COSMIC FALLOUT

          men always make her feel so uncomfortable. she squirms next to them, blush in full bloom, petals fallen on her chest and wilting in her cheeks. and they tease her that way, pinching at her until she's all rosied and red. 

oh, how they love spring, how they love flowers and rain and the newest of new life. oh, how they love her the most, the girl who brings it. and oh, how they love power they have over her, that tiniest bit of control over nature. they laugh and prod and poke and whisper and do and breathe into the shell of her ear and play with her hair and kiss at her knuckles (her neck and chest too). they just love to, they all do.

there's none worse than him right now. he's overwatering, drowning. pouring wealth into her lap and kissing it all back up. she's not quite sure how to take it, how to handle all of it, how it drips from the lobe of her pink ears and pools in pink collarbones and feels upon the tips of her pink fingers. all she can do is hold on, digging pink nails into tan skin.

"honey."

plot: your muse and my muse used to be a thing, until your muse up and left and a few years later here they are back in town and word got to cade that you’re back with a kid that looks.. just like him. open to f, 25+

he’d knocked on the door, hung around for a little bit too just waiting to see if they’d open and it wasn’t until he’d gone to walk away that he heard the clicking of the lock undoing and turned back. “can’t hide from me forever, you should know word travels fast in this town and that it wouldn’t take long for me to hear that you were back so c’mon. open up. you either owe me enough to put my mind at ease, or to give me a hell of a fuckin’ explanation don’t you think?” he stood with his hands in his pockets, a heavy sigh that had him lower his shoulders slowly. “i don’t wanna break the door down darling, but i will ‘coz i’m not taking a door in my face as enough anymore.”

            oh, dear boy, don't you know what you're getting into? nestled inside is a tiny, little egg and mama's protection. curled and coiled and warm warm warm. venom dripping from fangs that aren't really there, and rattle rattling secret codes. (ones that begin with f and end with off). she's irritated, she's mad, she's scared. her heart pounds in that tiny, little ribcage, but she does not let her child feel it. he will not know that fear, only the rattle of her coiled tail and the warmth of her body. this man, this sniveling beast, he must be ravenous. desperate. with fangs, with gaping maw, with low rumbles and loud growls, he threatens her nest, her tiny, little home, and she won't let him any longer. she gets up and leaves her little egg safe in another room, wrapped in blankets and the sound of cocomelon on the tv. 

melodie opens the door.

"oh fuck off," she spits through a screen, her voice not much louder than a whisper. "stop being so fucking dramatic." her heart still beats too quick, but she does not let him feel it. instead fangs are bared. "i hate you. is that explanation enough, darling?" 

         she blinks at the sodden garments pooling around her ankles, blood stains blackened by the rain, and nothing curdles in her stomach. the only reason she left was because tonight wasn’t the night she wanted to die - she could put up with it, most of the time. the beatings. sometimes she even fought back. she liked the ( patterns ) she could make on his face with her rings. but he’d been out of town for two days with work and had just HAPPENED to return right as she’d opened a bottle of wine for her and her male coworker who’d given her a ride home through the storm. so she’d gotten what was coming to her. maybe a little more than that.          the magnolia tufts felt foreign in her hands. bijou was an entire world she hadn’t explored - a whole different entity she’d never even attempted to understand. whatever their relationship was had become so gloriously unclear that there was something comforting in its confusion. there were no real boundaries: nowhere they couldn’t go, nothing they couldn’t talk about. each time she stepped foot inside bijou’s home ( which was rarely ) she felt detached from herself, like she was looking down and pulling the strings. ❝ what, you’re going to fix me up? are you a nurse now? ❞ she tossed back, approaching the loveseat. she didn’t put the robe on. it floated across her lap when she sat beside her.           bijou looks at her with mascara clumps sticking her eyelashes together and her tall cheekbones and, like every other time, elena falls in love with the EMPTINESS in her eyes. a small smile curls on her lips, splitting the wound back open. ❝ thank you. ❞

they’re sat across from each other now. elena is wrapped in fleeced and padded white on her couch. bijou knows she’s soiling it with the outdoors trapped in her hair, with her lackluster energy, with her too human blood, but she looks past it. she loves the way memories hide in the folds of clothes. she wants to know how the fabric will feel draped over her shoulders after tonight.

and bijou is sat across from her. her ass pressing against the hard edge of the coffee table. the discomfort purposeful, keeping the edges of her soul sharp as she tends to the wounds of whatever she should be calling elena at this point.

acquaintance seems too light a term for whatever they are.

abba plays a soft, energetic tune in the background. it’s on because she wants it to be, because everything bijou involved in is a scene — an act ripped from a sad little back streets play. as she dabs a clean washcloth in water that’s maybe almost too hot the music, it plays because it adds to a meta that doesn’t exist.

bijou presses gently at elena’s wounds. its finally time for her line.