poetpaola

[poetpaola]

— Anne Sexton, Imitations of Drowning

[poetpaola]

one of the best fics i’ve read fr

Two instances in which Maou responds to Emi's tears below the cut.

Emi's tears have begun to plague Maou, which is particularly disorienting because the reverse should be true. The despair of a human in his direct vicinity should be enriching. He should draw power from it like a leech—he is a demon after all. 

Instead, Emi’s hurt lances through him with a lasting sting. Any increase to his reserves is accompanied by a thick cloud of guilt that sticks around until he’s expended the magic in service of others. It’s maddening.

Maou sends Ashiya out for gauze because, yet again, Emi arrived uninvited on his doorstep, then quickly devolved into a disaster, careening down his stairs and lashing out like a wounded animal while she bled on his tatami mats. The tears should have been an anticipated outcome—he’s learning her patterns, isn’t he?—but somehow, he’s still surprised at the mounting vulnerability that reveals itself when they’re alone.

She screams at him, swears never to forgive him for killing her father, and he does something strange he’d never felt the need to do with Emi before. 

Maou lies. 

He claims he hasn’t given his past motives much thought, even as he haltingly begins the apology he’s rehearsed twenty different ways since he realized what it was to be human and to care for them. 

Emi’s hands are clenched over her face, fingers digging into the bandage on her forehead, and Maou is struck by the consuming urge to pull them away. Ashiya returns, Chiho in tow, before Maou's arm can stray from his side, and Emi’s embarrassment is thick in the silence after the door slides open, revealing the high schooler Maou—the ancient demon king—went on a date with yesterday. Chiho misunderstands the scene and is watery and whimpering in an instant.

Again, Chi’s devastation should be delicious. Restorative. Instead, it tastes like ashes.

“You really are a thing.” Her accusation settles into Maou like mold in the floorboards.

His fascination with Chi’s easy trust has always been his own, certainly, but encouraging her affections to the degree that he has? That’s largely because it annoys Emi. The hero’s pain hurts him, sure, but he delights in her irritation.

“I swear we’re not,” Emi assures Chi, and, damn her, a tiny protest crawls inside his ribcage—an invading cockroach. He tries to stamp it out before it can escape into the depths of his psyche, but success in such a goal is ephemeral at best.

When Chi flees the scene, there’s no gut wrenching urge to go after her. His landlady has to show up, armed with information she should not possess and a clear concern for the girl’s safety, to convince him to follow. Emi, as usual, is hot on his heels.

He tells himself he would have been just as slow to act were Emi the one to run off, but that feels a lot like his second lie of the day.

 

---

“Congratulations, you found me out,” Olba says from the heap of rubble he and Lucifer stand atop like gargoyles. "And Emilia, you’re certainly looking lovely.”

Olba is a grease-slick of a human, obviously trash in a robe to anyone with eyes, but Emi had trusted him. Which might say something about her begrudging faith in Maou, but so what if it did? Maou was easily ten times the person Olba would ever be, and he’d only had months of practice.

"Olba?" Emi was clearly stunned when she saw Lucifer, but she’s utterly crushed to find the priest with him. The hurt in her wobbly voice is clear when she asks, “Why? How could you work with Lucifer? ”

Maou’s eyes cut over his shoulder for a fraction of a second, taking in the tears brimming in hers. She’s small and fragile in the wake of this discovery—not Emilia the hero, but Emi Yusa, the girl who went to pieces in his apartment not twenty minutes prior.

This time, Emi’s tears make him angry. 

Who does Olba Meyer think he is, tormenting the hero? I’m the only one with that privilege.

The fact that the priest is clearly here with the goal of killing them both fuels his fury. He knows the Church trained her from childhood, brought her up to wield Better Half in the fight against him. It isn’t surprising to learn that the high priests know nothing of loyalty—it’s far more surprising to discover that Maou does.

"You really want to know?” Olba laughs at Emi’s horror, boiling Maou’s blood. “I’ll tell ya, but it’ll be the last thing you ever hea–”

“The hero was really throwing her weight around,” Maou cuts him off sharply, “and you couldn’t abide that, so you figured, ‘after she ousts the demon army, let’s execute her.’ Spot on, huh?” Olba’s face sours and brows shoot up. The idiot evidently doesn’t think his machinations are as clear as day. “And you got Lucifer here on your side by promising him a golden ticket back to Heaven town.”

“Damn! How’d you know that?” Olba guffaws.

Lucifer’s eyes stray from Maou to briefly assess his bumbling partner.

“C’mon man, that’s the oldest trick in the book!” Maou’s tone grows even more mocking. “And who says ‘the last thing you’ll ever hear?’ I’ve seen B-movies with better scripting than that, baldy . Get a wig!”

The soft huff of Emi's laugh is like a cool breeze in the sweltering heat, and Maou swells with triumph unlike any he'd known on the battlefield. He pays for the tirade immediately—Ashiya's reprimand about spending on movies is sharp and poorly timed. His general won't forget it any time soon, and will likely hound him about it every time he leaves the castle without reason, but Maou doesn’t have any regrets. It’s worth the consequences to dispel Emi's gloom.

Of course, it’s all strategic. Taking the acid from the battery. He has to keep her from further empowering Lucifer with her despair. If the weight he'd been carrying since their reunion gets a little lighter as a result…well, that’s a welcome side benefit and nothing more.

Full in-progress drabble collection on AO3 under the title treacherous fondness. Big thanks to @poetpaola for these scene ideas!

[poetpaola]

“just tired,” i say for the fourth time this morning, a sleepy smile superglued to my face. tired, yes. of having to act like everything’s okay. of having to pretend. of having to stuff myself with sugar to keep the pain at bay. of having to hold myself. of having to force tears out of my tired eyes. “you okay?” someone else asks. the smile jumps back into place.

#just tired

[poetpaola]

if i could live in a moment, it would be the one after exiting the shower, with droplets still clinging to my skin and my hair damp and tangled. it would be the one where rain pours outside but the scent of a candle fills my room and the fan flutters the pages of my book. it would be the one where i am curled in a blanket sneaking more and more cookies until i've nearly finished the pack. it would be the one where i wake up with the energy to do something with my day. it would be the one where i have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. it would be the one where you smile at me and suddenly everything is worth it.

#living in moments

[poetpaola]

i believe i might be afraid of being happy. it sounds weird, doesn't it? i mean whose fear is joy? and yet when you were insulted for your vibrancy and questioned for your light, you begin to let in the darkness. it's seductive, it is. once you let it in, it doesn't want to leave, and after a while you're not going to want it to leave. the darkness doesn't mock, it embraces. but when that light comes along, let it in, give it its time. you've been hiding your smiles in a frigid winter for long enough. don't shy away from the spring days with a gentle breeze and blankets of clouds. seasons change and people leave. don't let them take your joy with them.

#you stole my light but i'm finally starting to look for it

[poetpaola]

i think the black metal scale sitting on my cold bathroom floor is a liar. the number it flashes back at me couldn’t at all encompass the weight of my thoughts, of the heaviness in my heart. “how much do you weigh?” people have asked me. “i weigh several sleepless nights spent thinking about problems with no solutions. i weigh however much this sinking feeling in my chest does. i weigh a multitude of past decisions that fill my head with so many alternate possibilities,” i want to say. instead i give them the number that they wanted to hear.

#we cannot be measured in cold and calculating digits

[poetpaola]

all my typos are intentional btw its all strategic. you wouldnt get it

[poetpaola]

something inside of me is joining the screaming choirs of the people burning around me. i should not be here, waiting to catch fire like kindle waits for a spark. but maybe that’s what friendship is, agreeing that no one should burn alone. if my friends were made out to be witches, then someone bring forth a stick and cauldron and let me join the masses.

#my world turns to ash

[poetpaola]

your hair is the colour of spilled wine, of the stain on the carpet from the day the glass slipped through my hand. your eyes are the colour of honey, of the sweetness that coated your vicious words. your lips are the colour of the hearts children draw on sheets of blank paper, of the crayon left abandoned the way you left me sitting there. but now, your hair is the colour of the blood that spilled from the hole in my chest. your eyes are the colour of my wooden coffin being lowered into the ground. and your lips are the colour of the singular rotting rose resting on my cold body.

#dearly beloved we are gathered here today to mourn the life of someone who once loved and has since been lost

[poetpaola]

is that all i'm meant to be–one more statistic in a sad graph about lost kids who could never find their way to neverland?

#i understand why peter pan refuses to grow up

[poetpaola]

i used to think being a parent meant going cold so your child could be warm. i know now that i was mistaken. parenthood means that the only warmth you truly need comes from knowing your child is safe and warm. it is enough.

#i once gave my sweater to my little cousin on a chilly january day #every time i felt cold i would look over at him and see him bundled up in the jacket that was far too large for such a small person #the warmth would immediately seep back into my bones #i believe this is love

[poetpaola]

i asked you to pay attention as i handed you every remaining shard of my heart. it is 3am and my phone is ringing with the urgency of someone who wishes they had listened. it is too late.

#my voicemail is filled with regrets

[poetpaola]

you compared me to the moon once. i smiled when you said it, for she had always been a friend. but you told me later, with tears streaking your face like stars shooting across the sky, that the moon is distant and cold and steals her glow from the sun. i wondered over time how i might've explained it to you. that while the moon languishes in darkness, she still manages to light up the sky, listening to tired souls who have no one else to turn to. how she is loved by the lonely and loathed by the dreamers who have long since become frustrated. she still watches over you on my behalf. i guess you were right in comparing me to the moon. if nothing else, my love for you is as constant as her presence in the sky.

#shall i compare thee to a moonlit night

[poetpaola]

words fill the emptiness where your heart used to lie next to mine. i believe i was the keeper of our love, for when you took your heart back your nails tore through mine in the process. i don't see any ragged hole in your chest from a surgery gone wrong, just the smooth surface of someone used to playing dangerous games.

#when you take your heart back #do me a favour and take mine too #it's useless if it's not there to love you

[poetpaola]

[poetpaola]

i apologize for the person im about to become when they actually starts dropping teasers for the series

art by matheus buchmann

[poetpaola]

mentally still in march 2020 when we thought it would just be a two months holiday from school