#m;harrow

The soup... Oh dear, the Soup. Harrow couldn't believe that Ianthe seriously thought she could fix this wretched soup. There wasn't a single thing that she could do to fix the soup.

The ninth house scion had no hopes of flushing her liver, her kidneys. By time Ianthe had gone in for a pitiful kiss, Harrowhark was too slow to dodge. She's wanted to, surely. Truly. But with a brain so catastrophically fucked up, her reflexes were the perfect scapegoat.

Her eyes remain wide open, naked horror piercing back at Tridentarius. A void of black iris, quickly warming as the nun's face paint threatened to bake right off.

Be still, love. Infidelity, to a corpse and a ghost and a body that had been with her through all of this. But flesh calls the flesh, loneliness is transferable. It seeks its level, full of violent potential.

Harrow is stunned, for once in her short life. All she can do is rest her hand on Ianthe's shoulder, yet can't bring herself to push her away.

Her brow furrowed. The event horizon is broken, the black hole is breached.

She kisses Ianthe back.

She's never kissed before. It's chaste, would be clumsy if she didn't just stay still and take it. But that's what she did to start.