HOTARU
She wants so badly to say he’s right. That he doesn’t deserve her, that she wishes she’d never woken from her stupor if only to avoid having her loyalty thrown back in her face the way it has been. But she can’t. The curse she bears is that when she loves someone, her claws are clipped, blunted and discarded. The barbs removed from her tongue. A being of strife and self-indulgence made docile and complacent for those few who find their way past her defenses, incapable of ever raising hand or word against them again. As such she is only as powerful as the protections around her heart. It was her own fault they were found lacking, that she let him in even when her anxieties whispered to her that she could not compete. She can’t fault him for finding happiness in someone better than her, someone she has loved in the same way and whose qualities she knows too intimately to discredit. So instead Hotaru doesn’t speak. Lets the words die in the air between them, buried somewhere in the waters at their feet.
And the hesitation in his admission of love is merely the final nail in a coffin she’s been building since the moment they’d cocooned themselves around her that first night. Hotaru should have run so much farther that next morning, but even she knows her heart was already gone before they’d pulled her into their bed. She closes her eyes and is grateful that neither of them are privy to the painful shards in her smile; forgiveness is not easy, but holding on will only hurt more. “I know you do,” she comforts, voice serene and sounding far away to her own ears. She has her answer. But you love him more.
And such has been the story of her life. It is a pain she should be accustomed to, and old friend. A shadow that lingers in the empty spaces of a room once occupied, reduced to her sole companion. Nevertheless it burns anew, finding tinder where she had believed herself barren and burned.
His kiss burns like alcohol in an open wound, but it’s cleansing in the same way. Cauterizing each laceration he imparts, where he rips himself from her and leaves an echoing shape of himself. At least he does her the honors of burning them closed, lest she bleed out when he lets go. It will scar; ugly, disfigured, branding her as unwanted to any others who may see her. People like Wessex who will not want that which has already been tried and tested and found wanting. She pours herself into his kiss regardless, embraces the sting like a masochist baring their back to the crop. When he pulls away, she regrets that there’s no hiding the salt on her cheeks now - at least he does not comment on it.
Nate’s mouth at her throat is an achingly familiar sensation. Hotaru tilts her head back to the sky, baring the length of her throat to his lips. Blinks the tears back until the blurry edges go clear once more and she is left clear-eyed and hollowed out. Her hand rises from his cheek, pressing behind his neck and drawing him into her. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Consent, acceptance. And a lie that she weaves around them, convinced if she says it enough times, she will relieve him of his burden of guilt. Even if it will not absolve her own pain.
And the hesitation in his admission of love is merely the final nail in a coffin she’s been building since the moment they’d cocooned themselves around her that first night. Hotaru should have run so much farther that next morning, but even she knows her heart was already gone before they’d pulled her into their bed. She closes her eyes and is grateful that neither of them are privy to the painful shards in her smile; forgiveness is not easy, but holding on will only hurt more. “I know you do,” she comforts, voice serene and sounding far away to her own ears. She has her answer. But you love him more.
And such has been the story of her life. It is a pain she should be accustomed to, and old friend. A shadow that lingers in the empty spaces of a room once occupied, reduced to her sole companion. Nevertheless it burns anew, finding tinder where she had believed herself barren and burned.
His kiss burns like alcohol in an open wound, but it’s cleansing in the same way. Cauterizing each laceration he imparts, where he rips himself from her and leaves an echoing shape of himself. At least he does her the honors of burning them closed, lest she bleed out when he lets go. It will scar; ugly, disfigured, branding her as unwanted to any others who may see her. People like Wessex who will not want that which has already been tried and tested and found wanting. She pours herself into his kiss regardless, embraces the sting like a masochist baring their back to the crop. When he pulls away, she regrets that there’s no hiding the salt on her cheeks now - at least he does not comment on it.
Nate’s mouth at her throat is an achingly familiar sensation. Hotaru tilts her head back to the sky, baring the length of her throat to his lips. Blinks the tears back until the blurry edges go clear once more and she is left clear-eyed and hollowed out. Her hand rises from his cheek, pressing behind his neck and drawing him into her. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Consent, acceptance. And a lie that she weaves around them, convinced if she says it enough times, she will relieve him of his burden of guilt. Even if it will not absolve her own pain.
Pull you in, but don't you get too close
Love you now, but not tomorrow
Love you now, but not tomorrow
