MAD, BAD, AND DANGEROUS TO KNOW

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Zero's explanation makes her blush, genuinely, which makes her whole bashful thing a little easier to sell when Archie looks at her like 'is he forreal?'. She nods, a little quiet, a little shy -- something she can pass off her anxiety for with ease. She's been doing it her whole life.

"Guilty. Sorry," She laughs a little. He seems to buy it. Tilting his head to one side. Well, damn, he thinks, looks her over, and then thinks of about seven different ways he wants to fuck her. Which is hilarious, because he also knows he's not going to last much longer than twenty minutes, and that's only if she's good as he's imagining. In all this time thinking, he doesn't say much, just takes a deep drink from his glass. "It's so cute that he's protective of me. I've been wanting to fuck somebody in front of him for months."

Trying really hard not to cringe at herself as she says this. It is true, but she knows they aren't going to get that far with this man.

Zero’s focus shifts quickly to Willow, intrigued by this. He searches her face, dark eyes glimmering, the ghost of a smile on his face. He hadn’t known that. If he had, something would’ve been done much sooner.

He thinks briefly of Hawk. It’s hard not to, with his placeholder here. But then, suddenly and with a strange urgency, he elects not to think about him anymore. Some things are better left pondered alone. Besides, none of this is really about that—it’s about getting Willow fed. 

          “You seem down,”          he laughs, looking back at Archie. He’s a little relieved; the contrivance about getting him here was a little risky. Criminals tend to get tense when they realize they’ve been lied to. Luckily, the strange sexual hypnotism that Willow wields over bad people seems to be working its magic. 

Duane Michals, from "Narcissus", 1985

SO WHAT? The fighting kind of turned her on a little bit. WHat are you gonna do?

They kiss. An orchestra swells. Or maybe she's just fucking crazy. When they pull apart: "Was I normal from the second that you met me?" she teases, taking on his light tone.

          “Normal, no. But I didn’t realize you were insane. You've always acted like you're so much smarter than me.”

But, he supposes, she’s like him in some ways: Never had a chance. He pets her hair, a little disoriented but certainly not displeased by this sudden change in demeanor. As long as he isn’t being held in contempt anymore, he’s happy. 

　　TEM CAN'T TAKE THE TIME TO WONDER WHY Z IS BLASTING COLD AIR ON HER. It is helping, even if she can't tell; she's pulling all the heat out before she can feel it, but it's thawing some of the frost, and slowing more from forming. The upsetting side-effect of this is that she's starting to feel clammy, which is also extremely unpleasant (but a lot less dangerous).

　　She also can't fight him when he takes the phone from her, and if she tries arguing, it gets lost in the chattering of her teeth. The sound of the phone ringing is all the distraction she needs, and her hands come together subconsciously to wring together and try to warm her up in any minute way possible.

　　The voice that picks up isn't familiar.

　　　"Helloooooo~?" The cheery woman on the other side says. "Who's there? Shingen can't come to the phone right now, he's a very busy man!"

　　Of course that ancient bastard doesn't have her number saved.

　　"Is there anyone there? Oh, this isn't one of those prank calls, is it?" Tem can imagine her free hand cupping her cheek like some slighted maiden.

　　"E-e-em-m-m...Em-mi...lia..." Going poorly, as to be expected.

　　"Huh? This is spooky! If you don't have something to say, then I'm going to hang up! I'm a busy woman myself, you know!"

A bit of anxiety as he realizes this is a conversation in a language he only has a very, very rudimentary grasp on. His hands flex on the wheel as he listens, trying to pick out words he can understand. Hello, obviously, and phone, and he thinks he heard busy in there somewhere… 

Tem stutters out what sounds like a name. Emilia. A secretary, maybe, or another doctor at the office—?

Zero jumps in, trying to sound friendly despite urgency, hoping that he’s understood:          “Hi there! Um, I’m sorry. My name is Zero, I’m with Tem Green, she’s my accountant. I think she’s a patient of Doctor Kishitani’s? She’s been—she’s been drugged, she’s really cold—um. It’s an emergency. Kinkyū. Tasukete kudasai.”

He glances over at Tem, making sure she’s staying conscious.

JUNIPER IS SO DISTRACTED BY THE SENSORY OVERLOADING EXPERIENCE THAT IS YOUR AVERAGE ICE CREAM PARLOR THAT SHE DOESN'T NOTICE WHAT ANOTHER, SLIGHTLY INSECURE WOMAN MIGHT PERCIEVE AS ZERO FLIRTING WITH THE SHOP GIRL. She's too busy furrowing her brow, pursing her lip, debating between strawberry and something else, something with pretzels in it or whatever.

What's the limit? Zero asks, and Juniper giggles. She looks up at him, then back to the poor hourly employee forced to watch Zero work his charms on one of the most gullible girls on the city.

"Four is crazy! I'll do..a scoop of strawberry and a scoop of chocolate, please. And then we can walk around, Zero?"

Zero smiles, looking at Juniper.          “There’s nothing I’d love to do more.”

He pays for the scoops, leaves a nice tip for the long-suffering employee. It was nice of her to yes-and him the way she did. Handing Juniper her paper bowl, he guides her outside, palm hovering delicately just above her lower back. He takes a rich bite of gelato.

          “I think the boardwalk is down that way,”          he says, gesturing grandly with his spoon.          “Unless you’d rather walk around here first, do some window shopping. Up to you.” 

Despite the fluctuating frantic anxiety within Willow, she is soothed by the menagerie's greeting as well as the promise of crème de violette. These are familiar things, these are things that make her feel like herself. Not picking up some guy, taking him home. Not planning a murder. She kneels down by the dogs, giving each of them some love, smiling at Archie as he also greets them.

"I'll have just a straight vodka, thanks." He says, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "Y'all mind if I...?"

"Yes, actually, sorry. Heinous migraines...--"

"Oh, for sure, for sure...-- Not really much of a party going on, is there? We just early?"

Archie asks as Zero comes back with their drinks. Willow has closed the door behind Archie, and is looking at Zero with a slight panic in her eyes.

          “Well, we did say it was a private party.”          Zero hands everyone their respective drinks and winks at their guest, ignoring Willow’s mounting anxiety.          “I’ll confess. Willow just wanted an excuse to get you alone. You’re her type. She could just eat you up.”

He makes eye contact with her, beckons her closer. She’s lingering on the edges too much, wallowing in her discomfort. Overthinking it. No more thinking, he tries to tell her. We’re feeling now. We’re letting ourselves want things.

          “Sorry to get you here under false pretenses. I just had to take precautions, you understand. I care about her, and drug dealers can be…”          A little wave of the hand.          “Not to stereotype you. I’m sure you’re a nice guy. But you never know.” 

FUCK YOU, ZERO, IT'S CREEPY IN YOUR NEAR-EMPTY HOME; SHE'S TRYING TO BE CRYPTIC AND MYSTERIOUS. Spirit hears all of Zero's victims almost as loudly as she hears the people who died because of her decision making as a small child escaping the lab. It threatens to overwhelm. Her hostility has never been unwarranted.

Her want to want and her want to hurt have overcome almost entirely.

"That was rude," she says, because it kind of was. She's on such a cocktail of literal cocktails, Zero's punch, and narcotics that she can't really tell what effects are from his drugs.

"Do you want me to stay, or are you just lonely?"

Like it ultimately matters to her either way.

          “You know I’ve always been fond of you.”          He avoids answering the question directly, not trusting her to take the truth in good faith—which is, of course, both. He’s lonely and he wants her with him.

There’s something comforting about her presence. There always has been. Her ferocity is soothing, her refusal to let him get away with anything unless she lets him. Even at her most combative, when all he wants to do is tear her fucking throat out, he knows he wouldn’t have it any other way. She wouldn’t be Spirit. 

It also makes any amiability or kindness from her all the more precious. What she does let him get away with stands out. Their history in particular is strange and fascinating to him in the context of the present. He always turns it over and over in his head. She knew him in his other life, knows he reconstructed himself from scratch, but she never calls him on it. Never even brings it up. That sort of mercy is profound. Notable.

There’s nobody else he’d rather spend the night with.

          “Come sit.”          He beckons from the couch. 

she glows from within , her free hand swiping away her happy tears , shrugging her shoulders . she feels so much lighter , the weight of their situation for the time being , slipped away . of course , she'll feel sad again . but for the first time today she feels as if her life isn't completely over . ❛ i could be like pamela anderson . ❜ she laughs at her own comparison , her aesthetic clearly very different from the sex symbol's , but it makes her feel better to compare , not feel so alone . ❛ you're my tommy .. except sexier . ❜

He laughs. That’s one way of looking at it. Certainly better than the majority of alternatives. He likes its romanticism, the glamor. 

          “Definitely hotter than Tommy,”          he says, sparing himself a glance in the mirror. He looks back at Riley, smiles, leans in to this new angle:        “That means you're pop culture now.” 

Maybe, once they dig themselves out of the initial scandal of it, it’ll mutate into iconography. 

Beastly Boyz (2006) // dir. David DeCoteau

She wants his soul in her teeth. His air to be her air, she wants to be cut open and held down and watch him pour himself into her. There will always be a part of her that wishes that that's how she became but she knows that proof of his love is in the accident. He truly loves her. He would never turn her into this on purpose... What a horrible twist of irony. She thinks if he'd held her down and forced her to drink from him it would be the most romantic way to prove he never really loved her.

He prays to her and she opens herself to him, even inside her he isn't inside enough. Her eyes are wide and wanton and she can look nowhere else but his own. He knows how her body works, the way that they move together is like water, like the tides. Like flame licking the air. Willow sucks on his fingers, bites, present only in body. Her mind is somewhere with his, dazed and dizzy.

"I love you, I'm yours, tell me about God-"

Tell me about God. There is so much to say and so little of it coherent. He watches her lips on his fingers, presses his cheek against her skin. It feels like he’s lying on a bed of satin.

          “I don’t think you need to be told,”          he murmurs.          “He’s all over you.”

Distantly, he remembers a good high. You’re God on his lips, his blood in a bowl. The details are fragmented but vivid. She’d been looking down at him as he laid in her lap, her hair catching the light like a dark halo. You’re God, and she hadn’t denied it. It felt the same then as it does now—or similar, at least. It all seems so much stronger lately. It must be the love.

          “I can’t believe you’re real. Are you real?”

Dream girl. Is he dreaming? Is all of this one long dream?

"I'm hoping to annoy you so much that you never want to kidnap me again," Is it really kidnapping if he asked to be brought here, nursed to health, and had to pay the price of blood for it? He expects to avoid all consequences for everything all the time. "--Which reminds me actually, what reason would the War Dog have to kidnap my cousin? He kept making comments about her being obedient and shit. Said he owed her for derailing her life for a while. Was that your order?"

He picks up a piece of meat with his fork and chews, swallows, reaches for a glass of water.

It’s very satisfying watching him eat. His steak had been particularly insufferable too. Another bit of poetic justice.

          “You’re overestimating how much he listens to me, I think,”          Zero laughs.          “I don’t give him orders. Wish I could! Anyway, he held her captive for a while when she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see—some debt collection gone awry or something… He’s still pretty torn up about it since he apparently still has these intrusive fantasies about—well.” 

He stops, smiles. Hugo doesn't want to hear all that.

Today's the day. The date set for the bogus interview she's supposed to do has come by quickly, Camille is anxiously pacing around behind her as Emma answers the door to @ohfiendangelical, smiling. She's made herself up, a halo of delicate gold chain is draped over her head, an irridescent shimmer glows at her eyes and her cheekbones -- she'd never be caught looking anything other than heavenly in a situation like this, but she's definitely put a little extra effort in as armor against whatever is to come.

"Hi, gorgeous. You look so handsome, come in! We're almost ready to go, Camille is just doing some last-minute checks on the building and then we'll head in together." It's strange, seeing Camille concerned. She's never phased by anything.

He tries not to soak up Camille’s anxiety, already a little off-kilter by not knowing what to expect. Instead, he focuses on Emma, who seems far less uneasy and should be the center of attention anyway. She’s beautiful, magnetic, radiant; he is once again utterly mortified that he’s never been able to sleep with her, and at the same time honored that she spends any time with him at all. He wraps his arms around her in a tight hug—although he’s careful not to interfere with her outfit—and presses a kiss to each cheek.

           “You look amazing,”          he tells her, though he’s sure she already knows.          “Do we have a plan in place? Or are we just winging it?”

Willow hears him loud and clear, which is equally jarring as it is comforting. She hadn't been listening out for him, but she supposes she never is actively listening when she hears these things. The thoughts are meant for her. They filter into her brain one by one, gently easing her conscience and twisting the knife deeper into her heart.

Hawk does too. You're looking out for yourself... Willow tries to shake off the chills and huddles closer to their victim. Finally looking at him as though that's all he is, it might be easier. The world will lose nothing.

She sits in the backseat with the man, tracing her finger over the ink on his arms, too shy to giggle, to lean in too close -- though he does wrap an arm around her. He smells like chewing gum and stale cigarettes. "They aren't very interesting stories behind 'em. This one's just 'cause I was high and wanted Betty Boop on my arm..."

"This one's my cat, his name's Spook.."

"Oh, sick. This one's of my dog--"

Zero plays chauffeur without much intervention, half-listening to the two of them as they talk. Takes note of the mention of a dog. He’ll have to make sure somebody looks into that, takes care of the poor thing so it doesn’t starve…

He weaves through traffic, away from downtown and toward the canyons. Occasionally he glances in the rearview mirror at his passengers—mostly just to check on Willow, though he passes it off as flirtation. She’s doing well, despite her nerves. He thinks she’ll be able to follow through. 

They come to his gate; he keys in the code and begins the long ascent up his private road. The peacocks greet them once they finally reach the top of the hill, peering inquisitively at the new arrival. Zero earns a few startled squawks as the throws open the door.

          “Crème de violette for my Willow—and what do you drink, Archie? I guarantee I have it.”          He twirls his keys around his index finger as he makes his way inside, glancing over his shoulder at them.

she's been doing work , seeing a therapist and trying to really take a shot of some kind of recovery despite the trauma she endured with medical professionals for so many years , locked away and misunderstood . there's no easy fix or magic cure . she believes she will always struggle to some extent , always on the edge of disappearance . but there has been a bit of progress , enough that she can see a happier version of herself , and that gives her hope . ❛ you've taught me that . ❜ growing a bit teary , she reaches out to touch him , tiny fingers wrapping around his much larger ones . ❛ i love you so much . ❜

Zero squeezes her hand, smiling gently at her. She seems to be doing better than she was only a little bit ago, cradled by the warm bath. He’s relieved, despite her tears. He can taste them in the air; it isn’t misery this time.

          “I love you, too,”          he says.          “Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.” 

The world outside is still very much against them, but that will change in due time. He’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, she’s safe here. They’re both safe here.

"We were just fucking around! Zero—"

She whines and writhes, clawing at him.

"It hurts when you do it. Just kiss me, kiss me—" She begs.

He watches her for a moment with puzzled fascination. Weren’t they just fighting? A slow smile begins to spread, starting with a glimmer behind the eyes. 

          “When did you lose your mind?”          he asks, airy, amused—but doesn’t wait for an answer. She gets her kiss. 

I can't get over the fashion of this image