Ophelia's asleep, curled in the precise center of her mattress, curls fanned around her.

It's early evening. She fell asleep in the midafternoon, and the book she was reading is still lying beside her, one of her hands resting lightly atop it.

Blaise and Ophelia are curled together in her bed, her head pillowed on his chest. They've been there for a long time, just enjoying a lazy Sunday evening spent together.

"Blaise," Ophelia says after a long time, "let's go."

Ophelia, in corset and stripy stockings and boots and with a whip.

Blaise, being pulled along by his tie.

Ophelia's flat door, incongruously cheerful and flowery.

Fun, fun times, kids.

Ophelia's asleep on her couch.

She is extraordinarily comfortable.

Also warm. Mmm.

Ophelia looks like a child when she sleeps, all wild curls and flushed cheeks, hand curled innocently on the pillow. One can almost imagine that, when her eyes open again, she will be sane ( Read more... )

Ophelia is curled up on her couch, reading. Her eyelids are drooping. She yawns.

And then the book drops from her fingers to land softly on the couch beside her, and she is asleep.

Ophelia is in her flat.

She's still afraid to leave.

Company would be nice.

Ophelia is pale and drawn, but perhaps a bit less so than the day before. She has spent the day knocking uselessly about the flat, afraid to leave but lonely and bored all the same.

Ophelia is awake now, curled up on her sofa, staring at nothing, at daisy chains, at nothing.

Yrael and Ophelia come in the front door of her flat. She is limp in his arms, clinging to him, bloody but no longer bleeding.