get weemsical

"Millicent." She keeps her voice gentle and works to sound less exhausted. She wants to be as kind as she can, even if Millicent hates it, even if she's not sure kindness won't send her running toward the door again. "That's, well. It's what I was hoping you'd feel. Since... It's what I felt, as well."

She puts her gaze in the far corner of the room and further admits, since it's a confessional evening for them both, "I was... It wasn't a surprise, or an offence, that you fell asleep. I was," turning pink, "working out some--that is, I pushed you very... Far, because I'd been thinking about--I'd wanted, for some time--ah... So it struck me as natural that you would fall asleep."

"And I, frankly, have no concerns about recip--I mean to say, whether or not I would feel as good, because I know that, ah..." She glances at Millicent, sitting so near, touching her willingly, and tries not to look at her like she's all the things she is to Larissa: beautiful, desirable, lovable for all that she drives Larissa insane. She knows what that sort of look got her last time. "What I'm trying to say is..." She folds her hands very primly in her lap.

Sighing, carefully, Ammonia allows her claws to extract from her upper arms, feeling every second of the sting because some did pierce the skin. It was all she could do to keep herself in control during the ride over. Larissa finding her drunk and alone is bad enough - what if she had begun scenting her upholstery directly?

In her haze, she somehow manages to think that her (in this rare instance) unpainted nails do look pretty with the tips smeared in her own blood. She tastes nothing when she cleans them with her tongue. “You don’t have to,” she murmurs, because she’s just realized through her cloud that Larissa got her bar tab, and now she feels worse. “Pantry’s full.”

The fridge is not. Meat goes first, when a werecat is upset and hungry. She’s lived off of pasta and Honey Nut Cheerios for the past three days (and she clawed the box because it had a bee mascot on it, however cartoonish it may have been).

Ammonia collapses into her couch so she can hide her face in the dark, floral cushion. What would she like? - She would like Larissa to stay. She would like her to talk to her. She would like her darling to let her get close, to try to understand, to say what she’s feeling - even if those feelings don’t match her own.

    Larissa isn't pleased with what she sees in the pantry. If she knows werecreatures, especially those that are typically carnivorous, they need protein, and the only thing here is... She stops thinking, stops moving, at the sight of Ammonia curled into herself on the couch, shaking with fresh sobs.

    The guilt is a leaden weight that makes it almost impossible to lift her feet. Somehow she crosses the room. It really must be what Sisyphus feels at the bottom of the hill. She brushes off her skirt tidily and adjusts the hem, tugging it down toward her knees, as she sits at the far end of the couch.

    She waits until the crying abates somewhat, becomes more like sniffling. Larissa takes a breath.

    "There's quite a lot I'd like to say, and share with you," she says, hands folded primly, eyes on the far wall. "But this isn't the time, Ammonia. You're..." She shakes her head minutely and shuts her eyes. "Exhausted, and intoxicated, and you're not well. I can see you've not been taking care of yourself. I'm very--I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I know I've hurt you."

    She keeps her eyes shut. She'd like to jump out the window.

❛ it delights me you've taken my words to heart. ❜ her lips curl back. that last time — awful, simply awful. her palate had been RUINED through utter carelessness. and despite her consistently eh experiences at larissa's kitchen, millicent looks forward to her seasonal tastings. and — as much as millicent has always denied that key, final star — it seems patrons still flock to chef larissa's tables, either drawn by the admittedly excellent word-of-mouth or (millicent likes to think) her reviews. perhaps high society want to see for itself why larissa will never earn that coveted star.

It would be quite inaccurate to say that when she conceptualised this menu, she was thinking of Millicent. Did her worst critic cross her mind, on occasion, while she was considering seasonality, conducting experiments with sous-vide, sourcing Kampot peppercorns, and outlining, precisely, her vision for this exact dessert to her pastry chef? Of course. But only to consider, with disgruntled irritation, how Millicent would misread and misunderstand every line of this menu, every bite of every dish. She looks forward to however Millicent Clyde will massacre a work of such planning, sensitivity, and forethought.

Dessert is an exquisitely-structured mille-feuille with a piped elderflower filling. Saffron imbues the pastry cream with a magnificent golden color and a subtle earthiness, while blood orange juice and candied zest offset with tang and bitterness; each is echoed by the nasturtium blossoms--two, no more and no less--that accent the saffron and elderflower with their floral delicacy and peppery finish. The topmost layer of pastry is dusted with confectioner's sugar, creating a white canvas that offsets the sunny brilliance of the flowers, the filling, the deeply-coloured zest.

Sweetness and heat, sourness and spice. Larissa, who was thinking of absolutely no one when she planned this dessert, smiles as the plate is placed before Millicent. She, herself, will not partake, but she does nod to their server and accept a glass of the paired Sauternes dessert wine.

here, doomed in millicent's arms, larissa fits just right. and after several seconds of rubbing her back in a panic, hoping to warm her, millicent one-handedly fumbles with the collar and tosses it aside. it lands by her bear. and she leans down and presses kiss after kiss to larissa's head, because maybe they're both baby otters and millicent loves otters and…

❛ i like the collar, yes, but i— ❜ may the allah she doesn't believe in help her. ❛ the collar matters to me. but it would mean nothing on you if you didn't matter to me. ❜ she stuffs what she loves; she collars what she loves. isn't it — hadn't she—? ❛ and you do. matter to me. ❜ and with this hurt creature in her arms, millicent can't give enough of herself over. she can't mend larissa, can't stitch her broken heart back together, and it would be cruel to do so if she's only going to rip it to pieces again with another thoughtless remark; another cruel comment to rival those of hermione's and whoever else has hurt her larissa over the years. but in that moment, she is and larissa is and there is no collar and she never wants to let larissa go. it makes the space between them, where a storm horse pounds across seawater and morticia's whispered words whip throughout thunder and five other people dance, seem insignificant.

    So one needn't be unconscious (or dead) to have their hair braided, their head kissed, and their back rubbed by Millicent Clyde.

    If she holds Millicent, reciprocates, is she going to retreat--run away--cower in the corner, as she did on the bed a few minutes ago? Larissa doesn't know if her heart could take it. Not when she's just made herself so bare--as she does, again and again. Glutton for punishment, she supposes, always eagerly, hungrily chasing after women who don't... Her face is pressed into Millicent's chest, her warm, sweet-smelling skin. She closes her eyes to stay there, out of her own head, with those words: I do want you. So badly.

    She doesn't keep crying; she also doesn't collapse into dust, nor turn into a pillar of salt--all good things. But try as she might, she can't think of anything to say. It's humiliating to be so emptied by such a simple confession.

    Instead of speaking, she gives in: loops her arms around Millicent and holds her close. Maybe she'll run away again, or maybe she won't. Larissa is so tired of all this strategizing. Surely she can have an evening off, given the circumstances. I do want you. So badly, her memory repeats. Millicent's voice has always been very affecting. Even when deployed brashly and bluntly, it has a charisma, a mystique and authority--or perhaps that's Larissa's idiot heart, listening with slavish adoration--but used here, used intimately, it's potent as a spell.

thank you for letting me know it's not working anymore ! i didn't have the update for a while so i couldn't fix it without seeing it first . but thankfully i have managed to sort it out now .

removing the ugly image border

here is the updated code : .GzjsW .CQmeg { box-sizing: border-box; width: 100%; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: flex; border: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(:has(+ .T94I2)) > :last-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(:has(+ .T94I2)) > :last-child img { border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(:has(+ .T94I2)) > :first-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(:has(+ .T94I2)) > :first-child img { border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child > div, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child button, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child img { border-top-right-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child > div, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child button, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child img { border-top-left-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child > div, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child button, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child img { border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child > div, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child button, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :last-child img { border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :first-child, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :first-child > div, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :first-child button, .GzjsW .T94I2:not(.T94I2 + .T94I2) > :first-child img { border-top-left-radius: 0px; } .GzjsW .CQmeg.T94I2 > button::after, .GzjsW .CQmeg.T94I2 > div > button::after, .GzjsW .CQmeg.T94I2 > figure > div::after { border: 0px; }

She wants to go with Larissa more than anything she’s ever wanted before, but what she wants is not what matters. “I can walk myself home,” she grumbles, before taking a long sip of cool water (that actually does feel quite nice sliding down her tight throat). She did do just that last night, after all, and the night before - and what will Larissa think when she sees the state of Ammonia’s studio?

Ammonia thinks of her former nanny, and how the old woman used to let her cry. After all, the werecat was always anxious or upset about something, and Nanny exhausted traditional methods of comfort so quickly, accusing Ammonia of whining just for the attention -

She does not want to be Larissa’s obligation, her chore - but not a single cell within her body can muster the ability to push away the woman that she yearns for the most. She finishes her water (because Larissa said to) and takes a long, deep intake of breath.

    Ammonia processes whatever it is she needs to process, and gives in. Larissa exhales silently through her nose. "I've brought my car," she says. "Please don't be sick in it." The bartender returns with her credit card and a slip. She meets his eyes, holds his gaze while she writes a slashed zero on the tip line, then signs. Really--over-serving vulnerable young women alone in a dive bar. Perhaps he's getting kickbacks from all the rohypnol sales going on under his roof.

    Her cream-coloured Porsche Boxster is waiting outside. Larissa opens the door for Ammonia, makes sure that she is fully tucked into the seat, shuts the door again; she circles the car, takes her own seat, and, staring straight ahead, begins to navigate the blocks to Ammonia's apartment building. She drives slowly. Jericho isn't busy at this time of night, but she wouldn't be concerned about traffic, even if it were: getting Ammonia home safely and comfortably is her priority.

    The car ride is the first silence. Then another, as Ammonia fumbles with her keys to get them into the building. Another at the door to her apartment (similar fumbling). Then Larissa is silently sitting Ammonia down in the chaotic studio and looking around herself silently and thinking silently about getting a cleaning service and fetching another glass of water for her silently. If she speaks, she's not sure what she'll say; she has a sense of a dam that wants to break, and has no interest in more dramatics tonight.