golden_lyre | The Drowning Fiddler

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eurydice

The Drowning Fiddler

The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.

(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)

It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.

There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.

He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.

A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.

Something to dance to.

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The crowd is beginning to break up, put in their last orders, getting ready to go, and Orpheus feels the energy of the room leaking out into the London streets. He finishes the song, but it's as though he gives up. The ending works, but somehow feels hasty, unfinished. The atmosphere of the room is somehow dissatisfied, as though brought just to the edge of climax and dropped suddenly into cold water, a shocking break.

Orpheus slings his guitar over his shoulder and pushes through the crowd. He hardly knows why, but he knows he has to find her, get to that girl, that dancer. It can't be her, but he has to know. The crowd is thick and dazed with the music, and Orpheus has lost track of her, so he heads for the exit instead, hoping to catch a glimpse of her on the way out, put his curiosity to rest.

(Curiosity and hope, deep buried and slow-kindling.)

Twisting the cap off the bottle, Ree takes several large swallows of water, using the motion to cover her internal checking of her body, because it's thrumming in a way she hasn't felt in a long, long, time. The musician, this man with a name so difficult to live up to, has managed to do just that, and she'd danced - she'd danced, and everything feels weird now.

She's tired. She's lonely. She misses him.

She smiles at Jemma all the same.

"Either his parents were hopeful and pushy, or he's rightfully arrogant enough to adopt the name, but yes. He's good." She has another mouthful of water and offers the bottle back to her friend. "He's more than good."

So much more. It's too hot in here.

"But it's late. I have to go, I haven't fed Seph yet. I'll see you tomorrow?"

And she doesn't pause for any possible but-waits, but swiftly slips through the slowly thinning crowd for the stairs to take her back up to street level.

Someone cuts unexpectedly in front of her, and she has to step back to avoid crashing into them - which unfortunately sends her bumping firmly into someone else, and she hisses in pain as her elbow cracks into something wooden, which echoes on impact.

Someone bumps into his guitar and Orpheus can feel it, that energy. It's not as frenzied. It throbs, aching, and he can feel that deeper than his bones.

He hesitates. Whatever this is, whoever this is, he wants to meet them, find out what they are, but if it isn't her--and it won't be her--if it isn't her...

Orpheus has learned a lot in his time on this earth, and one of the lessons that has stuck with him is that inaction can lead to a maddening regret. If he doesn't turn, he will hate himself for it. (The irony of this is not lost on him. It is painfully, painfully clear.)

It won't be her. It won't be her. It won't be her, he tells himself in the heartbeat it takes him to turn around.

He reaches for her arm, and when he finally sees her...

It's as though all of the oxygen is sucked out of the street, leaving a vacuum that makes Orpheus' pulse throb in his eardrums. The breath goes out of him for a terrifying moment, and then he sucks it back in with a gasp and breathes out a choked, "Eurydice."

It's just as hot on the street as it was in the basement, even with the dispersing crowds, and Eurydice is feeling somewhat oversensitised already by the time she whacks her funnybone (which is a ridiculous term, there's nothing funny about it at all), and given that her entire being is practically vibrating from the full-body memories the musician had managed to draw forth, the last thing - the last thing - she wants is for someone to touch her deliberately when she can't have the touch she wants.

So the hand on her arm is a literal shock.

There's just enough room between a milling crowd of dispersing patrons for her to twist away, curls flying and a glare ready to be levelled at the person invading her space when she hears her name.

Not the mangled, Anglicised version she had to shorten to save her ears and the constant corrections she long ago gave up.

Her name. Eurydice. Hellenic and strong and she knows who said it and so the glare never manifests, because instead she stares wide-eyed at Orpheus, who was playing in some pub in London while she danced.

The sounds of the street disappear, and all she can hear is the ocean in her head. She sways once, then takes a single step forward and reaches out her hand. She has to know if he's really real, if it's her imagination from the music, if he's really standing backlit by a streetlamp and the shapes of people passing in the night, if whiskey and cigarettes and the music that felt it was for her alone - oh, hindsight! - is really him--

--she barely brushes his t-shirt with her fingertips before she sobs aloud as the truth hits home, and flings herself straight at him.

He can't move, frozen in place by the fear that he will reach for her and she'll disappear, dissipating into the night like every other vision of her that has come to torment him over the centuries.

But she moves toward him, and he feels her hand on his chest, solid and real. When she flings herself at him, he loses his breath again, but it's not enough to stop him wrapping his arms around her like she still might slip from his grasp. He lifts her from her feet, utterly oblivious to the crowd still spilling out around them.

When he manages another breath, it comes as a sob, and he says her name again, marveling at the feel of it in his mouth after all this time as much as he does at the feel of her in his arms, the beat of her heart pounding against his chest.

"Eurydice," he rasps. "Oh, gods.... Oh, my love...."

And then he can't say anymore because he's kissing her with a hunger he'd forgotten how to feel.

Eurydice died more than three millennia ago. She has been held in that time, by friends she'd made among the shades, by a goddess who saw something more in her than a mere nymph, by the family who were made to think they'd always had a daughter... by friends, by dance partners.

No touch compares to the warmth and strength of his arms pulling her close and lifting her from her feet as though he can't bear to let her go.

If he's having trouble breathing, so is she. The shock of the sudden change in her reality sucks all the air from her lungs, a sharp pain in her chest manifesting as a sound she doesn't even have a word for - some sort of sobbing, gasping, low, and ugly cry of agonised joy as her fingers venture into his hair, her arms across the tops of his shoulders.

How he manages her name again without breathing first is some sort of miracle.

"Orpheus..."

But anything more is lost in the heat of his mouth on hers as he kisses her with a searing passion she'd thought was lost to her forever. Her feet are dangling by his knees, and one tucks itself behind his thigh as she meets his lips, love and loss and sorrow and joy and lust and disbelief and euphoria all poured into a kiss she thinks might set her alight. Someone wolf-whistles good-naturedly as they pass.

She doesn't care.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and that blocks her nose, which is the only reason she pulls her mouth from his - enough to take in air.

"Where have you been?"

Her English is abandoned for the tongue they spoke when she last was alive, foreign to every modern ear and murmured against his lips.

Orpheus cannot stop kissing her, even when she breaks the kiss, his lips pressing again and again over her face and along her jaw. He can't let her go, either, not even enough to let her feet touch the ground; that is too far away. He may never let her go again.

He laughs, breathless and joyful, and answers in a language he hasn't had cause to speak in millennia. "Waiting for you, my love. Always waiting for you."

He'll stop kissing her sometime, but not anytime soon. He finds her lips with his again, humming against them, a tune of desperate desire. In their youth, he would have taken her there and then, wanting, needing, to be as close to her as possible.

Even now, he's tempted, but he doesn't want to risk being interrupted.

He's kissing away her tears, and she can't stop them no matter how much she might wish to - they hold so many emotions she can hardly separate one from the others. All she knows is that somehow, he's here. He's real and he's here and he was waiting for her and she hadn't known until now.

Now, as his lips seek and find hers once more, his voice (and if he'd sung, downstairs? She'd have known, instantly. Three thousand years wrought changes in instruments, too) fanning the flames of desire he'd kindled earlier, and she can't help her whimper of pure need that floats over his hum. Orpheus has ever had this effect on her, and the passing of millennia have done nothing to dull her response. If it weren't for the denim he wears catching on the soft stretchy cotton of her loose pants as she hooks the other knee up over his hip, she could almost imagine they were--

--but they're not. They're in London.

"Get it, girl!" comes from the mouth of someone, followed by a laughing, "But get a room, yeah?" from someone else.

Eurydice doesn't unwrap herself from her husband, but she does smile into the kiss, fingers flexing in his hair as she pushes her hips towards him.

"Can you wait ten more minutes? I'm only two tube stops away..." She kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his other cheek, marvelling at the stubble and the way he seems older without really looking as such. "I didn't start an orgy downstairs, and I don't think I should start one out here, and that's exactly what's about to happen."

The comments of the passersby wash over Orpheus. He can hear nothing over the rushing of blood in his ears. Nothing but her voice.

She moves against him, and he almost doesn't care about starting an orgy, about where they are, whom they are surrounded by. But the world has changed around him, however slowly, and even with the painfully familiar weight of his wife in his arms does not alter that fact.

"Yes," he says, though he doesn't sound at all certain of that. "Yes, but hurry."

But he doesn't let her go, not just yet. He can't. Instead, he moves to pick her up again, bridal style.

She can't help what she is, even in her mortal disguise, so professions of lust aren't new to her in this new life - but she's only ever wanted to hear it from the one person she thought was long since lost. His uncertainty in keeping his cool tickles her, and she laughs in delight as he swings her in his arms to scoop her up beneath her knees. Luckily, her phone and the slim wallet that has her debit and Oyster cards are in the pocket on the side pressed against him, so she has her other arm free to sling across his shoulder and send her fingers curling round the back of his neck.

"Earl's Court Underground is at the top of this street," she tells him, bumping his cheek with her nose and smiling at the scent of his skin - the lingering traces of cigarettes and whiskey, and something that's just him. "Then we're changing at Hammersmith, getting off at Shepherd's Bush Market, and it's about a three minute walk to the tiny flat where I fully intend on showing you just how much I've missed you."

It's probably closer to fifteen minutes, if the walking is included. She hopes he has some change for the fare, since she doesn't carry coins - and it's funny, how modernities are becoming commonplace for her now. It's funny how they pop sensibly into her head even when she's giddy with emotion. She might have some notes...

Her lips find his jaw, and her feet will sway easily to the rhythm of his pace once he starts walking.

"You are happy to carry me?"

It's a reasonable distance for him to walk while carrying her, but Eurydice is very much aware of the devastating emotions attached to one leading the other on foot, even if they're side by side. She doesn't want to be out of his arms if she can help it, but she also doesn't want to delay a proper reunion for longer than necessary - and she can feel him, hard against her hip. It goes both ways. It's a dilemma, but one she's happy to defer to him. The hope warring with resignation in his gaze when he'd grasped her arm had been enough to tell her, now that she's had a few minutes to process things, that he's been agonising over his unintentional mistake since the moment he made it. Making him relive it now is beyond cruel.

Soft kisses work their way back towards his ear.

Frankly, she'd rather be outside to take him into her body once more, but people are funny about that sort of thing these days, even at night, and an interruption would be distinctly unwelcome.

A train change and a walk is too far, but his own flat is no closer, so regardless, he'll carry on. It would be faster, certainly, to let her walk beside him, run beside him, really. Even with her in his arms, his feet barely touch the ground as he weaves his way through the crowd impatiently.

It would be faster to put her on her own feet, but he can't bear it, to grasp her hand and lead her through would be agony, an agony he's not ready to relive.

But it is nearly impossible, with her lips on his skin, her slender frame pressed to his body, her hip against his hardness, to keep moving. "I would carry you for the rest of eternity," he says, because at least then he'd know she was real, that she was really there.

The crowd is thick and drunk and in no rush, and Orpheus' frustration nearly gets the better of him before he remembers who he is.

"Hold tightly to me, my love," he says, and he sings a song of very little consequence, but one that will do to part the crowd in front of them, clearing a path to the tube stop. Orpheus runs as well as he can with her in his arms. He would throw her over a shoulder except that it would mean moving her mouth from his skin.

Even so, when they reach the station, he has to set her down to get through the turnstile. His arm stays around her waist, though, keeping her close as he fumbles in a pocket for his Oyster card.

He has to laugh at such a ridiculous modern convenience keeping them apart after all they've come through.

Everywhere is too far, but that's city living, as she's discovered. The hustle and bustle is thrilling, and though she'd vastly prefer to be back in her forest, the world has changed. A lot. She's had to adjust.

"Then how would I dance for you?" she laughs, then clings tightly to him as he quite literally runs to the station, a few cheers following from happily tipsy revellers in the milling crowds.

Snuggled tightly against him, Eurydice smiles into his chest as he digs through his pocket. The rumble of his laughter vibrates through her and she knows exactly why it's happening. Destined to repeat their steps, maybe, but the outcome this time will be far different. This time, she keeps hold of his hand once he's through, and doesn't let go once she's tapped her own card and pushed her way through the turnstyle.

She does drag him towards the train, though, and with a care for his guitar once he's seated, will plunk herself straight onto his lip, her feet on the seat beside him and her head on his shoulder. There are other ways she'd rather be sitting, but there are other passengers, and this reunion should be for them alone.

It's much the same after the train change, and she's happy to pull him through the lamp-lit streets of Shepherd's Bush to her block of flats - unless he'd rather carry her and rely on distracted pointing.

She's oddly nervous, over-excited and near-trembling with joy that after so many centuries the love she thought was lost is now here. Real. Alive. Hers. Orpheus.

Not once does Orpheus' gaze waver from her form. So long as he can see her, feel her hand in his, he can wait. The initial chaos of passion has settled into a throbbing anticipation. He has waited thousands of years for this. He can wait another few minutes.

He laughs as he chases her through the streets, the sound infused with a joy so pure it makes Orpheus want to rewrite a thousand songs he wrote before he knew what joy really felt like, and when they reach her block, he presses her back against the building and laughs into a kiss, hands coming up to frame her face.

Each time he kisses her, he half expects to find she's not there at all, and every kiss, every touch, every syllable of her voice sends a shock through him that trips his heart.

They're so close to her flat, but that only makes it more difficult to pull away from her.

Never before has grimy city living felt more like home than with Orpheus' hand in hers, his laugh ringing out as they quite literally run through the streets to the building where she occupies a tiny space. Never had she thought to feel his hand again, or hear his laugh. It's some sort of miracle, and tomorrow she'll make an offering to the gods (actually, a specific goddess) in thanks, but tonight... tonight is hers. Theirs.

Her shoulders meet old brick still holding a vestige of warmth from the day, the impact cushioned by the mass of her hair and the beloved smiling face of the man she adores as he leans in to kiss her. Her grin is just as wide as his, their smiles meeting before the kiss becomes worthy of the name, and she stretches up on tiptoe to give herself some leverage. The feel of his lips on hers sends tiny shivers all through her body, and she half thinks that if he wasn't holding her up, she'd swoon. It would be dramatic. She grins again, and reaches up to curl her fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand to her mouth where she drops a kiss into his palm, her other hand sneaking under his t-shirt to rest against the warmth of his waist.

"I've missed you," she breathes into his hand, her eyes seeking out his, finding his gaze easily even in the shadow of the building. "So much. You've been in my dreams."

Over the centuries, Orpheus has returned to Greece many times, and to the land that used to be Thrace. He has stood at the foot of Mount Olympus and felt as far from home as the other side of the planet, separated further by time than by distance. All of that falls away at her touch, her fingers on his skin making his heart stutter, his face split wide in a grin.

"As you've been in mine," he says, his forehead pressing against hers. "Every night of my life."

If he kisses her again, he's not sure he'll be able to stop, so he pushes himself back with a groan, his hands pressed flat against the wall, arms framing her between them. "But we are neither of us dreaming now," he says, and for the first time, he feels the truth of it, piercing through his doubt. "So take me to your bed or I'll have you here, but I won't be kept from my wife for a moment longer."

She breathes in his words as they echo hers, the scent infused with whiskey and cigarettes and her smile just won't quit as all that he is and was is right here, in front of her.

A shudder of want rolls down her spine when he groans, though, and she welcomes it.

"Tempting though that is, I'm not interested in our reunion being against a wall by the bins," she murmurs. "So if my husband would like to follow his wife inside to the third floor, her bed awaits."

She ducks under his arm, dragging her hand along his stomach til her fingers hook into his waistband. She tugs.

"Come with me?" she invites, tilting her head at the door - then grins and tugs harder as she adds, "In all senses of the phrase."

The only thing that has slipped her mind is the cat, but by the time they reach her door, there's a post-it stuck there to say she's gone a-visiting with Katie and Jonah, and Ree can collect her anytime tomorrow. No meowing demands for food on this first night, at least.

As she tugs at his jeans, he smiles, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that belies his age, and suddenly he's just a young man again, chasing the most beautiful nymph through the trees.

"Forever and always, my love," he says as they climb the stairs. "For the rest of my life. Whenever and wherever you like." There is nothing he would not give to her, nothing he would not do for her if she asked. He's lost far too much time with her to begrudge her one single request.

Orpheus spots the post-it, but doesn't bother to read it. "Please tell me you don't have a roommate?"

He'll make do if she does, but he intends to start stripping her the second they're inside, and he should know now if that's going to be a problem.

She sees it, the way the millennia fall away from him as he follows her into the aging building, thousands of years disappearing in the blink of an eye. Her heart lifts, and her smile simply won't be contained.

"You and your way with words," she sighs happily. "You make the most simple promise the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

Boys today lack romance. They really do. And reality intrudes on the romance as she's forced to let go of him to retrieve her key from her pocket. Instinct has her facing him to do so. If he were to disappear now-- it doesn't bear thinking about.

"I don't have a roommate." She skims the note with a smile. "My cat is an incorrigible flirt, that's all."

The door opens into a tiny flat; a living room with a couch and TV, and a small fold-down table with two chairs hanging on the wall, a small kitchen, and a bedroom and bathroom with a laundry cupboard. It's enough for a nymph and her wayward feline companion, and while it's sparsely furnished, there are plants everywhere. The flat is teeming with life.

"Welcome to my home," she says quietly, and pulls him inside. "Will you stay a while?"

There's a space by the door where he can rest his guitar. He might want to do that soon, because she's reaching up to kiss him and her fingers are already unbuttoning his fly.

It feels like her, this tiny space filled with life, and it's enough to draw his eyes away from her for just a moment as he sets his guitar aside and just breathes in the aura of this flat that has been her home, that has held her safe. It feels like a sacred space.

"I will stay until you make me leave," he says, turning his attention back to her, his hands moving to slide the sweat pants from her hips. He bends to kiss her, arms wrapping around her to lift her from her feet again, and he heads further into the flat. He'll stop at the couch if he needs to, but he assumes there will be a bed somewhere.

Almost tripping as he goes, Orpheus kicks off his boots, laughing again because she makes him feel like a bumbling youth again, and it strikes him just how long it's been since he did this.

It is sacred. There are all manner of plants that shouldn't thrive indoors here yet do, along with many things she can and does eat. It's the one way she can allow herself to be who she truly is, in this city of metal and stone and glass.

"Oh, my love," she laughs, "That means you'll stay forever."

Should he not care to stop at the couch, then the bed is through the open doorway behind her, a queen that takes up a reasonable amount of what's actually a decently sized room. Plants are present in here, too - on shelves above the bed, and in her bathroom, and nestled on her windowsill behind gauzy curtains. The only place without something green is the top of her bureau; it holds a flat river stone, upon which rests a solitary acorn.

But if he wants to stop at the couch, he can. She won't really mind, though he'll find the bed more comfortable, she thinks.

A practiced wiggle has her sweatpants dropping from her hips to her ankles, and as he lifts her, she shoves them, and her shoes and socks, off her feet. Then laughs in sheepish apology when he trips on them.

"I'm sorry," she breathes across his ear before gently kissing the lobe, one hand abandoning his jeans to slip inside the front of them, her fingers wrapping around his cock. She groans softly at the feel of him in her hand at last. "You almost never have to undress me. I'm not used to it."

Chitons were easier, when she bothered to even wear them. Modernity is oddly prim.

"Then it's a good thing you're already growing our next meal," he teases, laughing, but it's not really a joke. He would stay with her here for the rest of their eternity if she asked him.

He continues through the doorway, keeping his feet after tripping on her shoes but nearly losing them again when her hand curls around him. He laughs again and drops onto the bed, landing on his back with her on top of him.

"You have my tripping over myself as if I were a boy, my love," he says, hands sliding up her sides to her bra, shoving it up a bit with a frustrated huff. "And I'm not used to undressing...this." He leans back, looking helpless and gestures to her few remaining clothes. "Help?"

He's more than happy to do the same, already yanking his shirt over his head.

"I will feed you," she promises, and it's more than just his belly she intends. Heart, mind, soul... and if his flat is bigger, she'll move. But if it isn't, she'll ask him to stay. Later.

For now, she whoops with laughter again as he throws himself onto the bed, and she catches herself easily on his lap, hands by his shoulders and her mass of curls tumbling down around them.

"Ask and ye shall receive," she tells him, nipping gently at his lower lip before sitting up to peel away her top and sports bra. The latter is for modesty while dancing; she's a delicate thing, built small and toned, with gentle curves. Petite, she's often called, and it's only because hip-hop has her throwing herself around that she bothers to wear the extra layer. Her nipples are hardened pink buds at the tips of small breasts as she bares herself to his gaze, excitement evident.

But he's shirtless, now, too, and she reaches out a finger to trace the familiar planes of his chest - and upwards, to where an unfamiliar scar crosses his neck.

It's a sight he's dreamt of over and over again: Eurydice naked and laughing on top of him, her hair cascading between them. His hands slide up her skin, warm and real beneath his touch, and he sucks in a breath at the curve of her breasts against his palms, his cock pulsing between them.

When her fingers trace his scar, he moves one hand to curl around her wrist, bringing her palm to his lips. There will be time enough later for stories and questions.

Her body heats under his questing fingers, her skin warming under his palms the way it always has - but when he places a kiss into her questioning hand, she accepts the unvoiced deflection and turns the touch into a gentle caress of his cheek. Not now.

Now there are more urgent requirements. Pleased with her earlier decision to undo his fly, Eurydice finds it no bother to reach down between them once more and wrap her fingers around his cock. She uses only gentle touches at first, reacquainting her memories with the moment, but it soon becomes a careful placement of hardened flesh against his stomach as she rests herself along him. The folds of her sex are smooth and hairless, hot and wet as she slowly rubs herself over his length.

Three thousand, two hundred and sixty-three years, four months and seventeen days since she last had him in her arms, in her heart, in her body.

Eurydice moans softly, green eyes closing in delight as she allows herself this simple pleasure, the rasp of denim on her inner thighs a lovely counterpoint to the pressure of his cock against her clit.

"In me," she breathes, and when she opens her eyes to look at him once more, her pupils are blown wide with hunger for him.

It has been so long since he's touched a woman like this, and it feels as though every inch of skin he touches brings back a memory, awakens some part of him he'd thought long since dead. She moves over him in a dance older than any other, and the wet heat of her sliding along his cock, brings to the front of his mind how long it's been since he's felt her body on his, since he's been inside her.

And suddenly he can't wait a moment longer. His eyes meet hers, dark and wide, and she breathes her request. His hands move, one to her hip, the other to ease his cock inside her.

He groans, deep in his chest, and his gaze never leaves hers as he pulls her down onto him, as deep as he can manage, trembling with desire.

always! I'm enjoying it :D

saaaaaame. myths are fun. i'm loving all the research i get to do for this, too!

Yesssssss. I keep finding new references to them. I only just learned Rilke did a series on Orpheus.

I've read it! I found it when I was looking for icon keywords. Wrong tone but still beautiful.

I've read a couple of them. It came up on Jeopardy randomly and I looked it up

I read A LOT while looking for what I wanted for her. So many of them are much sadder than I wanted!

soooooo true. It's hard to find good non-sad poetry about them.

or poetry that doesn't cast a giant side-eye on the whole thing, totally not the angle I wanted.

lol, yep

where is the happiness amid the angst, i ask you!! song lyrics were the go.

You clearly made the correct choice

I think so, too. Also that icon!!!

Forgive my long absence! I had to re-read the whole thread because it's entirely too gorgeous.

C H I N H A N D S all day err day

forever and ever, they make my heart happy

same, tbh

<333

<333 !!!

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hel-LO, icon.

ahaha thanks for giving me the opportunity to use it :D