( disassociating, staring at this message for a minute. you ever remember all the slutty, debauched, biologically questionable things you got up to while high on drugged candies, and feel the sudden urge to kneel on the floor and beg god for forgiveness?
okay. time to lock in. )
hi, embry.
i did, yeah. ani seems like she isn't your biggest fan.
She's not. But she has good reason not to be. This place will take you out of yourself. Drugs, drinks, or just breathing the air, and you'll find yourself doing things that aren't you. It's usually just sexual, or you end up spilling secrets you never meant to come out. Not that that's good. But there was a month back in June where we all became different people. Lived different lives. Ash was suddenly my brother, my actual biological brother. I was still in politics but I was never vice president.
[ pause. dots appearing and disappearing, wondering how much to say. ]
I was in love with Ash still. You can see how that posed problems. I was different. Worse than I am now. Way fucking worse. I'd killed people, to cover up what Ash and I were doing. We'd throw these sex parties and make everyone sign NDAs so everything was airtight. It was like Lyonesse, but without any of the safeguards. Ani was in our lives. She was Ash's mistress, but we both... were with her. It wasn't a good idea in any sense of the word. Not for me. Things spiraled from there. Ash would play hot and cold with me, I would get fucked up. I fought with Ani constantly. I was obsessed with her. I hated her. I cared for her, too. But I loved Ash, and there was no getting around that for me. There was no happy ending ever coming my way, and so when Ani told us she was leaving because she'd found hers, I snapped. I broke into her room and I attacked her. I don't know if I would've killed her. I don't know. But I do know that I hurt her. Maybe it wasn't really us and it wasn't really our lives, but the damage was real. Dead fucking real.
Anyway. I've been trying to make it up to her ever since, but I don't think there's any coming back from it. Not anymore. I don't know how much of it was really me, and I don't blame her for not wanting to find out. That's the story. I thought you should know. There's not many people that knew of me back home, but since you did, I felt like I owed you the truth of what I really am.
( isolde has a clementine heart, and feels it peeled apart with the revelation — the taking of one thing out of context too personally, about a story that has nothing to do with her. i'd killed people. her hands are so red with bishop and cardinal and priest and parishioner blood you can't see the flesh underneath anymore. embry's self-denoument is the same thing isolde feels every waking hour of every waking day, crippled by the weight of guilt and only interrupted by exhausting herself with physical activity, running until her lungs burn, kickboxing until her muscles are jelly, kneeling on the stone floor of the chapel and begging, begging, begging god for a kind of forgiveness that feels impossible to wrap her hands around. you kill, and you kill for your god. you kill, and you kill for ash. to her, it makes perfect sense — and it makes perfect sense why embry hasn't forgiven himself. isolde hasn't, either.
what to say, though? god doesn't owe him forgiveness, and neither does ani. you don't get more opportunities to the kingdom of heaven just because you're on your knees longer. isolde doesn't pray so she can be welcomed by loving hands, she prays so she can live with herself, day after terrible day, basked in the knowledge of who and what she is. just like embry moore: a monster. )
i see.
( she also sees: he told her before ani could, and that feels like more of the point than just them knowing each other. president of the united states, standing in front of a crowd, i did have sexual relations with that man, yes, and i loved him. )
the best you can do is try to be better. whether or not you feel you deserve forgiveness, you aren't going to be different if you don't work at it. i don't think my advice is why you told me that, though. i don't think the reason you gave is it, either.
( who are they to each other, really? two people who like pain and fucked up stuff, who feel cleansed when they're struck and forced and held by the neck and beaten, total victory, conquered land.
no. isolde doesn't think he wants ani's forgiveness at all. )
[ i see. two words, and shame crawls up his throat. what answer did he expect, after a story like this? why did he even tell her? because she’s seen him on tv? seen him at lyonesse? because he’s seen her in a cage, flushed and wet and wanting? there is no good side to the story. no part of it that makes it okay, no world in which he deserves forgiveness for what he’s done. maybe there was a moment in which he slipped, got too comfortable, like the shroud between himself and happiness was thinning, but confessing to mark trevena’s bride put everything back to rights. you’re selfish and you hurt people and no one should love you, not now, not ever.
he releases a breath when more words appear on the screen. ]
That’s a big assumption after I bared my soul to you. I told you because you’re Mark Trevena’s bride.
[ silence, before his next message pops up. ]
I told you because pain kept getting you off. You came so many times and so fucking hard because I hurt you. You were drenched. You couldn’t get enough. So you know what it’s like. To need that. And not always from someone that loves you.
[ read: it’s you he’s talking to. not anyone else. ]
( why is her greatest moment of shame, the cracking of her eggshell chest and letting mark not only see her but have her, just to hurt and leave her, still the center, raw aching pain of so much of her fantasies? she tells herself it's sexual, that logically it makes sense to have some kind of barbed wire obsession with the man who taught you how to fuck, like shoving your fingers on cactus spines just to make sure they still bite. it is not, she tells herself, because she loves him. because loving someone after they humiliate and break and abandon you is — well. on second thought, maybe it's exactly what isolde deserves. she is one of god's holiest soldiers, and was meant to be tested. she was meant to suffer.
is it a boon or a curse that she enjoys it? gets off on it, like embry said? thinking about how mark left her, innocence stripped away, cold words in his mouth — it makes her chest feel empty, her cunt feel wet. it makes her feel like exactly what she is: a vessel. a tool. left in the shed when it no longer serves a purpose. )
mark doesn't love me. i shouldn't tell you that, but there it is. the whole marriage is a contract. when he hurts me, it's duty and image that move his hand. i know he'd never hurt me to excess, but i also know he'll never care for me beyond what he'd expect from any dom in his position.
that's why i take it into my own hands, sometimes. do you need me to take you into mine, too?
( she doesn't actually have any clue what she's doing — jittery, a little uncomfortable with the offering. embry was good to her once, in the same way mark was, always with a degree of disconnect that made the suffering that much brighter, more brilliant, under stars. isolde wishes she took more notes on how mark acted on those training nights in manhattan, to know how to do it better. )
[ for a moment, the serrated edge of his own guilt fades. not gone, just out of focus enough that he can think again. mark doesn't love me. he wants to say of course he doesn't, he's mark fucking trevena. mark doesn't love anything but hoarding the secrets of the rich and famous like a dragon sleeping on gold. that, and fucking like dionysus himself in front of his sea of adoring sexual deviants. embry has no shame about the kind of sex he likes to have, but he also doesn't feel the need to perform these acts on a stage.
if isolde is betrothed to him with a neatly inked contract, what is she giving up that mark wants? surely it's not just her family's banking empire. not when mark is sitting on the kind of blackmail that can destabilize governments themselves. ]
If it's any consolation, Isolde, it's not you, it's him. Do you love him?
[ it feels outrageously off color to ask. but she knows him as president moore, which means she saw ash die, she saw his reaction in tandem to greer's, and she saw his acceptance speech. in a way, she's seen more of him than most of the people here.
case in point: the speed at which she arrives to her conclusion. the guilt is back, though now he's fucking humiliated, too. a heady combination. ]
I'm good for it. [ yes. please. ] I don't think there's a lot of people that understand. But you do. Your terms. However you want it to go.
( he embarrassed her, the unfun kind of humiliation. he degraded her and didn't pick up the pieces afterwards, just left her shattered on her father's desk, in her childhood bed. he took something from her that she hoarded as a valuable resource, a physical description of her commitment to god, virgin, and then abandoned her, and told her it was her fault. you don't love a man like that. and yet — it's been years and isolde still knows she'd crawl to him. she'd act like it was an act. she'd pretend, and the pretending would be that she doesn't want to do the things she would do, if he asked.
of course she loves him. of course he'll never return it. some people are born to be pawns — at least isolde is one with a knife. )
okay.
( here's the part where you say, i haven't actually done this before. i'm not a dom. i'm not mark, i'm not maxen — i'm isolde, knives and ice and shadows, and i only know how to suffer.
on the other hand, if the president says he wants a rough hand, what's a knife in his pocket to deny him? )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
okay. time to lock in. )
hi, embry.
i did, yeah. ani seems like she isn't your biggest fan.
cw incest, assault
This place will take you out of yourself. Drugs, drinks, or just breathing the air, and you'll find yourself doing things that aren't you. It's usually just sexual, or you end up spilling secrets you never meant to come out.
Not that that's good. But there was a month back in June where we all became different people. Lived different lives. Ash was suddenly my brother, my actual biological brother. I was still in politics but I was never vice president.
[ pause. dots appearing and disappearing, wondering how much to say. ]
I was in love with Ash still. You can see how that posed problems.
I was different. Worse than I am now. Way fucking worse. I'd killed people, to cover up what Ash and I were doing. We'd throw these sex parties and make everyone sign NDAs so everything was airtight. It was like Lyonesse, but without any of the safeguards.
Ani was in our lives. She was Ash's mistress, but we both... were with her. It wasn't a good idea in any sense of the word. Not for me.
Things spiraled from there. Ash would play hot and cold with me, I would get fucked up. I fought with Ani constantly. I was obsessed with her. I hated her. I cared for her, too. But I loved Ash, and there was no getting around that for me. There was no happy ending ever coming my way, and so when Ani told us she was leaving because she'd found hers, I snapped.
I broke into her room and I attacked her. I don't know if I would've killed her. I don't know. But I do know that I hurt her. Maybe it wasn't really us and it wasn't really our lives, but the damage was real. Dead fucking real.
Anyway. I've been trying to make it up to her ever since, but I don't think there's any coming back from it. Not anymore.
I don't know how much of it was really me, and I don't blame her for not wanting to find out.
That's the story. I thought you should know. There's not many people that knew of me back home, but since you did, I felt like I owed you the truth of what I really am.
no subject
what to say, though? god doesn't owe him forgiveness, and neither does ani. you don't get more opportunities to the kingdom of heaven just because you're on your knees longer. isolde doesn't pray so she can be welcomed by loving hands, she prays so she can live with herself, day after terrible day, basked in the knowledge of who and what she is. just like embry moore: a monster. )
i see.
( she also sees: he told her before ani could, and that feels like more of the point than just them knowing each other. president of the united states, standing in front of a crowd, i did have sexual relations with that man, yes, and i loved him. )
the best you can do is try to be better. whether or not you feel you deserve forgiveness, you aren't going to be different if you don't work at it.
i don't think my advice is why you told me that, though. i don't think the reason you gave is it, either.
( who are they to each other, really? two people who like pain and fucked up stuff, who feel cleansed when they're struck and forced and held by the neck and beaten, total victory, conquered land.
no. isolde doesn't think he wants ani's forgiveness at all. )
no subject
he releases a breath when more words appear on the screen. ]
That’s a big assumption after I bared my soul to you.
I told you because you’re Mark Trevena’s bride.
[ silence, before his next message pops up. ]
I told you because pain kept getting you off. You came so many times and so fucking hard because I hurt you. You were drenched. You couldn’t get enough.
So you know what it’s like. To need that. And not always from someone that loves you.
[ read: it’s you he’s talking to. not anyone else. ]
no subject
( why is her greatest moment of shame, the cracking of her eggshell chest and letting mark not only see her but have her, just to hurt and leave her, still the center, raw aching pain of so much of her fantasies? she tells herself it's sexual, that logically it makes sense to have some kind of barbed wire obsession with the man who taught you how to fuck, like shoving your fingers on cactus spines just to make sure they still bite. it is not, she tells herself, because she loves him. because loving someone after they humiliate and break and abandon you is — well. on second thought, maybe it's exactly what isolde deserves. she is one of god's holiest soldiers, and was meant to be tested. she was meant to suffer.
is it a boon or a curse that she enjoys it? gets off on it, like embry said? thinking about how mark left her, innocence stripped away, cold words in his mouth — it makes her chest feel empty, her cunt feel wet. it makes her feel like exactly what she is: a vessel. a tool. left in the shed when it no longer serves a purpose. )
mark doesn't love me. i shouldn't tell you that, but there it is. the whole marriage is a contract.
when he hurts me, it's duty and image that move his hand. i know he'd never hurt me to excess, but i also know he'll never care for me beyond what he'd expect from any dom in his position.
that's why i take it into my own hands, sometimes.
do you need me to take you into mine, too?
( she doesn't actually have any clue what she's doing — jittery, a little uncomfortable with the offering. embry was good to her once, in the same way mark was, always with a degree of disconnect that made the suffering that much brighter, more brilliant, under stars. isolde wishes she took more notes on how mark acted on those training nights in manhattan, to know how to do it better. )
no subject
if isolde is betrothed to him with a neatly inked contract, what is she giving up that mark wants? surely it's not just her family's banking empire. not when mark is sitting on the kind of blackmail that can destabilize governments themselves. ]
If it's any consolation, Isolde, it's not you, it's him.
Do you love him?
[ it feels outrageously off color to ask. but she knows him as president moore, which means she saw ash die, she saw his reaction in tandem to greer's, and she saw his acceptance speech. in a way, she's seen more of him than most of the people here.
case in point: the speed at which she arrives to her conclusion. the guilt is back, though now he's fucking humiliated, too. a heady combination. ]
I'm good for it. [ yes. please. ] I don't think there's a lot of people that understand. But you do.
Your terms. However you want it to go.
no subject
i shouldn't.
( he embarrassed her, the unfun kind of humiliation. he degraded her and didn't pick up the pieces afterwards, just left her shattered on her father's desk, in her childhood bed. he took something from her that she hoarded as a valuable resource, a physical description of her commitment to god, virgin, and then abandoned her, and told her it was her fault. you don't love a man like that. and yet — it's been years and isolde still knows she'd crawl to him. she'd act like it was an act. she'd pretend, and the pretending would be that she doesn't want to do the things she would do, if he asked.
of course she loves him. of course he'll never return it. some people are born to be pawns — at least isolde is one with a knife. )
okay.
( here's the part where you say, i haven't actually done this before. i'm not a dom. i'm not mark, i'm not maxen — i'm isolde, knives and ice and shadows, and i only know how to suffer.
on the other hand, if the president says he wants a rough hand, what's a knife in his pocket to deny him? )
hard limits?