( ♠ ) HIDE & 𝙂𝙊 𝙀𝘼𝙏

❝   I don’t know what I am.   ❞        it is easy to share confessions in the shade of evening,   where day meets night,   where he meets her    —    the junction between an ending and a beginning.    the waves lick at the prince’s bare feet,   and her hand offered is another addition to this  temptation  to be removed from his perch,    to trust another  fully.     he stares at the lines on her palm,   ever changing under the shadows of the teasing moonlight,   and when his hand clasps hers,   he feels  the tether  tightening its grip on his heart.     ❝   I think it’s the other way round,  my lady.   ❞      he wades through the gentle waves tentatively,   though his gaze does not falter from her,    and he wonders if this is what a sailor feels when they’re lost at sea:    a lightness that comes with the act of surrender.       ❝   you are sweet to trifle with me,     but I know what you see in me.    that is to say,   I will never not be the creature you lent life to.   ❞     his fingertips brush the corner of her eyes,    a marionette following the tug of a string.      ❝   I will never be all that I wish to be   …   for you.   ❞     living takes more than wanting.

         THEY THEMSELVES ARE THE BRIDGE HERE,  THE LIMINAL CROSSING BETWEEN SPIRIT AND TANGIBILITY.   it is no surprise she encouraged him to reach for her as she materializes more fully.   the mistlands sprawled before them on the other end of the riverbank   ━   an alpenglow beacon in the oncoming night,  a call home in the dying light.   ❛   so your time is borrowed and mine is stolen…   ❜   the princess had meant to continue wading forward once linked and yet they dither there as the water climbs up to their waists.   the rush of it like a third presence betwixt them,   the passing hush carrying the unsaid.  AT THE MENTION OF SWEETNESS,   THE CURVE OF HER LIPS EXEMPLIFIES THE WORD.   their quarreling was nothing so saccharine,  though perhaps there was a certain tenderness to all the hostility.   ❛   we both are existing in ways we perhaps shouldn't   ━   but i think that makes us awfully alike,  don't you?   ❜   it is difficult to ignore the sweep of his hand over her skin and she allows herself to steal this moment the instant she leans into that non-gesture.   

⟢     💬    accepting,      @rubyfall​     ›    cordelia   …   james.

no force existed with enough integrity to wipe the smile off a husband’s face,   when his wife had donned a new dress to her liking.    clad by her mirror,  turning her shoulders this way and that,   with the petal-pinned silk of the dress held up to her collar.   james was sprawled over their leather chesterfield,   book against his thigh,  and a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

❛❛   let me fetch that for you,  daisy.   ❜❜    tossing the book over the seat,  james rose swiftly from his perch and situated himself behind cordelia;   there his hands graced along her spine,  the precious skin there,  and fastened the loops of her dress with a deft hand.   as a final touch,  he placed a kiss upon her shoulder,  arms circling her waist as their shining eyes met in the mirror.    ❛❛   you are catastrophically beautiful.   ❜❜

       THERE IS A FORCE WITHIN HER BLOSSOMING,  YET UNDERNEATH IT IS THE ROT.   there had been a softness to her beauty before,  an ingenue as her namesake would imply  (   daisies,  for innocence,   for purity   )   in some ways that facade of virtue persists in the girlish curvature of her face but there is a strange flame alight now more like the autumn smolder of her hair.   ❛  jamie…  ❜   the embers seem to rekindle with his touch,  those too-warm fingertips snaking across her waist.  

his half smile falters into a frown,    both thoughtful and contemplative at once,   before his shoulders slump an inch and he becomes grateful that dawn had already left.    his voice quiet as he says,     ❛❛   yeah,  pretty much,   ❜❜    and to the back of his mind spike wonders what it would take to keep the awful truth about him from both dawn and buffy;   not just that he was a repulsive wretch of a vampire beast,   but that he was in love with  ━    oh,   no,   we’re not going there!   shaking out of his thoughts at the touch of her head over his shoulder,   ordinarily he would find himself thrilled,   and then consequently outraged at his own thrill,   to feel her touch.   now,  however,   all he feels is a sigh loosening in his chest,   soft and oddly sympathetic.     ❛❛   good luck convincing a teenager of that.   it’d be easier to stake me.   ❜❜

the reflection of her face is a haunt inside his mind;    what sick and fucked up corner of the world invented your tears?   he wills his hand to raise no higher with its aching.   he is not the romantic hero of stories,   nor anything she could will herself to want,   and despite his fighting hands and brawling teeth,    he knows this too well.   so his hand drops,   but never his heart;   that he sets between her fingertips,  to throw or keep.     ❛❛   you’re not gonna’ tell her squat.   because it’s not going to happen,   slayer.   ❜❜    spike shifts for the first time,  his still body now thrumming with the passionate determination that drove so much of his insidious reputation.   there was nothing malicious about it here,   the way his brows bent in resolution and his sleeve tilted up her chin.    ❛❛   you got it?   no one’s going to take your sister away.   she’s got us,   and …   you’ve got me.   ❜❜    a flicker of a smile,   in the second his voice becomes tender as a ghost,   down cast eyes mapping the shape of her hands.    ❛❛   brood all you want,   but you’re not alone.   ❜❜    

          ❛  we've been over this;   besides if i stake you now it will be like i am staking vampire justin timberlake to her.  ❜  if it were possible,  she was sure she would have already been confronted with tiger beat-esque posters plastered with his likeness.  copious amounts of glossy paper sprawled over with 'william the bloody' in glitter-bubble lettering greeting her every time she entered her sister's room.   mercifully the undead did not make for very good pop stars thanks to their…   proclivity for murder.  not to mention,   the only thing spike shared with the notorious JT was his fondness for peroxide and too much hair gel  (  though these days i think less and less of what sets you apart from us and more of how much of myself i continue to excavate from you  )

        ❛   since when did giving pep talks become your thing?  aren't you supposed to be kicking me while i'm down    ━   metaphorically speaking.  you know,   for obvious reasons.  ❜  the chip,  which almost felt inconsequential yet she had to keep reminding herself of its significance in relation to where they now stood,  or rather sat,   bent towards one another like sunday morning worshippers   (  or some blasphemous  mockery of a practicing vigil  )   the unkindness is a result of the need for rationalization.  WHY ARE YOU PUTTING YOURSELF THROUGH THIS?  WHY CAST YOUR LOT WITH MINE WHEN I AM SO CLOSE TO ENDING IT ALL AT ONE FALSE STEP.   ❛  us,  huh…   what kind of supernatural,   messed up brady bunch are we starting to form.  ❜  this time she allows herself to laugh,  this time she does not mean it with malice  ━  she does not shy away from the nudge of his arm.

❛❛   of course they are,  miss cushing.   ❜❜    flint against fire,  the lord’s face does not deter from his piercing stare pinned against the wall.     ❛❛   but i am speaking of poets specifically,  not novelists.   perhaps if you listened more closely.   ❜❜    remotely it returns to the young lady before him,  hands folded behind his back though he remains steady fast in his standing,   stubborn as a spanish bull.   a scoff half amused at the last of her contrition,   though it appears his jaw remains as strained with patience as her own.    ❛❛   there is much of intent in poems,  yes.  but it is all there is …   ❜❜

❛❛   intent,  that of which is rarely acted upon,  aside from provoking fleeting flattery.  that is frivolous.   ❜❜    and trickery,   he nearly dares to say;   the disquieting promise of peace and a life fulfilled,  a tender touch and love’s device set for the heart.   and what of the space under those pages?   what of the dust,  or the absence of love,   or the robbery of joy in death?   he merely thinks through the eyes of a devilish memory,   that of a screaming mother and the cold body of a father.     ❛❛   not all can afford to expound senselessly upon emotion,   miss,   ❜❜    he said reservedly,  plucking up the book he had tossed,   holding it up as if to make an example.     ❛❛   it leads more often than not to disaster.   ❜❜

        ❛   i can assure you my hearing and comprehension are perfectly intact,  thank you.  ❜  rising from her recline she places the book in hand down upon the polished table with a thud like a gunshot.  stray fair hairs having escaped the primly placed pins from this fussing and she worries a curling strand back behind her ear   ━  an act of composure that scarcely does as intended.  cheeks remained flush with irritation and she begins to follow the curve of the wooden surface allowing some distance to come between her and the eldest bridgerton.  ❛  what evidence do you have that this intent is confined to page alone?   as you have just said,   you are no poet yourself so what do you know of their lives,   my lord?   ❜  often the unspoken did make its way to ink but recollection and memory just as frequently found immortality in writing   ━  AN AUTHOR'S WORK WAS THEIR INNATE TRUTH,  HONESTY FOUND IN ART.  

the taste of it on her tongue was still light,    the sort of fragrant wound that split open frailer chests…      she dabs her fingers delicately against her lips,    a bemused smile gracing her mouth.        ‘        stealing my drink was very ungracious of you.     i’d heard there were gentlemen in this place   –   and yet i haven’t met a single one.          ’          a manicured eyebrows raises.             ‘         i’ve always wanted to try your fae concoctions.   i wonder how they fair against my homemade poisons.      i’ve had a drink of yours.    you should have a drink of mine to compare.        ’

⟢     💬     accepting,    @rubyfall​​​​     ›     edith cushing …   anthony.

❛❛   miss cushing,   i simply disagree.   ❜❜     like a boy tasting lime for the first time,   the corner of anthony’s mouth remains torn between a strained smile and a vivid scowl.    all the warmth had seemingly evaporated from his countenance upon the mention of poetry;    the rose coloured rubbish he had so carelessly tossed aside before the young woman had picked it back up.

now he righted himself,   his act of hostility caught,   and though he offers an apologetic turn of his head,   he cannot meet her eyes.     ❛❛   poetry is —   fluff and cotton.    it is empty space.   pretty words mean nothing at all compared to the truth of actions.   ❜❜  

        ❛  pardon my candor,  mister bridgerton.  ❜  the formality of contrition,   though her tone lacks the necessary courtesy to maintain a proper air of good will.  ❛  but perhaps if you had read more closely you would realize the works of mary shelley are not poetry at all.  ❜  proserpine in particular was a verse drama and if the viscount had the intent to insult it,  it would have been more impactful to criticize the fact that the literary content of the novel was suited for children rather than grown ladies.  

❛❛   see?   i’m somebody’s favourite.   the sister with taste.   ❜❜     his laugh comes out half-hearted,   a boyish smile dissolving into a concerned straight line.   spike looks up from his hands,   fidgeting a cigarette between his thumb and chancing a glance at a down-cast buffy.   the last few memories of her had been forever been staked into his mind,   irony begone:    you at the steps,   your hair damp around your tears;   or that evening by the tomb,   so surprised i could tell stories to make your sister smile.    pushing out of his chair,   spike furrows his brows and pouts at the ground,   pocketing his hands as he lazily kicked some poor fucker’s dust covered femur.

❛❛   she’s just confused you know.   bothers her to bits,   that she’s stuck in school while you …   ❜❜    blowing against his cheek,   spike gingerly stalks up to her side and thumbs the dust around her weapon,  another stolen glance before he has swiftly turned himself away.   back to the state surface,   his dark leather coat a contrast to her white,   the two stare into the nether some ten feet away.      ❛❛   she misses you.   but being a teenager with a constipated heart,   dunna always know how to show it.   ❜❜    his elbow to her arm,   a slow and tentative nudge.     ❛❛   it’ll be okay.   ❜❜

         SO IT IS THIS:  BENEATH THE GROUND WITH A BEATING HEART BETWEEN THEM.  frightening that a return to normalcy would happen here of all the places   ━   not quite normal but close enough.   the repartee comes easy and requires little of her,  quick wit in perfect tandem with his own.   YOU BITE,  I BARK BACK;  IT IS SIMPLE,  DEPENDABLE…  NEARLY SACROSANCT.   ❛  while i what?  stab creeps like you with mister pointy here.  ❜  the wood is warmed from her prior grip and the splintered surface is severe beneath her wandering fingertips.  but she does not raise the stake,  only absently pressing the pads of her fingers to that fatal point   (   reminding herself of its purpose as it remains on the wayside   )