My first Yuri. Be gentle, ya?
Disclaimer: Nomura and Square-Enix/Disney.
It was midnight.
It was midnight, and she was covered in black.
It was midnight.
It was midnight, and the tears streaming down her face carried with them the so-sad tale of her markings.
Midnight was the time when she was supposed to be asleep, nestled deep in her mind, dreaming of the blotched colors, fluttering warmth of butterflies, swaying cool tones of foliage.
But midnight was a time of black, of dull hues and listless lies, choked sobs from the girl in the white dress who's starting to look like an inkblot for the criminally insane.
Yeah, midnight was an inkblot on the fabric of time, a tear staining a love letter and making the words run. It was right in the century of nonexistence between advancement and independence, the hemorrhaging of obsidian.
It was her corner of private misery, the place she summoned herself unto while she escaped from that sorrow webbing across her ribcage, the spider centered on her heart.
And she drew it. She drew it at midnight.
The lines went over her breasts, under them, around them, curving with the skin as sin might wrap around her in a blanket. She connected them: one, two, three, a line of pretties, a line of filths.
The web rose and fell with each heaved breath, the spider's legs twitching as though awaiting prey.
And pray. Pray at midnight. She prayed every mid-night.
The web rose off of her shoulders and went down her arms, the coil of something vicious around her bicep, with eyes and a maw that looked as though it could rip her flesh right off of her arm, rise right up from the pores and make her bleed more black for its body.
Because everyone knows blood looks black in the midnight moonlight.
All the way down to her fingers, she painted its claws over hers. Maybe those delicate digits could someday have some conviction, and maybe someday her words would share that sweet refuge of the beast's confidence.
But this wasn't a someday: this was a midnight.
The spider's web melted into sticky plastic, clinging to her abdomen like a mother's sap, tentacles and slimy calibers until crisping off into powdery starch and flakes on the jutting pelvic bones.
A mid-sob on a mid-night, a blonde girl's drawing hand was seized. And on midnight, red hair looked purple and amethyst eyes looked silver with concern. Mercury was a semi-deadly, a mid-deadly poison, after all, and she felt it filling her lungs.
The girl kneeled to the woman's presence; the woman and the girl like a perfect fairytale to put boys and girls to sleep before b e d t i m e, before m i d n i g h t.
But the redhead pulled up her other-black-white-half's chin, forced the blue-black [like a bruise gaze to her own.
She sobbed.
Thin arms braced under the web, as though the simple touch could wipe the black stains clean, the spiderheart becoming nothing more than a drawing rained on in a street gutter, bleeding into the sewer.
Those thin arms lifted her up, took her off the stained carpet to stain the sheets, seep wet ash into a filament too perfect for her to taint.
But as she tried to flee, denial came from the rich opposition before her, too …
too …
too colorful, smudges of sweet blushes. She was looking at herself, only in a dirty mirror.
She wasn't like other girls. The other girls sleep during the midnight madness.
Where that spider spread its legs the pink tongue began. And she would battle the black away, shun it back into the gluttonous layer of hell where the rain poured forever, because even in Namine's hell could her sins be washed away. Kairi would be sure of that.
She battled the mire with that one muscle as her tool and her hands pinning the girl down for her exorcism.
But the black kept spilling, kept growing, kept consuming. It wasn't long before the red-maroon-purple-who-cares-what-color-haired woman was smudged with the taint, too.
Charcoal feeds on midnight.
"You're reactive tonight."
And the jerky little lass moaned her response as the tongue circled the heart she should have, the heart she could only feel pulsing in her neck and ears in moments like these, when her pretty-white-pure-white-clean half was above her, trying to clean her off like she meant something.
"Kairi."
It was a desperate plea: the spider had moved.
It blossomed on her hip, crowning her sex as though it had finally found her throne. But the tongue already dyed black came to wipe it away, take up the black-powder-flour that was soggy to paint more comely images down her thighs.
A poor, poor girls legs shifted at midnight, smelling like desire and nectar. And the blessed girl sought out the Sweet Beulah Land betwixt her thighs with such a tainted tongue.
There had to be some irony in this. There had to be irony at midnight. Elsewise, a contaminated girl wouldn't be bucking her hips mercilessly beneath the tongue of an angel.
She kissed pearls like she really was an angel, too, and Namine wept them with each heave of her breath.
Funny "heave" was a letter short of "heaven". But one would only notice that at midnight.
Every wash of tongue, the demon on her arm died a little more. Every sob of redemption, the spider crawled away to find somewhere else to lay her eggs. Every time that attrition meet its epitome, the tick-tocking seconds of midnight became further and further away.
Until finally the cry of an angel's name--
"--Kairi, Kairi, Kairi, oh please, Kairi--"
--came at 12:01.
O Beulah Land, Sweet Beulah Land
As on thy highest mount I stand,
I look away across the sea
Where mansions are prepared for me
And view the shining glory shore
My heaven, my home forever more.