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Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2019 19:43:04 GMT -5
“Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure." -- James Joyce, The Dead
a lil roleplay for 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ and me. starring my own circe o'donnell and their moira sakai.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2019 19:43:27 GMT -5
circe o'donnell she unpinned her long hair on the boat ride from london and dashed it laughingly into the wind. Her decision to stay in Ireland was rash, and she was fully aware of it; it wasn't like the young woman was always calm and level-headed in all her affairs, but her present flight there was much more out of necessity than impulsivity. One could even say it was a matter of literal life or death. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, welling up dangerously but not falling down her cheeks, as she frantically filled her suitcase with fine dresses and stockings, pumps and boots, and other odds and ends. Glints of small diamonds and pearls, strewn about her fur garments like stars in a dark sky of mink, shone as she moved hurriedly, perhaps a touch too quickly for her own good. She hoped she didn't lose a shoe or an earring in the process, since there was absolutely no turning back if she did go through with this. But she had to go. There was no other choice for her. No longer could Circe continue to hide the parcels and letters from a certain Dr. Hirschfeld, a revolutionary doctor from Germany who specialized in the cutting edge of sexual science, who would send her vials with syringes and instruction on the first of every month. That in itself was criminal. No longer could she hide the long paper trail of letters exchanged between her and the rest of the O'Donnell clan back in Dublin, who had never heard of a Circe, but were nonetheless excited for her arrival (they had heard of a Christopher, though, and inquired on occasion how their nephew was).
Christopher had faded into total obscurity in Circe's mind, although she couldn't say the same for the majority of her family. She hated how uncomfortable the male body, the visage, the sharp features and rail-thin body made her feel. The obligation he had to assert himself as a dominant masculine figure in every social circumstance was exhausting. Even as a young child, barely ten or eleven years old, still in her silly schoolboy uniforms, she was able to recognize the future in store for herself. She came to terms with how much she was about to give up--social and financial autonomy, probably the support of her parents, which, combined, were quite a lot to lose--but in the end, feeling more comfortable in her skin was well worth the sacrifice.
So she rebranded herself. The idea of harnessing a feminine magic, with the abilities to subdue her enemies on a whim and expose them for the true brutish animals they were, pleased her deeply. So she chose Circe.
She would sneak out in the early hours of the morning and late hours of night to convene with fellow Brits in her shoes; they were queer, all in different ways, and they needed the small community comforts that their weekly meetings at the pub would confer. They offered each other support, advice, things that had and hadn't worked for them in the past, and when there wasn't any good news at all, they would commiserate. Truth be told, Circe was really going to miss them. Finding a posse like this was rare enough, and the trust they built was even more so. It would be unlikely if she could find one more queer person in Ireland, nevermind an entire squad of them to have at her disposal when she needed them.
But back to the present. Once she had finished packing her things--half new, half pieces from her mother's closet that she was far too matronly to fit in anymore, pieces that surely wouldn't be missed--Circe strolled out of the front door, head held high. She hadn't left home in quite some time, and she had certainly never done so in female garments; she only wore them around the house, relishing in the freedom of her legs, delighted in the gradual appearance of a more feminine form in her chest and waist and thighs. She felt like a sculpture, an ongoing work in progress, as the end goal of her figure loomed somewhere in the future, and God, she was excited to see the masterpiece once it was finished being so lovingly chiseled. The sun on her face, her cheeks, her collarbones was warm--a rarity in London.
Her friends would be proud of her. Circe wished so desperately that they were off in hiding somewhere, watching her stride out of her home, with admiration and pride glistening in their eyes as they watched her go. They knew she had to leave months, years before she told them all she was going to. Before she even reached out to that doctor, before she reached out to the rest of the clan. She smiled faintly at the rest of the town stretching before her, in a fine gown and coat, hair tucked delicately underneath one of those frilly little hats (she had practiced in secret so many times, mastering every type of braid she saw out in public). With a touch of powder and rouge on her cheeks, she exhaled slowly, then made her way to the port and ferry.
"One ticket to Dublin, please," Circe asked the teller, consciously taking note to not stifle the higher pitch and softer tone her voice had gained in the last few months. Hearing her unbridled feminine voice in all its glory was liberating, but the teller didn't seem to notice. He simply gave this rich looking woman standing before him a curious glance as to why she'd want to travel there, of all the places in the world she could afford to visit, but said nothing and took her money. She then walked off towards the dock and boat, holding a ticket to freedom in a gloved hand, hiding the half smug, half overjoyed grin that so wanted to spread across her cheeks.
Watching her home get smaller and smaller before disappearing into the rippling, homogenous blue landscape was strange, to say the least. She'd never been terribly far from home before, only having traveled a handful of times. But perhaps feeling those strings that weighed her down so break the further away the boat drove was a good kind of feeling.
-- Stepping onto solid ground in the city of Dublin was almost like stepping onto a different planet. Everything around her was duller, dirtier, and more sullen in a way she couldn't quite articulate. She was, no doubt, on appearance alone, the wealthiest person in sight, which she rarely experienced back in the city; in hindsight, all of those who had boarded the boat with her wore plainer clothes and seemed to be transient, only in London to take care of brief business. Dublin wasn't ever considered a vacation destination by any of the other wealthy Londoners, and she could clearly see why. This place exuded a tired, sad energy. But there was something else beneath the ash-coated streets and dirtied brick that intrigued her; whatever it was, the peculiar energy this city exuded was smoldering, deep, festering, resentful, and angry. She could see it in the eyes of the strangers that sized her up immediately, as she made her way painstakingly to the hotel she'd arranged to stay long-term at. It didn't bother her: they weren't prying, judging looks, but they were sneers and growls, rumbles of discontent and frustration. She even heard a particularly wizened fellow mutter, "Who the hell does this broad think she is?" None of it bothered her. In fact, that comment in particular made her smile--one of those uncontrollable, grinning from ear-to-ear types. As a genuine blush rose to her cheeks, she forced the grin down, still feeling the burn in her cheeks as she silently, privately rejoiced. He thinks I'm a girl. He really thinks I'm a girl. Not that she wasn't, in her heart and soul, a true and genuine woman, but her appearance had never been put to the test--and thus had never passed--before. This was some kind of milestone for sure, she supposed.
After some time meandering through the streets of downtown Dublin with her luggage, taking in the sights as well as trying to navigate (she'd historically been very bad at finding her way around her backyard, nonetheless a completely new place), Circe found her hotel. It was certainly a sight for her sore eyes--a shining, beautiful, ornate-looking hotel, considerably nicer-looking than the rest of the buildings surrounding it. A place like this could have easily, seamlessly fit into the London landscape, she reckoned as she made her way inside, marveling at the fine details of the place.
However, when she made her way inside, there was no one staffing the front desk. Circe furrowed her brow. It wasn't noon, or close to tea time--why wasn't someone there? For a moment, she debated taking a seat in the lounge and simply waiting for someone to arrive when they were ready, but truth be told, she longed to change out of her traveling outfit into something more comfortable. The young woman hesitated for a couple long moments before calling out into the emptiness.
"Erm, hello?" Her voice echoed in the space around her. "Is anyone there? I, ah, I'd like to check in, if I may..." The confidence and volume in her voice tapered off by the end of her declaration, and Circe was left standing there feeling horrendously awkward in her place. Something like this would have never happened in London; maybe Dublin was worse, after all. She didn't like to think so, though, because this place intrigued her so. Maybe this was just proof that it was rougher.
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