“If we weren't all crazy we would go insane"

applesnatheists:

It happened that first time. Hand wrapped tightly around HG Wells’ neck, pulse beating thunderously against your fingertips. The heat spread from her reddened face, down your arm, and sunk to curl between your legs. It became an anxious beast, twisting in on itself and raising its head at the most inopportune times. Like when you pressed a gun into her hand and felt her finger hover over the trigger; you challenged her to take your life not because you thought she wouldn’t, but because there was this need in you to see if she wanted to harm you.

Wanted to hurt you and change you into something less than human and more at the same time, the way you want to hurt her. This beast urged you to strike at her, mark her, take her apart and put her back with your hands, your fists, your tongue, soothing and burning her skin and mind. Not to play god, but to expose those cracks, widen them, in order to sand down the rough edges and rejoin them so it isn’t so painful when they rub against each other.

She will never be whole, will always carry those scars, seams almost invisible unless you know where to look. But she will feel those bruises, her muscles tender and weak from strain; she will remember how you removed her layers, dug into her skin, ripped through her organs and left her open and bleeding. How relieved she was to find that she had blood still to give, that there was someone who would demand it from her. She will unconsciously rub those sore spots and think of your eyes, sated from their primal state when you allowed the beast full reign, now they turn on her and the acceptance, the gratitude they reflect imparts its own form of burning. Slow and warm and healing. 

(Source: doctoratomic)

llaurorall:

Ah, yes… Angst. Tread lightly.

    Antiseptic soured the air, burning the back of Helena’s throat.
    She paced the halls like a caged animal. Eyes on the floor. Heart in her stomach. Another great chasm loomed before her, fathomless and black.
    She skirted the edge as she always did. Only this time, she did not have Myka to pull her back.
    Oh, Myka…
    She recalled each moment with painful acuity. The burn of restraints around her wrists and animal panic as nothing she did could loosen them. The heart-stopping seconds where her captor looked her square in the eye and grinned; the kind of deadly smile she had seen in the mirror, once upon a time of grief.
    She watched Myka walk right into a trap.
    What followed were strobe-light memories of things she would sooner wish to forget. The dawning horror on Myka’s face, Helena’s own voice ringing in her ears and the endless image of a grenade rolling across concrete.
    Myka looked down. She looked up.
    Helena did not look away.
    Ten weeks later and the memory still haunted her. Myka obscured by an explosion. So much tunnel vision on the woman she loved that by the time Helena’s senses returned, her captor was dead and she sat cradled with Myka and blood in her arms…
    “You can go in now.”
    Helena looked up, expecting to see Pete, eyes wide with panic. Instead, a doctor touched Helena’s arm in a show of comfort and offered a smile. Her hope was shattered; devoured by that smile.
    Oh, Myka… What have I done?
    It was her idea. To be the bait that would secure the artefact as well as the wielder. She was the perfect choice; unknown and the most capable of the three when unarmed.
    No one could have predicted there would be a second artefact in play. One that sucked all the will from Helena’s bones, made her heart bleed away its strength and leave her at the utter mercy of a man with no soul. A man with no compunctions about stringing her up like a rack of meat to carve his fortune from her flesh.
    Helena’s hand shook over the door handle. She knew what waited; in her gut, she knew the end. The end of sleepless nights and even more lost to the throes of nightmares. With a heavy heart, she pressed forward. There was nowhere else to go.
    Inside, the consulting room was bare. A consultant’s desk and a few chairs. A potted plant sat in the heavily shuttered window.
    Sitting alone on one of the chairs, was Myka. For a brief second, Helena saw the blood and the gore superimposed over Myka’s body. She swallowed, fighting back bile.
    “Not good,” Myka said, looking far too calm.
    Tears blossomed in Helena’s eyes. She leaned back to shut the door as much to surrender the weight of guilt that pressed down on her with Myka’s words.
    “I thought as much.” She clenched her hands into fists. “What happens now?”
    Myka looked toward her voice, quirking a smile. “I guess I get used to it.”
    Helena sobbed and slid down the door. She buried her head in her knees. “This is all my doing.”
    Nothing she did ever came right. Everything she laid touch to became damaged and blackened. All she dared love was taken from her.
    “Shh…” Helena started, Myka’s hand sliding against her jaw. “It’s okay, Helena.”
    Helena looked up, at Myka trying to look at her and failing. “But you’re…”
    “Blind?”
    Oh, Myka… What have I done to you…?
    Myka’s fumbling hands moved over Helena’s face. Smoothing over her wet cheeks and down the bridge of her nose. Fingertips traced the curve of her lips before moving to tuck hair behind her ear.
    “You’re still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” she said. She pressed forward before Helena could reply, stealing the denial right from her mouth. At first, a chaste confirmation of love, Myka’s lower lip slid between Helena’s and all at once, it was something else.
    “We’ll get through this,” Myka breathed against Helena’s mouth. She kissed her once more. “Together.”
    Helena reached up, sliding her fingers into Myka’s russet hair and drew her down between her knees. She came willingly, falling into Helena with careless ease. She buried into Myka’s arms and held her tightly.
    “We will,” she said, muffled by grief and cotton. “I swear it.”

    Aurora