9 for Rita >:)

9 :: How Long Have You Been Standing There

Rita had never seen a snake molt. The idea of one slithering out of a husk of itself made her a little queasy if she was being honest. Not that there was never any need to see it in the first place; not with her sister around. Once in the sunkissed fields of their father’s lands Wren explained, excitement burbling unstoppable as young children do, that the process was brought about by the snake needing more room to grow. That it needed to to feel more comfortable and continue doing whatever snakes did. Her sister’s wonder over this achievement of nature felt misplaced. Why didn’t the snake’s skin grow with it? Why was the the snake built with this glaring error in design? Surely a skin that had grown used to the world, calloused with experience, would be much more useful. Feeling naked and fresh only presented living creatures with one option: to submit themselves over and over again to strife in order to build up that thick outer layer once more.

If you’d asked her when she first arrived, Rita would have asserted that nothing in the land of the fae was done by halves. Everything was too loud or too quiet; too bright; too harsh. Too much. Yet just now the breeze that swept through the thin white fabric of her shirt wasn’t. In these quiet moments she took for herself she’d grown used to the way the winds fluctuated in temperature, how they moved in curly ques, the slight scents they carried with them. Just enough so that it felt like they were saying “pay attention to me. I’m here!”

Her hands pulsed with warmth. She’d been gripping the sword too hard again–or what she used as a practice weapon, she wasn’t sure the porous material could count as an actual sword. Hot and cold the winds moved between her fingers, coaxing them to open, release their tension. She was full tension, though, and even with the heavy release of breath that flowed light a thin, nearly overflowing stream Rita felt only the tiniest bit of relief.

A relief that wavered the moment she realized she wasn’t alone. It was slight, but it was all she needed, that shuffling of sole against dirt, before she whipped around and marked her target.

“…How long have you been standing there?”

The weapon barely made the sad, hollow thud it usually did as it bapped her guest on the side of his neck. “You should know better than to sneak up on someone with a weapon.”

“It’s not sneaking if y’know I’m there.”

Rita quirked her mouth into a frown. “Still….”

Lowering her weapon, she returned to focusing on the very important nothing she was before. As a contemplative silence fell, the breeze whistled its way out. She’d think it was pouting if that wasn’t completely ridiculous.  “For a while.” His answer came quicker than she thought, and with less riddles too. “Thought you were going to cut right through the sky for a moment. Makes a man wonder just what it is you’re–” Cillian cut himself off, thinking better of the question of his lips, which Rita would have answered truthfully whether he wanted that truth or not. “Are you getting used to this? Being here, I mean.”

She wasn’t exactly sure why he cared. Maybe he was just curious. “Getting used to it?” Could a mortal ever truly get used to living in a place like this? Mulling over the past month (or what she assumed to be a month), she could at least say that it no longer came across as strange when she saw fire being created right in front of her or when loud arguments erupted into raucous laughter. “I… don’t know.” She said truthfully, a hint of confusion tailing behind. “I still feel like it would have been better if we figured out a way for Wren to be here instead.” She had been expecting him to jump in, but only heard him humming along, almost urging her to continue. She hated that she did. “She’s been dreamin’ of this.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but…” her brow furrowed. “It’s not the same.”

There weren’t words to explain how it wasn’t the same, just that feeling that it wasn’t. It couldn’t be; they were two completely separate people, after all. Wren wouldn’t have let herself rest until she’d started at least five different studies on the world around her; each plant and animal subject to her meticulous notes. Wren would have been able to figure out the mysteries, to make them more accessible and less terrifying to those on the other side of the veil. But what was Rita doing? She didn’t even know where to start–she’d just been doing the same old thing she’d been doing back at home. It felt… like she didn’t deserve to be here; what could she possibly do that Wren couldn’t do better?

Cillian took a seat in the open air beneath him, toes barely touching the ground. “Right. And?” She could hear the raising of his eyebrow, but didn’t know what to do with it. “How do you plan to turn it into your dream?”

Rita thought for a moment. Then thought some more, eventually turning back to the fae with her mouth slightly agape. “I… don’t? Don’t have any use in experience something that isn’t how it is.”

His laugh didn’t strike her as judgemental, so why did it feel like needles were shooting through her? All at once she felt entirely too naked without her leathers, now resting in the back of one of the troupe’s many carts. “How ‘bout this: what do you want to do? What do you like doing?”

She stared at him. When the answers wouldn’t come, she began staring out of the corner of her eyes at the ground, as if the answers would suddenly sprout from the ground itself. Confusion seeping into his voice, Cillian offered, “You like fighting, right? What about that?”

“No,” Rita mused. “It’s not that I like fighting. I don’t feel either way about it. I’m just good at it, and it’s something that needs to be done.” Cillian made a noise as if he didn’t believe her, but again she wasn’t sure if she had the words to say what she really meant. “I like–” She started, but immediately stopped, the ghost of unintentionally cruel childhood words silencing her. “I want to make sure that there’s a familiar face to visit when Wren’s able to come back.”

She was in the middle of letting out another thin trickle of air when she felt the jab of something unfamiliar right in the center of her gut. With a hurgh and a sputter she looked down to see Cillian’s shoed toes firmly planted in place, her skin taking new form under his “attack”. He continued his assault, drawing both agitated rebuke and unwilling peals of laughter from his target, until at last she batted his foot aside, spinning the opposite direction and momentarily beyond his reach.

Her chest heaved, thirsty for breath. “What… what was that for!?”

“Liars get punished.” He smirked–or was it more of a sneer?–seeming more aggravated than his countenance would let on.

Arms still firmly wrapped around her stomach in defense she took a defiant step back towards him. “You’re the biggest liar I know!! Don’t be sour ‘cause it’s not the answer you wanted.”

Cillian groaned, dramatically falling back in the empty air behind him. “She doesn’t get it. You don’t get it! It’s like you’re not even a person. You know that, right?” He sat up quickly, black hair bouncing around his face. “What kind of person doesn’t know what they like?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to be a rock,” Rita mumbled, narrowing her eyes. “Besides, what do you care? You’ve made it abundantly clear that y’don’t even like me. Yet you keep creepin’ on me when I go off on my own, and trying to get information from me for some reason.”

The low-pitched twittering of a creature echoed from the distance while the two stared each other down in silence. Rita was primed to continued when Cillian’s exhaustion peaked through. “You two are alike in the worst ways,” his fingers pinched at the center of his forehead, “You know that, don’t you?”  She didn’t like what he was saying, but didn’t know enough of what he was talking about to deny it. “No, you’re the one that belongs here. You’re as miserable as the rest of us.”

“What?!” Rita strode over to him, standing on her tiptoes to smoosh his cheeks together. “And jus’ what do ye mean by that?

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mouth muscles strained against her palms, trying to put on a smile. It served no warning, however, and in what felt like an unfairly quick turnaround, Rita found herself thrown across his shoulder, contained in the loop of his arm. “What I mean is why brood by yourself when you can brood with the rest of us?” A huff escaped her, and a sense of regret took its place as Cillain commented, “That’s the spirit.”

If this was an olive branch, it was one of the most unconventional olive branches she’d ever been witness to– and she’s the one who gave her sister a bowl of snails, twigs, and dirt after one of their worse fights. Yet even in the unwelcomed position she found herself in, Rita couldn’t help but take some pleasure in what Cillian said. You’re the one who belongs here. Maybe she was. Maybe she deserved this, too. For now, she’d bask in the warmth of the thought, not allowing the shame of want  to creep in until the memory of it drifted away in the winds.

My heart tells me 13 or 18 for Aubrey and Itr, if you're up for either.

((Sorry this took so long! I ended up needing to re-write the whole thing, so the prompt kind of became irrelevant, haha))

Youth was a time for making as many mistakes as possible so one wouldn’t repeat them in their older age. So if the four teens were to get into trouble, well, that was to be expected even given their position. (Perhaps especially because of their position: nobility could be so restricting.) Trouble Itr could accept. Sacrilege on the other hand…

The cool air within the temple clung to every hair follicle, every lingering drop of sweat that remained on her body. It made the space feel otherworldly–moreso than normal. Just outside of the gaping stone mouth of an entryway stood the city of Bomé, whose walls still vibrated with the buzz of commerce and conversation. Even that wasn’t as it usually was, however. The oasis of a city had been subjected to a sweltering summer this year drawing the city’s buzz to more of a hum. And now in this cold? If Itr didn’t know better, she would have thought she had stepped through a portal to a completely different place. She couldn’t ignore the small part of her that wished that she had.

Just as she couldn’t ignore her wounded pride, her embarrassment sparking within that it had been the heat’s fault in the first place. If it hadn’t been so oppressively hot, if she didn’t have to play host to a couple of boys whose family reacted as though taking off their heavy velvet overcoats was a transgression against them personally, surely they wouldn’t have committed this transgression.

The spark caught no flame, however. There was no fuel for it to feed upon; there only remained the lingering heat of Itr’s own shame.

Is there something you want to tell me. The woman, leathered with age and sun, had asked. And Itr had the nerve to tell her ‘no’. The words could have come easily. The four of them–not that Zumurrd would admit it–snuck into the ritual pool long after the sun had set. They had enjoyed the cool, non-alligator infested waters, taken refuge in the privacy granted by the sanctuary, and in their revelry had accidentally knocked the offering urn from its altar, cracking it. It was a simple explanation, so easy, and yet Itr decided that things would be much better if she’d just… not tell S’ehs’eh Razeen?

Her knees tingled with oncoming numbness, pressed into the stone tiled floor as she knelt, the carving in front of her lit only by the dull flickering group of candles she’d brought. She couldn’t ask for forgiveness here–forgiveness ran through the blood of those you had wronged, and Bẹjẹ had spread their blood among all of them. But she could take responsibility.

From within the bronze bowl sat beneath the carving, she retrieved a dagger, sharpened to the point where even a reflection felt as though it may slice through skin. It felt right, the weight in her hands. She raised it, eyes shut in thought, and then…

“Wait!”

The familiar voice echoed off the rounded walls, granting it more presence than was perhaps intended. Mixed in with it was Itr’s unintentional yelp of surprise, creating something akin to a cacophony.

She swiveled around, not knowing exactly what to feel when her guess was proven to be right. “Aubrey?!” Smile and scolding fought for dominance on her face, leaving her with an awkward half-grimace. “What are you doing here,” she whispered, fully aware that the acoustics of the room ruined any chance of the whispers actually being anything close to ‘quiet’ or ‘subtle’. “You should be in bed.”

He seemed to deflate a little under the puncturing of her question, but took a moment to straighten himself back up. “I’m not going back without you.”  The line was entirely too over-dramatic for the situation from where Itr stood, but there was something about it… Suddenly, she was thankful for the low lighting and how it was unable to show off the color rising to her cheeks. Was this her punishment for doing this so late at night? When her emotions weren’t so easily controlled? “And it’s not like I can…” he paused, reframing his words. “What are you doing with that knife, anyway?”

She remained silent while he walked closer, his footsteps light, but still purposeful. “It’s not a knife, it’s a dagger.” As he took a seat next to her, Itr looked him over, letting out a puff of air. “This is entirely unfair. You don’t look cold at all.”

Aubrey let out a chuckle, nerves still hanging on, then tugged at the hem of his outerwear, offering it to her.

“Ah,” she declined, “it is probably better if… I don’t.”

More intrigued by her comment then worried Itr watched as he began to take in his surroundings. While his eyes swept across the intricately carved stonework and the paraphernalia, Itr couldn’t help but wonder where his thoughts were taking him. They’d never really spoken about the spiritual beliefs of her people outside of short, off-handed comments of oh, that’s just a religious thing. Was he interested? Was he scared? She’d heard some tales of what others thought of their practices, and hoped that Aubrey didn’t think they were quite so barbaric. After a moment, he seemed to comment to himself. “It’s cleaner than I’d thought…”

Itr squinted, looking down into the bowl that had had his attention last. “Why would it be dirty?”

He seemed to realize he’d actually said that out loud to another person. “Oh, uh, you know.” He fumbled, bashfulness spreading through his entire body as he realized that she didn’t ‘know’. “The… blood, and all that.”

“The… blood…” she repeated, keeping her eyes on him. Then, it hit her. “Aubrey. You realize we don’t do blood offerings, right?”

The progression of emotion that journeyed across his face made his intrusion worth it. From shock, to embarrassment, to a stiff look that threatened to tell her about the customs of her own people, Aubrey eventually settled on confusion as his eyes remained focused on the dagger in her hand. “That’s… it’s what the “Bloodless One” wants, though. Isn’t it?”

Itr couldn’t help it, a laugh exploded out of her. “You read too many stories!” At that, he seemed to take offense, but she couldn’t help that it was true. “It would be a pretty stupid name, then. Why wouldn’t they be called the Bloody One, or the Bloodseeker if that’s all they wanted?” Consternation set deeper into his expression causing her to tone down her jabs. It was obvious to her, of course, but Banteve was… ignorant? They were very set in their ways, in any case. And if Aubrey were to become her husband in the future, it wouldn’t do either of them any good if she laughed him out of a desire to understand.  

“I am not sure what exactly you have been told, but blood isn’t really a part–” She could feel him keeping his eyes from looking back at the space where the cracked urn was, the image of blood and the scent of the rotting meat within still fresh in both their minds. That would have to wait; she needed to keep it simple for the time being. “There’s only two times when blood is important in our lives,” she counted them out on her fingers, “When we are born and when we die.”

“It is a cycle: Bẹjẹ reclaims the blood that is lost when we die and gives it to us when we are born. That is why some of us can remember our past lives.” Not that she, herself, was entirely convinced that was something that could legitimately happen, or something to be happy about, but she couldn’t discount the swarths of her people who believed in it. “To spill blood frivolously at other times is an insult.” She backpedaled, “Well, it’s not like Bẹjẹ is going to be angry if you get a cut or something like that, but you know what I mean.”

Itr swallowed back the compulsion to keep rambling, letting a quiet fall between them as Aubrey nodded along. Was it a process, she wondered. Was him nodding a subtle act of accepting that what the scholars and such of his land had been wrong? Or was he just processing the information that she’d admittedly forced on him?

“So,” he began again in a tone she couldn’t immediately place, “what’s the knife, er, dagger for, then?”

A fair question that she’d been avoiding, and somehow she figured he knew she’d been avoiding, too. “Um, I suppose you were not entirely wrong about the sacrifice part. Good job.” She wanted more time to think about how to explain it without sacrificing any more of her pride, but the alarm that filled him pressed her to continue with no plan. “It’s not– I’m not going to be hurt,” she tried to calm him, but the words only seemed to concern him further.

Without a conscious thought, her free hand found a way to his leg, resting there as if it always belonged there holding back his anxieties. “Okay, so.” But why couldn’t she sound cool and in control when she wanted to the most? “Yes, as you probably guessed breaking that thing was… bad. I do not want your family, “ to be cursed? That was a bad way to put that, right? That would just make him more nervous. “To be looked upon poorly by the, uh, seers. And I, too, need to take responsibility for what I have done.”

“You weren’t the one who knocked it over,” Aubrey argued, knowing that Jocelyn had taken that clandestined stumble.

“But I was the one who brought you all here. I should have been more careful.” Itr smiled gently at him, “And it serves no one to force the blame onto someone else when I am here to accept it openly.” She sighed, removing her hand from him and picking up the blade once more. “I will miss it…”

“Wait!” He called out again the moment she slipped the blade behind her head. She paused, stilling the what now that rested behind her lips. “You’re… you’re just cutting off your hair, then?”

She didn’t understand why he sounded so perplexed. Him, the one that was expecting her to carve her own flesh as if that was a normal thing people did. “Yes?”

“Let me do it, then.” He offered, resolute. “Please.”

Slowly, she removed the blade from beneath her waves of dark brown hair. Her eyes focused on him, pressing the no longer chilled metal into his palm. “Why?”

He held her gaze; a reminder that soon they would no longer be children and the leniency of youth would be beyond their reach. “I bear responsibility, too, for what happened. So I can’t stand for you to shoulder this burden alone.”

Curse him.

Curse him for sounding like the king he should be. The king he would be one day if Itr had anything to say about it, even if she wasn’t the queen he chose.

Caging the butterflies fluttering around in her chest, she smirked. “Is this your way of saying you like my hair long?” He faltered, sputtering at her cheekiness which even after all this time he never seemed prepared for. She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. It will grow back soon.”

Letting her fingers linger as she drew them from his face Itr turned around, facing the carving once more. There was probably some rule that defined this as another sacreligious action, but as a more purposeful silence fell around them once more she couldn’t find this anything less than a holy experience. His fingers were gentle, making sure not to pull at the unexplored curls as he gathered them in his hand. One by one, strands of hair separated from her head. Each severing serving not to prove the weight of what had been done, but freeing her from the weight of her own judgment. Like her hair, she could grow. She could learn. She could be better. She could restart the process as many times as it took. And as she clasped Aubrey’s hands in her own, leading them over to the copper bowl to deposit the hair into, she knew she wanted to have no one but him see how it was done. Only he could cut her hair, and then they could watch together as it burned as they both started the next step on their journey.

With the dagger back in its proper place and the candles extinguished, the embers of her hair were all that remained to light their way back into the city. “If it is all the same to you, I would appreciate it if we did not break anymore religious items while you were here.” Itr wrinkled her nose, the scent of burning hair much more unpleasant than what she was expecting.

Aubrey laughed, his hand resting against her now exposed neck, shielding it from the elements as best he could. “I think we can handle that.”

Getting Pounded In The Ass By My Inability To Express Emotional Intimacy [A Dungeoning Ficlet]

((Warning for discussion of NSFW topics. The story itself is not NSFW.))

“I wonder,” he spoke coyly, knowing too well the answer to this riddle that stood before him, “what you would do in my situation. To be tempted as such. Knowing the sweetness of honey nestled within your comb...”

A breath left me like an arrow, futilely plunging itself within the air surrounding us--thick with desire--leaving no puncture with which to relieve the mood. “I can have no other.” Ain growled, the raspiness returning to his voice, instinct taking over as he cornered me against the stone wall. I knew I couldn’t escape him--he had my scent. I knew I didn’t want to escape him. I wanted him to take me here just as he had done during Lady Nesterly’s hunt.

My voice came out low, the words leaving like syrup from my lips, hoping to push him over the edge. “Say please.”

His gratitudes were not so verbose; a boon onto itself. Where once I complained of the sensation of stubble against my skin, I now found the prickles enticing, for what lay beyond them was a ruthless barrage of heat and tongue drawing me ever deeper into him and his ken. Forest, sweat, and dusk swirled around me, not even the moon daring to shed her light on our tryst. The dark can spawn such sweet secrets.

The gentleness with which Ain moved my dressings aside cooled my flame. The beast--my beast--content enough to light it once more with a mere meeting of eyes. “I can bear it no longer.” He spoke the words not to the air around him nor himself, but to me this time. A gasp of pleasure escaped me as the head of his… of his…

“What’s another word for ‘cock’?” The light clicking of heels against wood abruptly stopped, the train of thought likewise stopping as though it’d hit a brick wall.

A sigh came from the nearby desk, stacked moderately with papers and various other knicknacks. “I already told you all the ones I knew. What’s wrong with ‘cock’, anyways? ‘Cock’s fine. ‘Cock’s’ reliable.”

“Yes, darling, but I’ve already used it. I’m bored with it and everyone else is too,” the pale slim eclipse of a woman motioned to all the non-existent people standing beside them in their hovel of an inn room. Turning on the ball of her foot, she returned to pacing, this time lacking the staccato beat keeping her narrative flowing. Through all the humming, her companion--lanky and roguish--kept his eyes on the ceiling, more interested in keeping the quill balanced in the space between his nose and upper lip than the seeming issue at hand. “What about….” she drew out the vowels longer than necessary, “meat staff?”

“Don’t use that. Nothin’s sexy about meat.”

She huffed. “Then stinger.”

A soft clatter echoed behind him, the pen finally taking its inevitable plunge. “Isn’t that a little too on the nose? You know, honey, bee, stinger?”

“That’s! The! Point! We’re keeping on brand.”

“Uh huh,” Tom sounded less than impressed. “Noticed you used ‘bear’ earlier too. Hate to say it, but it sounds a lil’ cheesy, Syne.”

“He is a bear, Tom. It’s a very clever and well-thought out callback to his mythical roots. Frankly I’m disappointed that you don’t understand that.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“And I am “just sayin’”. Who’s the expert here?” The pause that followed after filled with nothing but silence, long enough that if anyone else had happened to be in the room they may have believed that writer and transcriber were competing who could be silent the longest. The battle ended with a sound not unlike steam leaving a teapot. “Fffffffffine. Fine! We’ll take it out!” Syne threw her hands up, stomping back the three steps it took to be as opposite as Tom as she could be. “Does the greatest author of our time of mythical and otherwordly romance have any further knowledge to bestow upon me?”

“Ignoring that I did technically write those books… yeah, I do.” The expression Syne shot him was inscrutable. Mostly because her eyes were covered by her hair. “Writing dirty books is all well ‘n good, but we’re trying to get this out for The Feast of Cups. Don’t you think something more, I ‘unno, romantic would sell better?”

“Oh, Tom. Oh sweet, darling Tom.” She sauntered over to his desk bending slightly potentially looking at him eye-to-eye. “It is a shortsighted folly to aim for one day of glory. Certainly we could entice all lovers and those seeking the fantasy of love with a tale of two hearts overcoming their differences and learning to grow in their affection. But what then?” Her mouth waxed into a crescent moon of a smile. “Remain forgotten on the shelf as another, less worthy tale of princes and bodyguards or some such drivel takes our place? No!” Tom barely flinched as Syne’s palm slammed against the desk.

“We push the envelope of mortal desire not because we want to, but because it. Is. Necessary! ….And also because I want to, yes I’m not denying that, but this is also what the people want. Their underlying promiscuity laid naked and writhing in front of them! Romance is, after all, temporary, while scandal--”

“Lives forever,” Tom finished in a flat tone, all too familiar with this speech. A scrape droned against the floor as Tom pushed out his chair, his knuckles cracking like the spine of a freshly printed book while he stretched. “I’m not invested in it either way. Just thought it’d be fun to shake things up a bit. Like a limited edition kind of deal.”

She watched him curiously for a moment before turning her attention to her own fingers, examining them, moving them around in lieu of anything else to fidget with. “I didn’t realize you were such a romantic, Tom.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for happy endings.” He grinned at nothing in particular before moving towards the door. “I’m going out for a bit. You need anything from… uh, the woods, I guess?”

“Find me the smoothest stone from the bottom of the river, and perhaps I’ll forgive you for your slight against my brilliance.” It took only moments for Tom’s chuckle to dissipate into the air around her, leaving Syne alone with only her thoughts. It’d been a bad year for writing, but a good year for selling. And an all around good-bad year for ghost hunting. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a nugget of sense in what Tom had proposed. The only problem was that the dear fool didn’t realize it was impossible. Not impossible for her, of course. Nothing was impossible for she who had molded her own space in mortal society with the help of no one else. It would be impossible for her audience to fully comprehend the depth and beauty of a tapestry of romance woven from her lips. There would be an epidemic of wailing across the land. Businesses would be closed! Crops would not be harvested! ...Frankly, it would be annoying and Syne would not stand for it.

Yet Tom remained a much valued companion. It wouldn’t hurt to gently show him how much of a failure his idea would be. Holding more intelligence than the average mortal, he would catch on soon enough. Once reaching her conclusion, they would speak on such things no longer, and would return to more important topics of conversation like why mortals had no appealing dirty words for vagina. Or why candle wax was apparently a proper tool to use in the bedroom.

Night had remained firmly settled when Tom returned to the small room finding Syne lying backwards across the meager mattress, her body half on the floor as if she had melted and a low groan emanating from her as though she were still in the middle of the process. She all but jolted up--rather, rolled over on her side and pushed herself to a standing position pretending that her elegance had remained in tact during his absence--the moment the thumping of produce hit the wooden surface. “Ah! Tom. How good of you to return.”

A strange, uncomfortable quiet fell over them as Syne had no other comment to add. “...If you have something to say to me, say it.”

“Patience!” Syne hissed. That non-combatant tone of Tom’s almost made this whole thing worse. Her hair fanned out behind her, unable to maintain eye contact with her friend. “I have decided that this year, we will scandalize our readers in another way! We will boil their hearts into a paste and watch as the remains ooze out onto the grounds below.” Tom’s nose wrinkled in disgust, but he remained quiet. “It’s a brilliant idea, I know. There’s no need for adulations.”

Taking one final satisfying stretch, Tom slid back into the seat and resumed his writing position. “So once more from the top?”

“Yes, yes! Exactly! ...Where were we again?”

“Let’s start from that I wonder speech.”

“Very well. Please steel yourself, darling. I’d hate to find you a quivering mass of feelings, unable to even hold your pen.” Several times Syne opened her mouth to start, and several times no words came to aid her. Yet just as soon as one may have worried, her pacing began and finally words hit the air once more.

“I wonder,” he spoke coyly, knowing too well the answer to this riddle that stood before him, “what you would do in my situation.”

Syne stole a look at Tom. So digilant. Ever focused on the page in front of him. Oh. Oh, she had to keep going before-- 

He, uh, gently grabbed a lock of my hair between his fingers, inspecting the strands as if scrutinizing a masterwork of art. “Do you know how I yearn for you? How I have yearned for you?” Without warning his lips crashed against-- “No, no. Forget that last part.” Syne’s thoughts felt as unorganized as Tom’s scratches on the paper.

“How I have yearned for you?” I leaned into his warmth as his finger ghosted across my collar bone, aching for his lips to grace more than just my hair. “Hyacinth… you have undone me. I fear… no… I regret… no! ...I remember that night beside the raspberry bush as if I were reliving it each time my mind wanders. I could live without you, b-but the thought of it makes... Makes me…”

“...Are you okay?” Tom looked up, faced with the image of Syne’s forehead pressed against the adjacent wall, arms bracing herself for what looked like a good vomit.

A weak reply barely reached his ears: “I want to die.” She hadn’t even been able to make it through an entire paragraph’s worth of content! These characters weren’t even real! What care did she have that they were exceptionally sappy and in love?! All mortals were that way! Foolish and open with their feelings, ready to be destroyed by their wayward emotions and then having the audacity to be surprised when it was used against them! It was terrible. How were they alive?! Syne could hear her blood pounding in her ears, feel the heat radiating off her face like a stovetop. Nerves clenched her throat shut as she heard Tom’s heavy footsteps draw ever closer and she desperately wished she could phase through the wall and away from him.

Her shoulder blades tensed as his hand heartily landed on the horizon of her shoulder. “I’m starving. We should eat somethin’ before we head out tomorrow morning.”

An off-kilter laugh was too easily managed, and barely shoved aside by Syne clearing her throat and saying actual words. “Yes. Yes, that is a marvelous idea. We shouldn’t rush the muse, after all.” Steadying herself with a breath, Syne’s eyes widened seeing Tom holding not food out to her, but a pale grey thing.

Catching a whiff of her confusion despite the inaccessibility to half of her facial features, Tom again shrugged. “Doubt it’s the smoothest, but it’s pretty smooth. The rock. From the river. Like you asked.”

Long fingers wrapped around the small, oblong stone, running up and down its sides. ...It was pretty smooth. A genuine smile flickered across her mouth--a shooting star for a wish to be made upon. “Such a devoted one you are,” Syne mused quietly before returning to her more typical bombastic mannerisms. “You are forgiven, Tom! Remember my kindness fondly!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Anyways, got an orange and a pear. What do you want.”

“I’ll--” she stopped herself. “You may choose first.”

The look of surprise on Tom’s face was just as fleeting and just as precious. “Suit yourself.”

A romance novel to shake the ages may have been off the table for an indefinite amount of time, but what was such a thing compared to watching Syne eat a mortal orange for the first time, peel and all.

After the Last Dragon Is Slain

When she was much younger, Margaret held on desperately to the idea that life would be a fantastic journey, full of twists, turns, loves and losses, and quite possibly dragons (or at least an elf or two). As she grew, she dropped the delusions of mythical creatures and grand adventures—those things simply didn’t happen. The closest she would ever get to a dragon would be the flickering embers crumbling from her father’s business partner, that Italian man’s cigar like blighted snowflakes. And the dangers of the business world were much more tangible, but reality didn’t stop her from playing at princess. She was supposed to rule over her father’s empire as its strict, but benevolent figurehead. Her story was supposed to be one that started with ‘once upon a time’. Now liberated from her security blanket of a dream, she realized that no one would care about the story of Shoko Suzuki.

It had been all wrong. This… this was all wrong. She was supposed to be courted properly. The proposal would have been something much more romantic than a brief opening of that claw-like box to an audience that knew what was going on while she was in the dark. The ring would not have been platinum, the diamond not this cut. He wouldn’t call her Shoko and claim that Margaret was not an acceptable name for his future wife. No one would insist calling her by his last name despite the fact the ceremony was months away. But for all her complaining, she must have agreed to this, right? Somehow, she must have thought this would have been good in the long run, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out how.

In the back of her mind she wondered if maybe she was getting tired of the royalty shtick. For all her complaining about her peers, it was only right of her to follow her own lead and do what was best for her. And, well, that was fitting in, wasn’t it? She had a promise to keep now, and if it would help her fiancée succeed, she needed to support him. So, gone were the fanciful dresses with lace dancing on the seams, in their place business-like attire. She was serious, she would be taken seriously. She would play their game as she always had, just by a different set of rules. It was alright: she wasn’t feeling very royal these days in any case, so why torture herself with memories that should be left to fade like the ink on an old Polaroid.

On the good days, things fell into place: square pegs dropping into square holes. On the bad days, she pressed up against the corner of her shower praying that she could slip down the drain or turn into steam and evaporate into a better life. On those days, reality reminded her that the only condolence such flights of fancy could give her was protecting her pride as the sounds of her soft cries were covered by the pattering droplets.

Yet, by some stroke of luck—good or bad, she couldn’t decide—those sour notes of a day tended to be the same days she had ‘business meetings’. It was what she had taken to calling them when asked; she couldn’t very well call it a lunch date. A soon-to-be married woman had no place housing the word ‘date’ in her lexicon when her fiancée would barely even treat her to dinner. Especially not a date with a married man. Without the company of his wife. But it wasn’t a date, simply a meeting with an old friend. A friend from school. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all with making small talk over a cup of coffee, nothing wrong with leaving the ring at home to make sure it wouldn’t get dirty or lost—it was one of a kind, after all. And certainly nothing strange about how hearing ‘Margaret-hime’ come from his lips released her tension better than all the chiropractors and hot stone massages her money could buy her. It was only after, watching the scenery zoom by through the subway window, that her worries came back ten-fold. But while she was with Ryuu, everything seemed perfect.

There was suddenly magic in mundane small talk questions. Margaret and he both wished better for his career, but she was glad that he had someone to keep him company and said just so on several occasions even if it was that nasty philosopher (which she also did not fail to mention, earning her a chuckle). Similarly, they both expressed displeasure at Margaret’s own lack of employment, only because she was bored out of her mind, and a princess should always be entertained. She kept blissfully vague about her own life: it was either fine or could be going better. He didn’t like talking about his wife, but adored his children. She adored listening to him adore his children. To an outsider, nothing would seem out of the ordinary even if their hands did linger a bit too long when they were saying, rather, shaking farewell. Or even when he was saying how beautiful she still was and she how well he was aging. Those were just facts. Just facts, she told herself over and over again, but no matter how many times she said it her words couldn’t quell the nausea that rose and settled long after she had slipped into bed for the night.

Masato wasn’t any the wiser—as far as he was concerned, he was getting information on another business and his fiancée was keeping busy. His own schedule left little time for personal frivolity, so finding her own source of entertainment was like a boon for him. But when they did manage to have a bit of free time together, it was always the same place they went: the outdoor markets. A bit kitschy, certainly, but he adored them and it gave the impression of quality time.

As was per the usual, the two ended up separated from each other after Masato remembered spotting something he wanted a couple stalls back.  Only after a promise of her not moving did he leave Margaret to her own devices, her bag already weighed down with a couple purchases. She was used to standing in the same spot, never for very long, thirty minutes at the most. The happy couples and families that walked by were nothing but white noise to her now, eyes staying unfocused on the space in front of her. Only one thing could have caused her to move, and had she less control over herself ‘move’ would have been an understatement. With quick strides Margaret weaved through the crowd, not noticing the people she hit with her bag in the meantime. They weren’t important, only the one she called out for was important. “Aoba-san!” It was a necessity in public that they use such formalities—and yes, the necessity was understood—and though used to it, her voice cracked, ‘Ryuu-kun’ all but filling the spaces left behind by her sudden nerves. When the imposing figure in front of her stopped her heart skipped a beat, her legs following suit. She felt like she could fly to him above this crowd, but for once finding her path around all these people didn’t seem like such a chore. The two of them both looked entirely too stuffy to belong in such a place. Entirely unsuited for the whole scene. The ridiculousness of the situation didn’t escape her: never did she think in all her years she’d frequent some place like this, and certainly he felt the same. It was something she couldn’t help but laugh at. A relieved sort of laugh that felt all too unfamiliar.

For a moment words didn’t come, the noise of others filling in where conversation would have been unnecessary. Margaret simply was happy to see him, like an oasis in a desert. It could have been he felt the same: the smile they shared seemed similar, and not just because it was the same contortion of muscles. “Fuuchi-san, I didn’t expect to see you here. What are you doing?”

She chuckled, “I should be asking you the same thing.” It must have been her giddiness distorting her perception or she would have surely noticed sooner the way Ryuu’s mouth sunk back into a line of apathy. How his posture immediately straightened, stiff as a board.

“Ryuu, who’s this?”

To her credit, Ryuu’s wife didn’t sound immediately accusatory, but the apprehension didn’t escape Margaret. If the Fuuchi girl had someone who looked like herself smiling with her own husband, she would have had some questions as well.  Briefly, her mind whited out: she had been caught. Caught doing what, exactly? In the pit of her stomach, Margaret knew the answer. She had always known, but she had always been good at escaping reality. If growing up had taught her anything, however, it was that reality had a way of closing the book of ‘fairy tales’ on you entirely, and you could either escape or get crushed by the fantasy. Had it been anyone else, she may have been willing to test the weight of the pages, but not Ryuu. He had to remain unscathed, he and his children deserved that much. So, as she had been taught to do long before she entered Hope’s Peak’s doors, she plastered a smile on her face.

“You must be Aoba-san’s wife. You’re as beautiful as he said.” The look of mild confusion didn’t leave the woman’s face, and honestly Margaret didn’t blame her. Digging through her bag, she pulled out a book—hardcover, not really a clue to what could have been in its contents—and offered it to him. “This is the book that Suzuki—“ She couldn’t even complete her ruse before she was interrupted once more.

“There you are. Why didn’t you pick up your phone?” This time it was Margaret’s expression that slipped, bordering on something close to horror. “Who’s this?” He addressed the question not to the person he was asking, but to Ryuu himself.

Margaret was certain he didn’t entirely grasp the situation, on why this stranger who just so happened to be the fiancée she never mentioned was suddenly demanding answers from him, but as expected, Ryuu was adaptable. “Ryuu Aoba.” Short, and to the point, if not somewhat chilly.

In an appeasing manner, she placed a hand on Masato’s arm. “He’s an old friend from high school, I told you about him.”

“Oh, so this is him.” He seemed pleased with the answer. “Thank you for putting up with Shoko. I really appreciate it,” though jovial, the comment cut her. Less that he said it, but more who he said it to. There was no way for Ryuu to properly respond to that. Rather, Margaret didn’t want to wait for a response.

“Masato, honey, we should let them go on their way now,” a plea one notch below desperate, she pushed on his arm lightly in an attempt to start him on the path away from this… whatever this was. Debacle? Noticing the book was still out she resumed holding it out to Ryuu—may as well come full circle. “Anyway, we both thought you may enjoy this book, isn’t that right?” There was nothing that could fix this situation, not the fact that Masato agreed with her in his grunting I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about manner nor the fact that Ryuu actually accepted the book from her. The weight from both of the Aobas’ stares as the picked out the engagement ring on her finger sealed the deal and the shame burned like hot wax.

Masato’s remarks of not ignoring her phone or leaving without telling him continued to needle at her as they headed the opposite direction from the other couple.  Only when they approached the Mos Burger next to the station did she finally explode. Her final dream was gone, she figured, what did she care about causing a scene now. All she wanted to do was go home, but even as she walked up the steps to the upper floor of their home she wasn’t satisfied.

What was her home? It wasn’t with her father. It had never been here with Masato. She had thought that maybe it had been with Ryuu, but it couldn’t be. If it was, she would be the one with his last name, the one with two children. She hated it, but Margaret couldn’t stop coveting this thing that was never hers. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she wasn’t supposed to become the thing she hated most. That night she locked herself in the lower floor bathroom, staying vigilant by the toilet hoping to expel this disgusting thing that had grown inside her. This thing that had caused her to lie more than she had in decades. Eventually slumping on the ground, Margaret dreamt the scenario she so often had and woke up how she usually did: with fresh tears streaking her cheeks.

Five weeks and three days passed before another lunch date was scheduled. In that time Masato’s scolding had given way to concern, but sure to pick up the slack her father was more than ready to tell her how she had no reason to be moping around. It wouldn’t look good, and the Fuuchis—soon to be Suzukis, don’t you forget—did nothing if not kept up good appearances. Their words washed over her: she was too busy loathing herself to feel any sting for the possible disappointment anyone else held. Today, though, she finally picked herself up, threw on a jacket, and headed for a place she had never been before. Though countless uncertainties plagued her mind, the only question Margaret could form as she stood outside the smooth beige building was how Ryuu managed to swing this. She had truthfully never been inside a psychologist’s office before, now she could sympathize with the people who found it an intimidating experience. The halls seemed unnecessarily long and the walls much too bare.  It didn’t help that the building seemed to be empty—just how many favors had he called in?

Upon opening one of the many doors, she found that the deep blue chair he was sitting in seemed to suit him well. Like a king on his throne. Such a shame it hadn’t worked out for him. Though he motioned to the long couch, she shook her head. She wasn’t here to get comfortable, not this time. There was no small talk to be had, simply the uncomforting ticking of a clock. Margaret opened her mouth to speak, instantly silenced by Ryuu’s finger. She waited, keeping an eye on him while the pounding in her head intensified. The door was so close, her fingers itched to hold the handle and escape to safety, but that would just be another fantasy—what had those done for her thus far? So she continued to wait, distanced from the man she loved until he finally said something. “So, that man is…”

She guessed this was how it was going to start. “We’re engaged.”

“And the ring?” His eyes immediately scanned the location where it should have been.

“In my purse.”

Ryuu had to pause a moment, most likely to gather his thoughts. Where else could you go from there while maintaining a delicate sensibility? “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…” several thousand answers buzzed around in her mind, but she knew there was only one she could use, the only one they deserved. The truth. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

It felt to Margaret as if the answer echoed across the room, trying to escape into the public. Her arms drew closer to her body in a sad attempt to protect herself from her own weakness, fully aware that it was already a part of her and that she herself had birthed it all on her own. Though ashamed, she kept her eyes on Ryuu. Even as he approached closer her eyes didn’t move from his face. His expression, unreadable. But then again, he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking past her.

With a steady, slow hand he brushed against her shoulder, cradling a lock of her hair. “You got your hair cut, didn’t you.”  Though cut, the pale green strands were long enough to bring to his lips. “You look lovely.”

All at once, the defenses that Margaret had been building for those five weeks crumbled and the tears flowed freely. The man who called himself her fiancée, who saw her every day, hadn’t even noticed the change, yet this man who hadn’t seen her for more than a month recognized it right away. Ryuu knew her, he understood her, and she loved him. Ever since high school she had known; he was her home. In her dreams she was with him and they were happy, overjoyed. He called her Shoko. It would only sound right coming from his lips, anyone else and it was blasphemy. She wanted so badly to show him that part of her, but here it would never happen. Here he could never be her home, he could never be hers and facing that was worse than dying. She pulled close to him, brushing her cheek against his. “I can’t do this, Ryuu. I can’t.”

Whether by some move of kindness or cruelty, she kissed him on the cheek. A final farewell to what they had and a beckoning towards what could be. With his two children, she highly doubted that Ryuu would divorce his wife for her, and Margaret didn’t have enough will left in her to hope for such a thing. No, her fairy tale had finally closed and she had chosen to abandon it rather than suffer through it for a possible happy ending.

As she closed the door behind her, no care given to the sobs that refused to stay bottled up, she still wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing. Would Shoko Suzuki end up happy? Was happy even still obtainable? These answers wouldn’t come to her now, if ever.

Perhaps Margaret never was destined for a life that started with ‘once upon a time’, it was a harsh fact, but something she could get used to as time went by, Still, in the depths of her heart she wished that someday, if a book was ever written about Ryuu’s life she would have a small part of it. ‘There was a girl I once knew, Margaret Fuuchi, and I loved her.’

Season of the Witch: A Camp Danketsu Dangan Fairytale AU Drabble

As one of the powerful witches of the Dark Woods you became accustomed to many things. Amusement. Anger. Sorrow, at times. The fear in others’ eyes when you came near—oh, you so loved that one. But loneliness, this was something you couldn’t quite place. A flavor on the tip of your tongue that tasted of a home long forgotten beneath the ever-winding vines of time.

You would not have noticed it, wouldn’t have even bothered to dwell on such foolish things were it not for that raven. Perhaps your eyes lingered too long on that young one who begged for your bubbling crimson brew of a love potion. Or did your hand reach after them as they hied back to their home? Whichever it was, the bird felt it necessary to comment. You shooed it away with threats to eat its heart, but the confusion that had been placed in yours was sticky like dark mud formed after a rain and twice as hard to remove.

Tonight, drenched in moonlight, your annual ritual took on a new, undesired form as you remembered those words.

In a forgotten corner of the Great Forest a small circle of stone lay sleeping under a bed of insistent moss. You’ve heard of such anomalies being dubbed ‘fairy circles’. Even if a fairy came across this, it wouldn’t know to what purpose it served. Only a marker, crafted by your own hands. No, the only important stone lay outside the circle, on the very edge. A small oval thing, its inscription eroded with time, but you didn’t need to know what it said. It held no importance to you: a fact you tried to convince yourself of even as you kneeled in front of it.

Yew for sorrow

Foolishness is something humans hold onto more dearly than anything. As much an endearing trait as it is annoying. So when you catch hushed whispers on how bad little girls get spirited away to the forest to become tengu and witches you can’t help but laugh. Such things seem ridiculous to you: witches are born, not made, after all. Remembering nothing outside of the forest surely proves that.

No matter how much effort you put into remembering some life beyond the wall of trees, you would never remember. Never recall the now similarly eroded majestic home that used to be your gilded birdcage. Nor the woman who died at the stake: she with half of your name and you with half her genes. Or the man who called for her death and would have called for your own had you not left when you did. The similarities between how your skirt dirtied with soiled water tonight just as it had back when you threw yourself at the mercy of the woods would escape you.

Could you even bring yourself to trust such memories?

Zinnia for thoughts of an absent friend

You had no need to read the fading words on the headstone. Were you not so stubborn, you may even have admitted to yourself that you were frightened to see what they said. But you were that stubborn. Content to justify it with a macabre sense of achievement. When you ordered one of the other creatures to dig up the contents of the earth below you had expected remains: this was clearly a grave, what else could it have been. You had not expected remains that reminded you of the forest’s faithful protectors.  Creatures die all the time as is nature’s wicked way, but who would spend so much time, so much effort? Who would create a coffin fit for the king of canines? Who would dress the beast with a ribbon for it to only become a feast for maggots?

Suddenly, you couldn’t bear to see the bones. More than an excavation, the exposed skeleton became the gallows. With your last mustered breath, you plead that they bury it once more and never speak of it again.

You never speak of it again.

Honeysuckle for the everlasting bonds of love

The last member of this bouquet confused you the most out of all of them. You knew the romance language of the flora. You knew what each piece meant, but not why bringing anything less felt as though you were desecrating something sacred. What were you supposedly loving? Missing? Remembering?

Why, as you removed the brown husks of last year’s offering, could you feel the sting of tears welling?

The ritual consisted of you planting the new bouquet and sitting in silence. Of contemplating where you came from, of the tastes and scents of a past life, forever tempting to you the warmth of their fire, but closing the door in your face should you come too close. Any feelings of abandonment by these events were purely coincidental.

With the dawn comes your departure. Sun filling the emptiness in your heart on the journey home. Ignorant as they were, creatures like the raven would certainly call this hollowness ‘loneliness’, but loneliness comes from a loss of something one once held. You can’t mourn places you’ve never been, people you’ve never known. You cannot mourn things you don’t remember.

But sometimes you try.

teemo a miku b 4

(I can’t believe I wrote so fucking much)

She had never wanted this, never asked for it, but the worst things always seemed to happen when she let her guard down. When her best friend, and secret crush, Teemo invited her over to his house (well, it was more like a nicely furnished stump) of course she wasn’t expecting anything bad to happen. She had been over plenty of times. She talked about her songs and how the other vocaloids were doing and he talked about the League and the new, strange people that seemed to show up more often than re-colors of her on DeviantArt claimed to be an original character. But when she knocked on the quaint wooden door there was something noticeably different in the air. Perhaps she should have taken it as a sign and left, but Miku Hatsune didn’t run away, didn’t simply disappear from her friend’s invitations.

He was his normal self when he invited her in, all smiles and innocence. Even asked her if she wanted a drink. She declined his offer of the beverage, but followed with a childlike curiosity when he beckoned her to follow him. He had something special planned for today.

She had been in this room before— being a stump, there weren’t that many rooms to entertain in, so suffice to say she had been in pretty much all of them. The patchwork bean bag chair was still nestled in the corner and the makeshift bookshelves still lined with all the same books. His safari hat was even resting on the bed, so when he offered her one of the seats she shouldn’t have felt so unnerved. Yet there she was, the hairs on the back of her neck slowly standing to attention.

“Miku-chan,” he smiled at her, almost looking nervous but something about the glint in his eye signaled something a little more devious. “Someone told me of something fun we could do! Let’s try it!” That giggle of his… that was the last thing she heard before he pushed her into a chair and wedged her into her prison. Her arms forced to stay firmly placed against the gray fabric of her uniform. By then she knew it was too late. She knew the tears that were threatening to form would soon be allowed to flow freely.

It had been ten minutes since then though it seemed like an eternity. “T-Teemo-kun,” the idol sniffled. “Please. Please stop. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Aw, come on, Miku-chan. We’ve barely even started.”

“You baka. D-don’t make me…”

“Shh, this is the best part.” Teemo placed his hand on the oval contraption, dragging it in front of Miku. She wanted him to stop. Desperately she wanted this pain in her kokoro to stop. But at the same time, there was a tiny part of her that wanted him to continue, to continue on with this travesty against her. “Ooooh,” Teemo drawled in a faux-sweet voice. “Kaito-kun, don’t look at my naughty hole. It’s so dirty~”

Miku’s shoulders shuddered in agony, her teal bangs now covering her eyes completely. This… this was torture. She would never… never ever do such a thing with Kaito. It was completely unkawaii! “S-stop!! This is so embarrassing!”

“But Miku,” Teemo whined, turning away from the computer screen, the tab on his browser reading ‘fanfiction.net’, “isn’t this funny? It’s so funny!”

“No! No it’s totally not!!” she pouted. “You’re just laughing because it’s not about anata.”

This caused Teemo to pause in thought for a moment, but only a moment, before shrugging. “Maybe, but you could have left if you wanted to.” He waggled what would have been his eyebrows if he had eyebrows, “Do you wanna leave?”

Miku’s eyes scanned the screen full of far more incriminating text than she ever would have thought possible to write. She had seen earlier, there were seventeen chapters of this and they were only on the eighth. So far to go. But in the same vein, they had come too far and Miku, well, she wasn’t the type to give up on a challenge. She would keep rolling on, even if it hurt her. “J-just stop using those voices, okay?”

Teemo shook his head, “Nuh-uh, that’s what makes it bearable.” Relenting a little bit he squeezed Miku’s hand in comfort, “Afterwards, we can find a really terrible fanfiction about Luka to get her back.” Miku merely shook her head in agreement: she needed to keep her strength for the horrors that awaited her only words ahead.

"Don't say it."

The inevitability of the situation finally lay scattered in the air: the prize from a Christmas cracker that no one wanted. She knew that she was only fooling herself and now she was stuck kicking herself behind the crystalline blue eyes that could no longer stand to look at the man that was still stroking her fingers. Still staring at her, tracing her moves as she unwillingly pulled away from him, her chair scraping loudly across the linoleum tiles of the cafeteria. It wasn't that he was breaking up with her, really, but the apology that came with it. The same apology that their relationship started on. She'd much rather deal with the staggering emptiness than that kind of irony.

I said I was gonna write Borderlands fic, and now I have. I have way to many feelings about everything. [Spoilers]

He loved her eyes the most. An ice blue that pierced through the plague infesting this insufferable planet, striking it to its molten core. Almost divine: born of his righteous judgement that he was now bestowing upon this godless planet. Yet, there was a secret behind them that he could not decipher despite his intelligence. Some days he would catch her smiling as though she had to keep it a secret, back turned to the main camera. Oh, did she look like her mother in those moments. Long ago, she had stopped asking why mommy couldn't come with them and he had accepted the hatred that came with his avoidance of the topic. He didn't want to, but that's what heroes did and damned if he wasn't going to be that hero. Even if his angel didn't understand now, she would. When Pandora was purged of it's illness and a golden dawn lay before them, she would understand. She didn't enjoy talking to him these days and he respected that when he could, but he had a planet to save and for that the mercurial phases of daughters had to be put on hold. But she knew how he felt, he made sure of it. Beyond her perfectly defended haven the key to the inner chambers would echo indefinitely. No matter where he was, she would know. "I love you."

Why do you have to make the choice so hard for me darling?! Uhm, uhm, Love me or mourn me, your choice. Characters are also your choice. Go wild!

Ahaha, sorry this took so long. Hopefully it's...understandable despite my tons and tons of headcanon-ing. orz

He did not laugh. Out of the plethora of ridiculous things you could have asked him, you picked perhaps the most illogical option. Yet, he did not laugh.It was not the first time you remembered this occurring, and sometimes you were certain that he was just humoring you, but there was always that glint in his eyes that made you feel as though he wanted your foolish whims to come true as badly as you did. He was crazy enough for you to believe that he could grant them. Unbeknownst to him, however, he had granted your first wish a long while ago. A different, but still insane request.To defy a highblood was one thing, but to steal what was, by the standards of society, rightfully theirs was a death sentence. You had known that all of your life. That was your job, the operation behind the monetary storage facility. The calling of the accostants. You were bred to steal from your owner's enemies and belong entirely to them. Servitude. Slavery. Wording did not matter, the fact remained that once you were selected you would never move by your own will again. At first, it was simple: the highblood reminded you of certain persons so he became tolerable. Then nights started melding together. As if you were taking a misstep off a steep cliff, the words your ancestor had so delicately written down became hollow lies. Normally, you would rebel, but in facing hopelessness you found that you no longer cared. Things were always easier when you did not care. Your scientist did not care about what was easier for you. Did not care how it would impact you when he came waltzing in that bistro on the behest of your owner--who would have certainly not brought you along had he known--discussing effects of reticulated slitherbeast venom with various other substances when injected into different castes. Did not care to even remember you at first. You must have looked so different: figure shrinking behind the golden, claim-marking jewelry adorning your every limb. A disgusting sight for someone so lavishly decorated to have the gall to complain. The audacity to ask, to demand an escape from such a life. To be confused at such a request was normal. Yet, he did not laugh. Not even as you hiked up your dress above your knees and marched across the beach onto his ship did he laugh. Looking back on it now, the entire scene was terribly silly and it was possible that you were being a bit over-dramatic, but for once in your life you felt like you had some semblance of control. The fact that you two weren't killed afterwards  perhaps used up  one more of your wishes than you intended.You had, of course, adopted a new title, a new name after the escape which he proceeded to never use despite your hard work. Always keeping his young spark, he instead insisted on calling you your childhood name. It was clear that this would be an aspect of him much like him keeping everything strewn about (passionately claiming that it was "organized" every time you tried to clean) and receiving ideas in the middle of the day, scrambling for a stray scrap of paper to jot it down. Something he would never be talked out of. Then again, he never fully understood your twisting vines of rhetoric and always seemed uninterested in your poetry beyond sentiments of, "that's nice." He did, to your astonishment, realize when you were serious about something. When he didn't laugh when you questioned the implausibility of an immortality serum , you knew for certain that you loved him. You  hoped that his acceptance of your sudden curiosity was due to his eagerness to be the first to find such a serum, rather than pity over what you would have to face in the upcoming sweeps. For most of your life you had been alone, even if surrounded by the droning noises of your peers, but the prospect never bothered you until, in his uncaring manner, your scientist forced his way back into your life. Gently brushing a stray tendril from the side of his face, you wondered if this was the reason that serum was never discovered. Subconsciously, you had made your third wish when you boarded the vessel. Three: that was the limit on wish granting, was it not? To escape. To survive. And to stay with him. And though gentle in your arms now, you knew that he was no fae and, cruel as though it seemed, those wishes were not his to grant. Your anger had dissipated into the sea-spray what seemed like hours ago. All you were left with was this confining freedom that you had no clue what to do with and a disdainful appreciation for whatever powers determine fate. Teal streaked cheeks rose in a pitiable attempt at a smile as you grazed your lips right below his earlobe. Throat tightening, a wavering request managed to escape: Please, open your eyes. He did not laugh.  Not when you left with him, not when you wanted to fight nature for him, and not now in the peace of the moonlight. He did not laugh. He could do so no longer, so you laughed for him until bitter sobbing claimed your resolve, arms wrapped tightly around your mate in futile longing.

Break Me. /sucker for angst

Break Me: Sven/AP Pillswarts

"Shit!"The curse unleashed itself from her mouth like a snake's hiss. So bountiful those sharp words fell that if you weren't completely sure she hadn't the attention span for it, you would swear she was speaking parseltongue. Although the snake you were thinking of wasn't even in the room presently. Her eyes flickered from worry to anger as she paced tracks into the stone floor. It reminded you of fire: beautiful and fierce, but only able to be put out by smothering it. You couldn't do that, you're not sure that you would even want to. But to watch her slowly burn out, to wane into smoke seemed so much more painful. That much more cruel.  "Y'need t'calm d'wn."Like that, the intensity of her flame was on you, her narrowed eyes doing nothing to remove any of the burning malice she held. "Don't you dare tell me t'calm down! D'you know what that tosser did?!"  Your interjection stalled by those brown eyes boring into your own. "What kinda person speaks ill of someone's mum? Tell me that."Inwardly you sigh, not only for your schoolmate and the girl in front of you, but for the entire ridiculousness of the situation. Baldur had admitted to apologizing, after airing his own grievances about  how most everyone at Hogwarts was an "uncouth asshole", but knowing your friend his apologies while honest, have the tendency to come off as somewhat insincere and brash. Parisa was, in many ways, the same: maybe that's what drew you to her in the first place. Her insincere reassurance she gave to that nice Hufflepuff girl was what lead you further into this situation. Somewhere in your mind, you wish that everyone would finally learn from people like Rochelle but at this moment it was too late to be thinking about something like that. "He 'pol'giz'd, didn' he? Stayin' so mad isn' goin't'help anyo--""Apologized my ass! He might as well've spat in our eye!""He did wh't h'could. Y'should s--""Did what he?! Did what he could!? What are you getting--"Somehow, her skin felt like it was burning you as you firmly planted her in a seat, using your gentle force against hers as she struggled to get to her feet once more. Where had she gotten all this hatred? It was as if she had been bottling it up for all her life, only to release it in one monstrous inferno capable of swallowing up everything in its path. "Calm d'wn." You stared her down, hoping your gaze looked serious enough; anything less and you could be devoured. "Bald'r said s'mthin' he shouln't'a, but y'r fr'nd isn't faultl'ss eith'r. W'need t'fix th's, not make it worse." If you could stop this here, help her see the possition both you and Rochelle are placed in she could do so much to stop this petty argument. Why was it still even going on? How could their hearts stand to burn with so much hatred for someone they barely even knew? Her eyes flicked to the floor, voice like steam dissipating in the air, "Why are you takin' his side?" The fragility in her voice was so odd, different than anything you expected that you were speechless for a moment. "Th's isn' about s'des. 'T's 'bout helpin' ev'ryone. Y'r both m'fr'nds 'nd--""Well maybe you need t'get some new friends." You knew the words were hollow, only hot air, but it didn't lessen the sting no matter how many times you told yourself that. Her shoulder tensed under your hand, but somehow she knew she couldn't take the words back. In this cold, abandoned room was where you saw Parisa Sontay begin to evaporate into a shell of her previous glory. In this mausoleum of a classroom was where you realized that you weren't capable of taming the wildfire in her heart,  only able to quash it. Quickly, you removed your hands and backed away, afraid she would fall to ash under your weight. "M'be y'sh'ld l'stn t'y'r own adv'ce." It came out much more bitter than you intended, but you couldn't help but wonder that if the victim hadn't been that Gryffindor boy if she would feel so strongly and persist so fervently. A bothersome serpent intertwined within her heart and...when did you start thinking like this? You needed to leave, before the fire she had seemingly infected you with began to spread further. A hushed goodbye tumbled messily from your lips as you left her, eyes meeting one last time. She looked helpless, confused but you couldn't help her, not like this. You closed the door softly behind you, trying to block out her wavering, "Sven?" from echoing in your mind. Your footsteps easily overcame the haunting sound, but those ember eyes followed you into your slumber.

Oops, I Drabbled

Whoops, OC Stuff at One in the Morning

I can't stop thinking about College!Trolls. Send help.

As expected, a low grumble was all Nicole’s roommate could hear over the sound of the blaring video game music from the television. She was playing Animal Crossing, it must have gone sour and fast. “I’m sorry, I didn’t make that out. Could you maybe speak a little—“

“I said I don’t fucking want to talk about it, Sisi! What the fuck do I have to do to get some goddamn privacy?!”

Siroun always found that nickname rather annoying, but it suited her little dumpling of a roomie. Plus, it gave her just enough wiggle room to drag something else out from Nicole’s tight lips. “So, he didn’t show, then?” No answer. “Oh! He was ugly!”

“No, he wasn’t!” Nicole’s red hair seemed to poof out around her like an agitated cat’s fur, her green eyes just as sharp and unwelcoming.  “Drop it!” With a questioning hum, Siroun crawled closer knowing full well that she was about the one person that this red-headded fury wouldn’t lash out against. When they were practically nose-to-nose Nicole couldn’t hold with the persistent gaze of her frienemy, eyes dropping to the silver gamecube controller. “I couldn’t fucking do it. I’m a pussy, okay?!”

Running her hand across her friend’s hair, Siroun comforted, “Shhh, it’s scary meeting people from online. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

After a small moment of silence, Nicole nudged the controller over. As she watched Siroun load up her own character  she finished, “I’m gonna kick his ass in the pvp arena tonight.” And Siroun would have chuckled at that had her house not been entirely surrounded by pitfalls. Only as Siroun found herself in her 10th hole did Nicole finally laugh.

I TOLD You I Would Do It ((Adventures in 5% Internet Connectivity))

Twenty minutes. She had twenty minutes before lunch ended.

Keeping her trademark grin plastered on her face proved more difficult with each step and it wasn’t that she hated her peers or felt any loathing for them—well not for most of them. It was this damned satchel and its strap. Her fingers had long grown used to the rug burn from shifting the strap of fabric over and over, never resting while it was riding along her shoulder. Constantly she feared it would actually become the noose it felt like. And if she didn’t get the damned thing off soon she was going to go crazy. She rushed up the stairs and rushed into a cool grey room. A room where no one would bother her. Frankly, she would study here if she could, but toilets don’t add much to the ambiance of a room.

She had heard the rumors from her brother and her mother. The rumors that a girl was murdered in here once by Voldemort and that her spirit never left. That, of course, was a load of dung. Parisa hadn’t seen her once since she started coming. Not that Parisa was a fan of ghosts, but some company would be nice. Or not. She desperately wanted to keep this little ritual a secret, the however many minutes of anxiety she had to deal with to get here was worth that. Immediately she headed for the corner and nestled herself between a broken sink and the wall, hurling her bag amidst the exposed pipes after pulling out the one thing she needed right now. Paper crinkled underhand as she put the brown bag to her mouth. Curling against the cool stone, she finally allowed herself to use the paper bag like a third lung.

Thirteen minutes. Thirteen minutes before the next class that she may or may not have finished the scroll for.

Somehow, the sounds of paper crinkling didn’t set her off further. A kiss from lady luck, to be sure. It wasn’t even the owls that did it. It was what the owls could bring. Owls meant mail time. Mail time meant mail. Since her name was Parisa Sontay, mail could mean another set of howlers to add to her collection. At first, it was funny. “Ha ha, mum’s really pissed that I failed that one potions exam,” funny. The second time was pretty funny too. The third time, she and her house let out some weak laughter: the horse was starting to get beaten to death. All the ones after that just caused the other tables to breakout into low-toned snickers and pitying looks. But that was fine. They just didn’t know her mom and what a psycho she was. After the OWLS were done, Parisa would shove it all back in her mother’s face.

Each. Short. Breath. Was. An. O. She. Would. Get.

Each short breath was a howler she tore up and threw in that woman’s face.

Slowly, her breathing steadied. That first long draw of cold air felt like heaven but the hope that she could get any studying done before her next class disappeared with the time. Okay, so maybe lunch had been a failure today, she would just take a hour off of her sleeping time to make up for it. Her roommate was used to it by this point, anyway.

Tenderly, she slid the now flattened bag between her history textbook and her constellation maps and slipped out the door.