Chrysalis Ch19: Kept Women (pt1) (Patreon)

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          Though a passerby might call the clutterful space for what it is, L has taken pains to organise her vanity. She’s set her cosmetics to the right, where they are mentally portioned into the categories 'barely understood' and 'absolute mystery'. Neith II's jar - now furnished with a water dish and a bed of small rags - sits on the left.
          And In the centre, right under the mirror, she keeps her ‘trinkets’.
          Bracelets, earrings, circlets of precious metals, necklaces and pendants set with glimmering stones. A small but growing collection of rings. And, of course, buried beneath it all was the first bracelet, intricate and delicate, its pearl still gazing to the lights above.
          The trinkets didn’t all contain songs. Six or seven, at most. L's made a point of adding to her repertoire after every few performances. Her surreptitious meetings with Astraea to purchase them are… difficult… though distinctly not in the way she had feared. If anything, L often feels a twinge of guilt on these shopping trips, like she's taking advantage of the dryad. Of course, Astraea never seemed to care, and if she just hadn’t sent Neith after her in the first place…
          L sighs the confusion away. Regardless of her emotions, her strategy works. She hasn't lost control of herself since she began buying the songs. Lyra has gone radio silent.  The patrons, Hedrick, the king… everyone, seems happy with her performance.
          She’s found peace, comfort…
          … she’s safe.
          Instead, she keeps her focus on the mirror, her head swaying back and forth. L's wearing lightweight silver bands around the base of her antennae, a knick-knack she’d been pleasantly surprised to find on her last excursion. From what the dryad told her, they were made specifically for nymphs. Beyond that, and the sentimentality of being her first independent Market purchase, there’s nothing special about them.
          She just… likes them.
          Her eyes wander back to the desktop, hovering over a card half-tucked under Neith II's jar. Other than one alp-luachra bite in the corner, it was still pristine, Spencer Harcourt's address clearly visible through the glass. L smiles softly and returns to her reflection. The lights around the vanity twinkle off the silver in her hair, and she smiles.
          Three weeks ago, she was running for her life. Now… she had a lot riding for her, didn’t she?
          Maybe everything was starting to work out. Maybe it wasn’t so… bad, after all.
          There's a soft rap at the hatch, but it opens without waiting for an answer. Ian's head pokes through, a few cobwebs caught in his hair, as he lifts two canvas bags towards the privacy screens that divide their room. They’d finally gone about replacing that silly curtain. Each bag is stuffed to bursting with clothes. Though Ian’s uniforms peek out, they’re largely dresses.
          "Laundry run!” Ian shouts, pulling himself into the loft. “Peak price, though. Dunno how anyone can afford it wiffout the vendor discount. Ya fink it might just be us?”
          "People probably don't come to the Market to get a few shirts cleaned." L nods, musing. “... Not regular shirts, anyway.”
          She leans back in her chair, poking a finger into Neith II's jar. The alp-luachra sleepily nudges at her hand before rolling onto her back. She dramatically stares down the empty corner where L usually leaves food. The nymph snickers.
          "Bring any good scraps?" she asks.
          She winces slightly as she turns around, eyes focusing on the phone already in Ian’s hands. It’s bunched up to his face, nearly covering his furrowed brows. He’s muttering curses to himself, tapping the screen with such force she can hear his nails. She knows better than to ask - all that would prompt is an angry glare and an increasingly impatient request to mind her own business.
          L spends a few idle moments re-sorting her sorted cosmetics, perhaps a touch louder than she needs to. Ian pays her no mind, pacing around with gritted teeth. L looks at the hungry alp-luachra and sighs. “Don’t leave her waiting, Ian.”
          “Oh, right.” Ian half-jogs forward, tossing a carton of chips into the jar without looking from the screen. Neith II devours them with the same voracity as always. “Got more of ‘at if you’ll ever stop biting,” Ian chirps, already typing anew.
          L watches the worm drill through the wedges as her roommate slides. “How is that part of the Market, anyway?” she asks, clearing her throat.
Clack clack clack clack. Ian’s phone hums with every new message, wood floors creaking as he takes heavy steps in a small circle. After several seconds, he finally speaks. “Oh, sorry, could ya repeat ‘at? Didn’t realise you were speaking to me.”
          L looks at him in complete bewilderment. “Who else would I… never mind. What does the Market front look like? That concierge, or whoever, pushed us through before I really got a glance.”
          "Oh, you know. Boring. Human." There’s disappointment in Ian’s tone. He starts attempting to fold his clothes with one hand while typing away on the other. It would be an impressive spectacle if it actually worked, but Ian’s so distracted he really leaves everything a wrinkled mess. “Whenever ‘ey get close to London, Fae always glamour up. Puttin’ their service face on, innit? Concealin’ who they are."
          "Guess they don’t want to let the secret out." L flicks her antennae noncommittally. The bands push against them with a light, jittery resistance. “Though… I wonder why? I mean, we saw the Unseelie Quarter, you’d think the Fae would have the upper hand.”
          More laundry crumples around Ian’s bed. “Somehow, I don’ fink London at large would be too keen to have a slave market on their doorstep, L. ‘Ey might even file a complaint. Remember how tight our managers got about ‘ose? It’s bad for- God fucking dammit!”
          “Ian!?” L jolts back from the jar, just in time to watch Ian hurl the phone into his bed. It bounces off the covers and into the tucked-away corner. L’s antennae curl as he clenches his fists. “I-is everything-”
          “- Just peachy.” Ian glares hardly at L, but the expression quickly twists into an obviously false smile. There’s something strange in his eyes. A little ember. “Nuffin’ to worry yerself about, innit?”
          L blinks a few times, trying to force his look from her mind. “O-okay,” she mutters quietly, turning around.
          “Grand.” Ian’s awkwardly large smile has yet to vanish. “As I was saying, it’s bad for business.”
          “I suppose.” Her eyes wander to the card again. ‘Kensington Square,’ in bold fancy font. It's strange how foreign that sounds to her when she lives above a club frequented by a literal fairy-tale clientele. So out-of-reach. “But, if both governments know the other exists, surely they-”
          She stops. There’s something thick in the air, a heat in the atmosphere. L can hear Ian’s breath behind her, and can feel his eyes directed at the same card.
          "... Why do you keep ‘at?" Ian asks, the question tumbling out of him with a hint of his masked agitation. "He comes by enuff. Ya could just talk to him here."
          L picks up the card, raising an eyebrow at the odd tone in Ian's voice. "Harcourt? Well, he does, but he asked me to give him a call if I ever wanted dinner or something." L leans forward, enough to let her wings give a slow, considering flap.
          It's odd to say that out loud. Like nudging the possibility a bit closer to reality.
          “Of course he did.” L had thought that Ian’s pacing was his worst nervous tic. Now that he was fuming behind her, arms crossed, she’s having doubts. “Shoulda expected. One fucking look, and I knew he’d be some-”
          "I dunno, I’m thinking of taking him up on it." L flexes her wings again, prodding at the idea in her head. "We got on alright. He was very nice."
          Beyond Neith II’s munching, the room falls silent.
          But that silence is quickly broken by a series of short wheezes. Ian is coughing on nothing, staring at the nymph with incredulity. "H-he - krh - WHAT? Mate, ya c-can't possibly be fuckin’ - krh krh - serious wiff this shite, right?”
          “What?” L half-turns, her antennae quirking as they absorb the vibrations of Ian’s coughs in the air. “Why can’t I be serious?”
          Ian stares at her like she’d walked onstage naked. "... Professionalism? Basic etiquette? Not like some bloke can waltz into a strip club and ask out the fuckin’-"
          "-Excuse me?" L frowns, brows furrowing. “Ask out the what?”
          Ian pauses for an awkward moment, then slides into the word cautiously. “... entertainment.”
          "The entertainment," L repeats, the word flat on her tongue. She turns around, her wings spreading out to block the room behind her. And to keep Ian’s glowering face from reflecting in the mirror. "Well, it’s a good thing the Glade’s not a bloody strip club. I’m not entertaining anyone that way. And last time I checked, I didn’t need your permission to go out with someone, did I? Akh!"
          Ian grips her wing with one hand, the chair with another. He yanks both forward, forcing her view to his angry scowl.
          “Ian!” L shouts, flapping the wing from his fingers.
          “We’re having a conversation, L,” the boy seethes. “My eyes are right here.”
          “For now,” L gives a furtive nod to the phone still buzzing in the corner. “And what bloody conversation is this? The hell did you just call me? Mind repeating it?”
          Something breaks in Ian’s face, and he retreats a step, arms raised. "Arright, arright, allow it. Yer not a stripper. But… ya can't deny there are certain aspects of your job that lean that way. Cadogan certainly seems to fink your somefin’ extra. Yer setting a bad precedent."
          "And yet,” the ringlets jitter with her bard. “Cadogan's not the one calling me a stripper to my face. He’s not the one telling me I can’t go have a bloody drink.”
          "Only cuz he's lookin down the line!” Ian crosses his arms, put off. “Only cuz he finks ‘at drink will be wiff him!”
          “And maybe it will! It doesn’t matter, because it’s my. Fucking. Choice!” L matches Ian’s scowl with one of her own, trying to cross her arms just as aggressively. They hold that pose for several heated moments, before Ian sighs and walks back to the laundry.
          He crumples the clothes beneath tightly wound fists. “L, it’s just a bad idea, arright? Toss the card and focus on yerself. We only just escaped a truly dire mess, innit? Give yerself the chance for a breather. God knows we could both use the break."
          "I am taking care of myself! I am taking a breather! That's what this is!" L’s wings flutter as she waves the card through the air, narrowly avoiding the array of bottles. "Who gave you the right to tell me who I can go see?"
          Ian looks up at her, tossing a dress he's folded her way. The throw is a bit too hard. “Yer mum? Basic common sense? I wouldn’t trust some uppercrust Tory wanker like him if my life depended on it.”
          L catches the dress, her grip a bit too tight. “He’s in Labour, actually.”
          “It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Ian scowls. “He’s not safe.”
          “Compared to what? Here? Southwark? He lives in the goddamn tourist zones," she says, eyes narrowing. "Besides, he’s probably the safest person to go out with in the whole bloody Market!”
          "Why, cuz he's human?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow.
          "Because he's a bigger nerd than I am." L tosses the dress aside. “Christ, we spent half the time talking about his bug collection.”
          “Oh, he’s got a bug collection.” Ian rolls his eyes. “That’s a relief. Totally not a creep, now. Safe as a bloody hornet.”
          "What's the matter with you, anyway?” L jolts up. “I'm living in the Fae Market. You know, that place with flesh-eating monsters and fucking slave pens! Has that magically become safer than a trip to London?"
          Ian tenses. His demeanour shifts, his arms flexing wider, his eyes turning sharper. He walks over to the corner, kneels down. L can smell it before he’s even withdrawn the item from its cubby.
          A flash of metal. The tire iron from that first night.
          L’s brows raise. “What are you doing, Ian?” The boy ignores her completely, his eyes vacant and his face all sharp angles as he walks forward, shoving the iron near her face and flooding her with frightful sensation. “What the fuck!?”
          "Ya see this?” His voice is harsh and flat. “London is built on that.”
          “Get the fuck back!” L's skin prickles, her antennae sending bolts of freezing cold through her head. His tone shocks her as much as the tire iron. No different from the anger he would direct at his phone.
          Ian continues. “Ya’d be walking through a field of barbed bloody wire, and Harcourt knows it. He knows about fae. Obviously."
          L jerks back from the tire iron, looking up at Ian in disbelief. “Put that away!”
          “Don’t ya fink ‘at knowledge makes him a dangerous sort? The sorta person who knows exactly how to get at ya?” Ian stares sidelong at her, releasing the tire iron with one hand. It falls through the air… “Using that against ya?”
          … Landing in his palm. “Using that to hurt ya?”
          “Y-you think I can't get around iron?! Like I haven't spent my whole life working that out!?" L scrabbles out of the chair, trying to draw and distance herself from the iron at the same time. She laughs nervously. "What would you have me do!? Just perch myself up here until I have to trot out for the next show?”
          "Well, it’s FUCKIN’ WORKED SO FAR!" Ian growls.
          "Fucking listen to yourself!" L shoots back, her voice rising.
          “I am,” he replies. “It’s simple! It’s safe! And it would last us a good long while if ya weren’t always trying to COMPLICATE THINGS!"
          “Always!?” L snaps. “Since fucking when?”
          “Exactly,” Ian mutters. L blinks in confusion. Is she… forgetting something he’d said? Behind her, the phone continues to buzz.
          "I get it! I do! It’s not safe, but what in life fucking is!?” L snorts, fuming. “I didn’t escape Astraea just to spend my life locked in a fucking attic!”
          Ian goes quiet, breathing heavily, red in the face. He turns back and solemnly tucks the iron away… only to pull out a canister he bought with Mr. Morgan.
          A canister of salt.
          “I’m not trying to lock ya in here,” his voice is quieter, almost pleading. “I'm just... trying to protect ya. I'm..." he sets the canister on his bed before marching to L’s. He collapses into the covers, hands folded over his face as he watches her.
          A part of L wants to look at Ian’s face and feel sympathy. But another part is louder. “Protect me from who, Ian? Right now, you’re not using that against fae, eh? Spencer Harcourt isn’t threatening me with iron and salt.”
          "Ya don't know what it's like,” Ian interrupts. He fidgets with the pillows as he speaks. “Ya don’t know what it’s like to be a woman. To have weaknesses that arseholes can use against you.”
          “You think I’m weak?” She tilts her head.
          “I fink there are arseholes,” Ian snaps back. “Arseholes like the kind ya meet at a bar after work. Ya don’t understand the risks-”
          “-And you do?” L folds her arms, voice low, fixing Ian with a sceptical look. It doesn’t feel like he’s even talking to her. “Think I’ve had a bit more practice at this than you, haven’t I?”
          "Few fuckin’ weeks, innit?" Ian smiles bitterly, kicking at the bed as his body sinks into the covers. “Try livin’ with one yer whole fuckin’ life!”
          “The hell does that mean?” L asked.
          “Tch.” Ian brushes off the thought, leaning forward and counting his fingers. “So much shite ya don’t get, L. Ya don’t get that ya might be trampling over all kinds of fae laws wiff this. Ya don’t get that some fancy garm MP, drowning in money and power, can do whatever the fuck he wants-”
          L flares up. "You think I’m a bloody idiot? I’m aware of what people with money and power get away with!" She waves her hands at herself, shaking with anger. Weeks of helpless frustration bubbling over all at once. "They get away with this! Maybe I ought to keep a man like Spence in my back pocket!"
          “Spence?!” Ian snarls with gritted teeth.
          “Spence!” L repeats. “He can help, if our deals with the King and Astraea go awry. He’s not tied to any of this!”
          “‘At finkin’ brought ya back to both in the first place,” Ian crosses his arms. “Keep walking up to crowned heads, see what new ways they’ll stab us in the back.”
          “It’s the ‘safe option,’ right?” L hisses, her voice turning soft. “You won’t fucking let me do anything, will you? What a goddamn scam.”
          Ian swallows, brows narrowing. “L… ya ain’t even fuckin’ interested in him. This is just a fuckin’ lark, a thrill yer chasin’, and ya BLOODY KNOW IT! You’re so used to living in fear, safety feels like the fuckin’ void. Tell me I’m fuckin’ wrong!?”
          "So what if it’s a lark?” L folds her arms, stepping back with a scowl. "What if I want a thrill I can bloody enjoy? You’re just jealous you didn’t step up first."
          "Jealous? JEALOUS?!" Ian springs from the bed, the room filling in his presence. “Ya fink I’m jealous of some arsehole who just met ya? Who has no idea of any of the shite you’ve been through or who you even fuckin’ are?! Who can just waltz into yer life, take whatever he fuckin’ likes, an’ fuck back off to his bug collection!?”
          “Maybe I don’t want him to know!” L retorts. “Maybe I can finally move past it!”
          “Can’t move past yerself,” Ian says. “But ‘Spence’ would fuckin’ love to watch you try! He doesn’t know what it’s like to work at Cromart. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to scrape by for a living, to live in fear and desperation. To have no prospects, no value, to only be a warm body who moves fings along! He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t fuckin’ care!”
          He was using that tone again. L’s confusion and rage intermingle into a single, blind fury. Scraping by? No value? Where the fuck did he get off?
          Or was he even talking about her in the first place?
          The fury wins out. “Piss off!” L shouts, clenching her fists. “You don’t know shit about him!”
          “I know the fucking looks he gave you!” Ian shouts, chest rising. “I’ve seen them on too many men. Ya know how that fucker would’ve seen ya a few weeks ago? He’d see ya as dung to scrape off his shoe, a fly to squash underfoot. He wouldn’t see ya as a person, and he hasn’t started now! He’s just some creep with a hard-on for yer wings!”
          "Worried I’ll take him flying?" L scoffs, giving a short flap for emphasis. Her throat is starting to ache. Where is all this coming from? Why can’t Ian let her live her own life, find her own love? He’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything with her on that front.
          Ian’s silent, catching his breath and clearing his throat. L folds her arms, watching the floor. "Don't worry, I can only be safe there! We already know my frail little body can't-"
          She stops as the memory fills her. The look of wonder on Ian's face as she'd hovered around him, trying to lift him up. No different than Spencer’s. How quickly that wonder had turned to anxiety at the thought of her buying groceries. “L, she’s… y’know… special,” he had told Trystan.
          And before, that first night, when he looked at the stars… “What’s it like? Flying, I mean,” he had asked. “Sounds nice. I’ve only ever had my feet firmly planted on the ground.”
          L’s mind starts spinning, spiralling to a single, loud conclusion.
Firmly planted on the ground.
No prospects. No value. Only a warm body to move things along.
Somebody special.
          It sends a cold, stabbing pain through her heart… and slots something into place in her mind. L takes a deep breath. “No... You’re not jealous of him, are you, Ian?”
          Ian chuckles, nervousness clear. “Of course I’m fucking not-”
          “You’re jealous of me.” The words taste bitter on her tongue.
          Ian lifts his head from his hands, a frightened look in his eye. “What?”
          L swallows “You’re jealous that I stopped being a warm body. That I stumbled out of Cromart and into this place. Jealous that I walked into the Market, walked into prospects and value. Jealous that I’m ‘special’” Her voice is hollow
          Ian inhales, his eyes flaring, his hair standing on end, prickling. “L, it’s not…”
          L chuckles to herself mirthlessly, bouncing a hand on her forehead. “Fucking fool I’ve been. I thought you loved me. I was so confused why you wouldn’t date me, but… it’s this place you’re in love with, innit?”
          Ian’s words escape him, evaporating before they are even formed.
          “No wonder you don’t want me leaving the attic,” L giggles, staring into the mirror. “Wouldn’t want me getting mixed up in your date with the FUCKING MARKET!”
          He rises. “L, listen, I-”
          "I've been listening!" she shouts, clenching her fists. "I'm your connection here, right? You think they won’t want you here if you weren't in a package deal with the amazing singing moth girl. So you've got to keep me tucked away…"
          “L, please-”
          She takes another ragged breath, her eyes stinging. "... to protect your fucking STORYBOOK ADVENTURE! Well, Ian? ‘Tell me I’m fucking wrong,’” she repeats, each word filled with venom.
.           Ian marches up until he towers over her. His face flush and red, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. His teeth gnash together.
          “... FINE! Fucking fine.” Anger, fear, and hurt all spill from Ian in a surge. “You’re right. I like it here, okay? Never had a shot at uni, never had anywhere further to climb than Cro-Mart’s top fuckin’ shelf! I can count the times I’ve left London on one hand!”
          “So what?” The antennae roar forward as L shouts. “You expecting a bloody pity party?”
          “Maybe ya could lend me a fuckin’ ear for once!” Ian shouts back. “Maybe ya could look outta yer own arse and realise ya aren’t carrying the biggest burdens anyone’s ever had to bear! At least ya get to be special! At least ya get to matter to someone, at least someone would care if yer gone! Astraea, Hedrick, Cadogan, this ruddy Bookkeeper! Spencer fucking Harcourt!”
          “They wanted to kill me!”
          Ian’s eyes go wide. “Oh. Looks like ya finally remembered! L, what the fuck happens if I lose my shot here, mmm? A lifetime living off the Cro-Mart staff discount? Wasting my soul on that stupid phone, with no higher calling than setting the fuckin’ crisps straight!?!”
          “Higher calling? Just write a fucking novel like everyone else!” L nearly spit the words, crossing her arms. “I don’t wanna be involved in another person’s bloody mess.”
          “Bullshit! Don’t fucking lie!” Ian heaves, angry tears trickling down his cheeks. “Ya’ve wanted this, too! Ya jumped into it with open fuckin’ arms! Leapt so fuckin’ far ya FORGOT THE REST OF US!”
          "Fuck you!" L yells. It comes out as a harsh, scraping sound.  Claws over quartz. "Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU! I was running for my fucking life and you know it! Claiming I forgot? You’ve been right here with me! This whole fucking time, I’ve been waiting-”
          “To ditch me for the first twat wiff a bug collection?” Ian hisses.
          “Fuck off! I was waiting for YOU!” L’s scream is cut-off by a choking sob. She clutches her head, shocked by the hot tears she can feel below her eyes, coursing her makeup down her face.
          She can hear her heavy breaths mingle with Ian’s. She steals a glance at him: his normal skin, his normal fingernails, his wingless back and boring, average life. At first, she thinks she’s angry, angry that this boy was so envious of her hell that he would trap her in it. But that’s not why she’s breaking whimpering wails, collapsing into her seat.
          She manages a few words between the cries. “I’m so fucking stupid, aren’t I?”
          Ian can only watch as the nymph's tiny body trembles with every heavy gasp. “L, yer not-”
          “I thought I was seeing sparks,” she ignores him. “I saw those eyes and thought they wanted me. But they didn’t, and they don’t. Those eyes only want my body, don’t they? My wings for joyrides, my voice for thrills.”
          “It’s… it’s not like-”
          “All this time, I thought we could make it work. I thought you wouldn;t care about the body, that you’d one day look past it…” she stares at her hands, little white sheets tipped with onyx. “But I guess you’re not some creep like Spencer Harcourt! Which is it, Ian? Did I fall from your eyes the day I touched down as a woman?Is it because I’m a FREAK!? Or did you ever fucking love me at all!?”
          Ian’s eyes are wild. “Of course I fucking love you!”
          “NO YOU FUCKING DON’T! I’m just your ticket through the door!” L shoves at his chest, staggering back with the force of her own push. Though Ian’s barely moved, L glares at him with as much fury as she can muster. “Well, you’re here now! I’ve snuck you right fucking in! You don’t need me, so stop trying to run my life!”
          Ian reaches for her arm. “I’m not trying to run yer ruddy life!” he starts. “I’m just trying to keep ya safe!”
          L's wings snap out. “I DON’T WANT TO BE KEPT SAFE!” She shoves his arm aside, trying to control her breaths. Her wings start to beat, faster and faster. The sour, metallic tang of anger mixes with the iron lingering on her antennae.
          “Y-yer taking this all wrong,” Ian pleads. “L, I promise, it’s not about the body-”
          “SHUT UP! For once in your goddamn life, fucking look up!” She points at the hatch leading up to the roof. "I want to go out there, grab a drink, and have a good fucking time! That’s it! That’s all I’ve ever asked for! That’s all I’ve ever asked you for! And you wouldn’t fucking do it!”
          She can hear Ian’s breath grow ragged, his nose barely sniffling in his tears.
          She inhales her anger. “Well guess what!? I’m not an option anymore!” L’s wings whirr frantically. “Enjoy your little fantasy world! If you won’t go, Spence will!"
          She's hovering above the floor, almost eye level to Ian. She wants to be at the perfect height to see his face. She wants to watch the tiny tears fall down his cheeks, the trembling of his lips, the curvature of his brow. She wants to absorb all that hurt.
          And she takes a dark satisfaction in knowing he can see her, too. Even if his voice is too weak to tell her off.
          She brushes past Ian, her head low and her voice raspy. "He could be the goddamn Bookkeeper and I’d still leave you. At least he's not trying to lock me in a fucking box!" L reaches for the hatch to the roof, her foot brushing the rungs of the ladder…
          … until Ian's arm snaps out. Their breaths both hitch; Ian seems as surprised as L by his own action.
          But his hand stays wrapped around her ankle.
And he tightens.
          The two crash to the floor together. Ian quickly shoves her into the corner, near his bed. She crashes into a dying phone and a split-open backpack. Frantically, L tries to scramble up, but Ian holds her down with an elbow across her chest.
          Forcing her in place.
          “Get the fuck off me!” L starts to scream, panic in her voice, until she catches Ian’s face and grows mute from shock.
          There’s a strange look in his eye, a canvas of emotions, an ocean of chaos she cannot begin to fathom. His other arm shoots out, slow and mechanical as a tin soldier, reaching until it claws the salt canister.
          She can’t help but shiver, her breath catching. “I-Ian… p-please…”
          “You still don’t get it.” Ian’s voice is soulless, hollow as it echoes across the room. His arm stretches around her, grains sprinkling around the floor like falling snow.

“Ian, don’t do this! Ian!” L thrashes against his elbow, helplessly watching the salt ring form around her.
          Ian smiles as he pours, well past the point the canister runs dry. “You never fucking get it.” Tears freely fall from his face.
          “Ian!” There’s a desperate bite in her words as tears sting L’s eyes. “This isn’t protection! This isn’t safe! You can’t do this!”
          “No.” The salt canister finally bounces to the floor. His breath is quick, ragged. “This is exactly what I need to do.”
          L’s body begins to shake in fright. Ian’s eyes change again, a sparkle that catches in the light. Wonder. Awe. Envy. The same looks she saw on Spencer, Astraea, the stage.
          The look Ian gave her when she entered his world, reborn.
          L’s wings flutter as she begs through her tears. “Please… I-I’m sorry, I-”
          “Shhhh,” he touches her face, pulls at her cheeks, runs his thumb over her lip as he shushes her. She can only tremble beneath a look of wild fascination until his words finally cut through the air. “I want you, L.”
          L pushes her hand forward, desperate for escape, only to press against an unseeable wall. Caught in an invisible cage.
          "I want you more than anything…” Ian says, the words distant and lost in the cacophony of his own mind.
          "... which is why I can never have you."
          The antennae pick at the salt, sending constant reminders of the cage he’s trapping her in. In that horror, L breaks. Panicked breaths, terrified tears, her body crunches into itself, collapsing inward.
          Ian stands, watching his own hands, as if he’s seen them for the first time. Then, robotically, he turns. The movements are so rigid that he half-trips over the emptied backpack, so forceful that a whoosh of air erupts as he opens the hatch. L tries to scramble upright, her wings flicking into whatever air the barrier allows them. She flattens her hands on the wall as she watches him slowly trundle down.
          “Ian, let me out,” the words are barely a whisper. Terror and hurt and longing wrap around, constricting her breath. More tight than any binder she’s ever worn.
          He stops, watching the ladder before, standing at the threshold. One step back. Side turn. From her prison, she can see his face.
          Hollow. Vacant. Spent of spirit and light. A warm vessel for moving things along.
          He turns around and descends the ladder.
          “Ian…” L begs, too quiet for him to hear. The door closes.
          Leaving her trapped and alone.

continue reading ->

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No babies don't fight T^T

The second part of Chapter 19: Kept Women is set to post  Monday October 31st as a Halloween special post to check back in with everyone's favorite local serial killer.

Until then, thanks for reading!
And thanks for stopping by!