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thelonelylakethe aftermath of what we are. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, abigail/dulcinea. how it might have been. 650w, rated t. for femslashfete #036 'eternal' and the prompt 'sexy nosebleed' at Bring Her Bleeding Heart To Me round 7.
Water is dripping through the ceiling that is not a ceiling, a steady plink, plink, plink that smudges the ink from Abigail's pen and makes Dulcinea think of the slow crawling of blood through her own veins.
Her skin has always split easily, and the peculiarly Seventh affliction has followed her into the River. It had worried Abigail in the beginning of their new death that is not a death. Perhaps it worries her still, and she is simply better at hiding it — they have an unspecified forever to perfect such skills now, or perhaps they already have had. But it is a fact of their new existence, one of the few Dulcinea knows with any certainty: she is always dying, she will never be dead, and Abigail will never lack Dulcinea's blood.
Sometimes she collects it in her never-ending supply of glass vials, lined up on the walls that are not walls waiting for the day they're needed for a ghost. Sometimes she wipes it from Dulcinea's skin with calloused fingertips, pulling soft noises of pleasure from Dulcinea's throat while her own vibrates with the mild surprise of having encountered something so close to life. Sometimes Dulcinea simply bleeds, and wonders if one day she will have bled enough to fill the Bubble.
Would they drown inside the Bubble before the edges fell apart? If the walls that were not walls shattered, would their eternal not-death shatter as well? Perhaps the force would be enough to push them across the corpse-choked River, and Abigail would finally get some of the answers she was so desperate for.
Dulcinea is thinking about saying something about the leaking ceiling when Abigail says, with something the opposite of alarm but nowhere near peace, "Ah. Wrong diagram to bleed on, Dulcie." Suddenly the theorem scrawled across the desk between them is speckled with copper rather than the grey of the River, imperfect scattered blots fallen in a pattern all their own.
"Sorry," she says. Stands with difficulty and turns her back to the parchments, tips her head back and feels the metallic tang of her own component liquids collecting at the back of her throat. Outside of her own thoughts she can feel the slick thread of blood still working its way over the divot of her top lip, trailing over her mouth to drip plink, plink, plink onto the floor.
Gravity holds only imperfectly in the River; hunger the only rule more often than not. And it's hunger she sees in Abigail's gaze, through the thin slit of her own half-lidded eyes. She's blurred at the edges with the pale fuzz of Dulcinea's eyelashes in the way, but she moves with deliberation, one step after another until she can cradle the back of Dulcinea's head in one hand.
Dulcinea opens her eyes fully as her head follows the gentle pressure of Abigail's grip, just in time to watch a string of blood fall from her nose into Abigail's waiting hand. To watch, still, as Abigail brings her palm to her mouth and lick it clean. She moans despite herself, and Abigail smiles, wide and slow.
"My thoughts exactly," she murmurs, and then her lips are on Dulcinea's, tongue pressing briefly between them before she drags it back to clean Dulcinea's skin, every stroke answered by a ghostly throbbing echo somewhere deep inside her core.
This is what it means to have a body in the River, Dulcinea thinks, sinking gratefully onto the thigh Abigail slides between her legs, a body that bleeds and breaks and exists, suspended and wanted, in a state of simple being that she will never define. This is what it means, to have died under the watch of a God who really should have known better.
Abigail kisses her, and their mouths fill with blood. Their mouths are always full of blood.
Dulcinea wouldn't have it any other way.
femslashfete #036 'eternal' and the prompt 'sexy nosebleed' at Bring Her Bleeding Heart To Me round 7.Water is dripping through the ceiling that is not a ceiling, a steady plink, plink, plink that smudges the ink from Abigail's pen and makes Dulcinea think of the slow crawling of blood through her own veins.
Her skin has always split easily, and the peculiarly Seventh affliction has followed her into the River. It had worried Abigail in the beginning of their new death that is not a death. Perhaps it worries her still, and she is simply better at hiding it — they have an unspecified forever to perfect such skills now, or perhaps they already have had. But it is a fact of their new existence, one of the few Dulcinea knows with any certainty: she is always dying, she will never be dead, and Abigail will never lack Dulcinea's blood.
Sometimes she collects it in her never-ending supply of glass vials, lined up on the walls that are not walls waiting for the day they're needed for a ghost. Sometimes she wipes it from Dulcinea's skin with calloused fingertips, pulling soft noises of pleasure from Dulcinea's throat while her own vibrates with the mild surprise of having encountered something so close to life. Sometimes Dulcinea simply bleeds, and wonders if one day she will have bled enough to fill the Bubble.
Would they drown inside the Bubble before the edges fell apart? If the walls that were not walls shattered, would their eternal not-death shatter as well? Perhaps the force would be enough to push them across the corpse-choked River, and Abigail would finally get some of the answers she was so desperate for.
Dulcinea is thinking about saying something about the leaking ceiling when Abigail says, with something the opposite of alarm but nowhere near peace, "Ah. Wrong diagram to bleed on, Dulcie." Suddenly the theorem scrawled across the desk between them is speckled with copper rather than the grey of the River, imperfect scattered blots fallen in a pattern all their own.
"Sorry," she says. Stands with difficulty and turns her back to the parchments, tips her head back and feels the metallic tang of her own component liquids collecting at the back of her throat. Outside of her own thoughts she can feel the slick thread of blood still working its way over the divot of her top lip, trailing over her mouth to drip plink, plink, plink onto the floor.
Gravity holds only imperfectly in the River; hunger the only rule more often than not. And it's hunger she sees in Abigail's gaze, through the thin slit of her own half-lidded eyes. She's blurred at the edges with the pale fuzz of Dulcinea's eyelashes in the way, but she moves with deliberation, one step after another until she can cradle the back of Dulcinea's head in one hand.
Dulcinea opens her eyes fully as her head follows the gentle pressure of Abigail's grip, just in time to watch a string of blood fall from her nose into Abigail's waiting hand. To watch, still, as Abigail brings her palm to her mouth and lick it clean. She moans despite herself, and Abigail smiles, wide and slow.
"My thoughts exactly," she murmurs, and then her lips are on Dulcinea's, tongue pressing briefly between them before she drags it back to clean Dulcinea's skin, every stroke answered by a ghostly throbbing echo somewhere deep inside her core.
This is what it means to have a body in the River, Dulcinea thinks, sinking gratefully onto the thigh Abigail slides between her legs, a body that bleeds and breaks and exists, suspended and wanted, in a state of simple being that she will never define. This is what it means, to have died under the watch of a God who really should have known better.
Abigail kisses her, and their mouths fill with blood. Their mouths are always full of blood.
Dulcinea wouldn't have it any other way.
