily as she looks at anyone. ‘the more you hurt me, the meaner i want to be.’ she rubs her arm. ‘you need to communicate better.’ a beat, she concedes. ‘we need to.’

It is mimicking her stance, its knees sharp and jutting a foot over the edge of the couch cushion. It does not want her to be angry. It wants her to be in love. Needs her to be. As understanding as it can be:

          "Hurt ænd anger ære coëmmünication. Yoü do not wish for me to coëmmünicate to yoü in these forms? What will yoü have me do? Íæíæ cæn speak. Íæíæ cæn spær. Íæíæ cæn coëmmüne."

[timetear]

‘you can say fuck. you can say it.’ romance partner has a minimal but tangible chance to raise affinity with li if it does.

          "If yoü pærmit it, then it is soë."

It finds no present reason to say the obscene oath, unless she—its love—were to ask.