we_bring_hell | (no subject)

You would need an advanced degree in Nonagesamics to realize that Harrowhark is ecstatically happy this morning, but even the layman can tell that her usual spikes are retracted somewhat. Not the spikes on her boots--Gideon liked these boots, and she has no intention of wearing anything else for a while. But the metaphorical spikes.

Aside from her boots she is back in her standard habit--black trousers, black long-sleeve shirt with the high collar. No gloves. Her hair is freshly cropped back to her scalp. Her face is painted with exceptional care, in what Harrow considers the sexiest pattern, because Harrowhark has opinions about things like that. This one is called The Chain and has considerable, immodest flourishes. She has edged the perimeter of the painted skull with midnight purples and deep blood reds, an even greater departure from propriety.

She is writing in her journal, and since she writes in code there is no way anyone can tell she has doodled One Flesh One End approximately one hundred times. She has been eating oatmeal, and by God she even ate the raisins.

Things are good. For now, for once, things are good.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That smile of hers is absolutely heartbreaking; Gideon would swallow her own tongue before she said anything that would wreck that beautiful curve. She huffs a relieved breath, dimly aware of having barely avoided running face-first into this thing that is suddenly lurking in the room with them, just as big and just as terrifying as the thing in the bowels of Canaan House.

But it doesn't matter. It's just noise.

"I know that look. Stop lusting over my bones, you freak, I'm not dead yet."

Caught red-handed, so to speak, Harrow lifts her hand and sniffs haughtily. "Don't forget to paint your face, Griddle. Properly. The black isn't meant to go directly onto your skin."

She reaches up and taps the hollow of Gideon's cheek.

"Primer, all white, then fill in the black. I'll know if you take shortcuts."

She stalks out of the room.