DYSFUNCTION.

How she’s longed for his embrace. Her noose nuzzles harsh against his skin as she buries herself in his scent. Ellaria’s nimble fingers tangle themselves in his hair as if he’d been gone for longer than predetermined. He smells of others and Ellaria lets the thought trickle down her spine like scalding wax until it ignites her. It’s more a hum than clear words, but she knows he needs not hear her to understand.

“My love--” Lips press to the bare spot below his ear. Her words are serpentine as they crawl up her windpipe. “How is possible you get more mesmerising ass days pass?”

“Alright, let’s stop being so dramatic.” Of course, there’s almost no one he’d let be this dramatic without just walking away. Tinkerbell is different though, and someone he knew for who knows how many hell years in Neverland. She’d made the place tolerable, maybe even more so. “I’m paying attention to you, 100%, okay Tink? You can breathe now.” His eyes are directly on hers, clearly paying attention to only her. “I’m not up for a CPR session today, so take a deep breath, and then talk to me.”

     There’s the overly dramatic breath she draws, colour slowly working its way to her cheeks as if it were a longer time she’d gone without oxygen. If only you’d covered her nostrils, she’d have been in a real hazardous situation, but alas she shall not risk her life for a show.

     ❛Everyone’s so busy here– with their complicated lives and schedules. – - Jobs.❜

     You’ve been busy. Have you forgotten all about me, then? Am I just another neighbour you’ll wave your hand at and avoid while fetching mail. The thought has been gnawing at her, will they become ordinary? She refuses to and with each bone in her body she’s fighting the change.

omg i’m sorry! this is an anon from an hour ago and i hope you’re still around to see my response!

yep this is the same milla! i don’t think there were many of us around in the rp scene at the time so chances are––– i’m the same person. but if we we were mutuals and never spoke? chances are i was just too much of a loser and scared of human contact to take the first step! i followed a very limited amount of people at the time. i would love to know what fandom you’re in now and i’m sure we could find ways to interact even if you don’t bring back a former muse of yours though––– if we wrote together or if i followed you on that former muse, i would probably be over the moon if you did brought them back.

anyways, lovely anon, i’d love to go off anon one day! 

     The booth is lonely, the cup before him long since cold isn’t great company. And he’s not great with the phone that’s burning a hole in his pocket. Give him a bow and an arrow and he’s a justiciar– but give him a woman and he’s at a loss. He catches a glimpse of familiar leather and words part with him before he has time to think of the consequence.

The pub is all but empty - a shadowed haven where the two of them seek refuge from tormented secrets hidden behind drink flavored grins and bleary eyes that so defiantly meet those of their companion - and the Irishman shifts uncomfortably at the question as the weight of it presses an already heavy burden against shoulders long accustomed to such things. Guilt, betrayal .. treason.. the words stay locked behind a tightly clenched smile, swallowed down with the warmth of rum that eases a raw burn that settles in the back of his throat - and Killian relaxes an otherwise hardened expression, a single brow quirking in tandem with the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I stole a lass’s pencil once. Aye, a special one, she claimed. Refused to give it back until she kicked me in the shin and called me a coward … so I broke the bloody thing in half.” The answer is a cheap one, a memory brought forth upon instinct - words of excuses and lies floating so abundantly through his thoughts that he’s no longer certain what’s truth.. no longer sure of what has been implanted through training and what is his. Just his. No one else’s. Dark blues sober up as they meet the woman’s eyes, studying the bridge of her nose and lingering on the flush that paints itself across her cheek, and the Irishman finds himself leaning forward slightly, words quiet in confession as ringed fingers tap restlessly against the wooden surface. 

“The worst thing I’ve ever done?” Memories flicker through, one after the other in a sequence drowned in chaos and life, tinted with shades of the blood that stains his hands - a deep red mark that he’s never been able to cleanse, no matter how hard he’s tried. Perhaps it’s fatigue laced with the flavor of rum that pushes the words further, perhaps its the chance to share an aching secret that tries so furiously to claw its way from a hollow chest - but Killian finds himself spilling forth readily, tongue pressing to the inside of one cheek in unfettered distaste.

 “ I let someone die.” Raven hair flashes in the corner, bright smile carried with a laugh that wakens the guilt trapped so easily in his veins , and he grimaces, lips twitching in barely restrained anger that’s tinged with the shadow of regret. “ A woman who claimed she loved me, tossed aside for my own bloody reasons.” Head cocks to the side, both brows quirking this time as weight shifts, leaning back and opening the space between them once more. “What about you, love? Aye,  I’d wager a woman such as Vesper Lynd has her own share of regret.

     He doesn’t take her seriously, perhaps he’s right to. There is a code, your soul left at the doorstep of your cold apartment when you dragged your suitcase out the door. She doesn’t stop to study him though there is ample opportunity– doesn’t care wether the short story is a figment of his imagination or not. Her laugh is a shallow one, it sounds almost rehearsed, like the one you laughed back in Devon when a stranger complimented your smile. The one every girl had rehearsed time and time again if only to use it as armour– men were dangerous especially when scorned. She falls silent now, her drink occupying the shortening attention span as she traces the edge of her glass. 

     His voice sounds different the next time he speaks out. Sounds sincere enough for her to raise her gaze to meet his instead of the liquid at the bottom of her glass. She must look confused, not expecting a response– not one that must have felt like a punch straight to the gut. The kind of pain that knocks the wind right out of your lungs. Vesper Lynd knew something about that kind of pain. And she knew something about having someone’s life on the life, someone you cherished like they were the sun in the sky. That’s where their differences must have began– her backbone carved out different from his. It was her foolish heart that had driven her to the impossible choice where loss was no option. Her hand twitches, moves near his but not quite far enough to touch. That’s where she draws the line– if he felt how her pulse raced now, he’d know.

     ❛I’m so sorry.❜

     For your loss. For the danger you are in only because you’re seated beside me, the man with the eye patch sees everything. (But you live for danger don’t you? Does that excite you?) He’ll cut out my tongue before I can say the words, do you not see that? How could you? She hides her heart, cold and calculated like a machine– nothing more than a purse in the operation. 

     ❛I can’t tell you without someone putting a bullet inside my head.❜

     A smile creeps to her lips, does he think it a joke? The way she mumbles the words like they weighed nothing. It must be the drink, must be the hours she’s spent racking her brain on how to escape what had become a nightmare. But she could always see them following her, making sure she never felt safety ever again. She throws back the rest of her drink and it’s then that a bitter laugh follows as an aftertaste. 

          There’s a soft hum. She did not know if she would, her mother had died so young, and much of her parenting had come from her father. While it worried her some, a new doubt that lingered in the corners of her mind, it was not the most pressing of matters. Though her smile brightens at her friend’s affection. “And I am lucky to have such a warm and caring friend.” It was odd really, Ilithyia felt her kindness to the other woman was becoming less and less of an act and more genuine. “I may need to turn to you for guidance when needed.”

     You are lucky– by the cock of Jupiter are you lucky. The Gods have blessed you with the gift of life. And yet you have doubt in your heart. She doesn’t know where the cruel jape began, where the Gods had developed such twisted humour. There’s kinship between the women, but she knows there will never be another who understands her like Quintus had. He’d read her like an open book, had known her mind from a look alone. But she does not let the though poison the moment they share for it is out of the grace of Ilithyia that she still draws breath. 

     She doesn’t know what death feels like, or doesn’t feel like, but the chokehold she’s in sure resembles a life sentence. It pushes down on her windpipe, making it harder for her to breathe. And that is why she’s cradling the glass of martini abruptly named after her. Each cell in her body must fight against the human response of flight. If she leaves now, he’s dead. They both are, and worst case scenario Bond is as well. There’s a collection of pretty glassware she’s accumulated, her toes tingling from drink, cheeks flushed and tight. Would he point his gun at her, have her arrested for treason, face pushed against the very counter where they’d shared an evening of laughter? Her face is dark, deep in thought as brows create a deep ridge between them.

     ❛I have to say you're far better company when you're awake– much more responsive.❜

     She is a welcome addition although parting had been amidst chaos. Ellaria was warm although she was born of Lannister blood – The blood her paramours revenge ached for. What the child had to do with her birth was less than what she had to do with the creation of the starry skies. Little girls were safe in Dorne Whether they were born of bastard or noble blood. But she looks so terribly out of place, she must have caught a sickness for her family. If you grow thinking the monsters were real they no longer frightened you. Myrcella can be found in the shade at gazebo where Ellaria shall join the Baratheon’s company. She was yet to grow in her antlers, Ellaria’s gaze is almost pitiful. 

     The Citadel is enormous, a metal beast curling around all intergalactic travellers. They are no exception to the rule, as long as their pockets were filled with credits at least. She can feel the hungry eyes of their species ravaging her paramour like he was the last of mankind. It is not out of jealousy as much as her pride, that she runs her fingers along his spine. She can almost count the vertebrae, that is truly how well she knows him. The pond, though a feat of architecture, could not compare to their ocean– vast and wide like the ever expanding universe. They will share stories of them, the pulse of Chora’s Den echoing off their bones. They will indulge in what the Citadel has to offer, they deny themselves very little yet greed was not their cardinal sin. Her body leans into his as they stroll along the main avenue. He is her safe harbour, his arms the port welcoming her home.

     ❛Do you think this place has a soul?❜

         Her smile is bright, rivaling the sun itself. Motherhood had never been her greatest desire but now that the title lay before her, she cannot help but be delighted by it. She had been told of that feeling before, but to experience it, to feel a life grow within her, she understood now what they all meant. Of course Gaius was over the moon. 

        Ilithyia’s gaze then turns to her friend. A moment of wonder if the other woman might perhaps be jealous, as children was Lucretia’s greatest wish, and for her it had been so easy. Though the thought evaporates like water on a hot day. “Yes, let’s.” She gives the other woman’s hand a squeeze.  

      ❛You’ll make for a wonderful mother❜

     She is a battlefield, scarred and tarnished in name and body. They do not hand out medals for following conscience at last moment– however great the risk, or however selfish the cause. Although her sacrifice had been enough to spare her, that her freedom came with a price. There are eyes on her at all times, they feel foreign to her though their presence had gnawed on her for what felt like a lifetime now. She never got used to them and never had she felt more alone than she did in the grand manor with no one but Draco and the peafowl to keep her company. The isolation had been what drove her to send out the owl, the letter which had been inspected and the seal broken before it ever reached her sister. The luxury of privacy evaded her.