kisses her wife under the mistletoe!!!! 💋
the little doe, @sacrificialmaiid, is being a naughty lovergirl.
The awful truth is that she loves Milena. It is a notion she has attempted to disabuse herself of countless times. In every colour she had resisted this humiliation. The white cruelty of her unyielding degradation - her station, bleaching away the certainty of Milena's black little uniform. The grey, veiny, stretch-marked flesh of her breasts, lapped and kissed by the girl who once told her that she never would like the touch of someone warm - only you, milady, and only cold. The blue of the Cadou water that she'd injected into her for months, staving away that cancer that threatened to separate them. The green of a poisoned apple pie, delivered to to Milena's family. Miranda's cold, gold mask - watching over her every action, eyes narrowed at weakness. The red of hot, salty blood between Milena's neck and her tongue, marked by purple bruises and shadowy mewls - Milena's at first, in pain. Then masochistic delight. It became both of them as it all stretched on, and she grew to smell the skin, then to kiss it before she bit down.
She'd still be feeding by the glinting blade of a ceremonial knife if not for this little slut's begging. The Lady Dimitrescu - Alcina - wonders if that was when they first were doomed. Her teeth inside of Milena, a connection she is cursed to never break. Or perhaps it was that first time Milena made her laugh, some ridiculous story about an egg or some such concern. Her maid's narrow escape from cancer had only been the event horizon for something that grew in the Lady. A point of no return.
Her lips are cold and waxen with a mortician's carmine lipstick. She had to have it specially made, and she delights to see it flowering over her lover. On Milena's neck, her wrist, the crook of her thigh where the femoral artery pumps deeply. The scar on her pelvis that they'd broken, love-making. On Milena's lower belly, and smeared across her core, warm pink and slick. The wet of Milena mixing with the oily purple of Alcina, left by her hungry devouring - like a she-beast starved.
Oh, hunger compels a lion to lie down with a lamb. But what of exhaustion? What of the cold? What of loneliness? She loathes to admit that any affect her. But Milena is someone with whom these things can be true. Parasitic in every sense, the girl revitalises her. How often had they bathed together? How often had the girl massaged her aching back or neck? Or sat on her lap and plied her roaring mind with pretty words until the seas soothed? Or a hundred, thousand other things. The bulk of how she needs Milena sickens and repulses her. Like an addict, she allows it to wash over her regardless, until she's addled and shuddering that she cannot go on without her. That's a feeling she knows intimately, for more than just her little companion. She wonders if there's something in her life she hasn't grown monstrous, lung-deep obsessions with.
Often, she wants Milena Hofer dead. Every trace of her purged from the awful, dark heart she has. Things would be simpler. She's known this for many years. Her daughters are a vulnerability, but they are her legacy. She was a woman born either to bear heirs, or to rot away in an attic. As it stands, to her shame-tinged victory, she's done both. But Milena? Milena is poor. She's not intellectual. She's frequently insubordinate, and Alcina has sixty other maids at a given time who might ascend to her place. Over the years? Oh, it must have been hundreds of girls. Easily over a thousand. A thousand girls - a thousand bleating units of cattle. And she'd fallen in love with one. She'd let her ugly, greedy heart be held in the small delicate curls of a lamb's fleece. It's bestial. It's hideous. It's shameful.
Loving Milena Hofer is an inconvenience, and their love is something she firmly disbelieves in. Classes ought not mix. Morganatic marriages are doomed. But she knows, also, that if she could marry Milena? She would. It's awful, but she would. She would, she would, she would.
How mortifying.
Milena crawls onto her lap, and straddles one womanly thigh. The Lady clips the white, pristine fabric up until her grey flesh is exposed, indented and fastened by the tight, white garters. Milena settles down properly upon her, knowing the ebb and flow of her habits so very well. Her narrow hips settles against her Mistress, who brings her forehead low, pressed against Milena's warm head. They lock eyes, cat-slit gold meeting the glassy twinkle of Milena's. Their noses brush, and an easy, low growl rumbles in her throat. One hand strokes her pet's pretty back, just over the small of her waist. The other cups Milena's jaw, anchoring the girl close.
It's terrible. it's atrocious. It's the worst, most shameful secret she has. They kiss, and the chains and corsets that lock her heart tight buckle and surge. Sometimes, in private, on nights like these they burst altogether. Gushing.
The Duke, later describing them to a woman who stood over their devastated Village ( --- and, by the by, it all lay destroyed by the actions of parents, keening for dead children. The very thing that would be her own undoing ) would say only this: it's a tale as old as time, really. The Lady, despite herself, fell for one of her maids.
