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how do i begin

how do i capture the fire of you

the life and golden flame flowing through your veins

how do i steal this away

transform and transpose into black sticks of prose

you are everything

you are human

and i cannot contain the whirlwind of me

when you're near

when you're close

whispering words

shouting, laughing, moving

occupying the empty spaces around me so completely that i find it hard to look away

i am so moved by you

i gravitate

some energy inside me ebs and flows

a tide inexorably pulled by

the way your fingers dance on my skin

the way your arms fold around mine

the way we fit around each other so

perfectly

meteors broken apart miles from home

finally finding each other once again

and i feel like a shadow

like i'm not enough

like i am enough but i cannot reveal or realise

the fire that rages inside me too

how i feel cold starlight sing against my skin

eyes closed

each night a celestial chorus calling

how i burn with colour

all of me lighting up

a mirror to sunsets and dawns

how i think

how i create

how i am

who i am

i want you to love all these parts of me as i love all these parts of you

but it is enough

to sit, to be, to exist

wrapped around you as you breathe in the quietness of midnight

and i am so alive with lightning under my skin

how do i begin

#poetry #poems

mystery-ink

Serial Killer on Campus: A Prologue

It was way too cliché. I mean really, turning a corner and crashing into the one girl on campus who sets your pulse racing, books and papers and dignity flying everywhere. Hands meeting when you both bend to pick up the spilled contents of your dorky satchel, stolen glances, shy laughs. And the start of something sweet and wonderful and life changing.

And of course that wasn’t how it went at all.

There was no gentle, apologetic smile. She didn’t even deign to help pick up my things. Instead, I got a raised eyebrow, a disdainful half smile, and a cold comment “you’d think a boy with a 4.0 grade average would know how to walk around without falling on his face.”

For the record I didn’t fall. I stumbled.

She did laugh though. It was far from shy. It was sharp and proud, but as she stalked away I thought I had detected genuine amusement, an almost fond parting glance. At the time I attributed this to my romantic imagination. Now, looking back, I’m still unsure.

This is the story of Annie Leonhart, the ice queen supreme, badass boxing champ, my first (female) true love and, incidentally, a serial killer.

This is the story of how I ruined her life.

mystery-ink

Casmund stuff (bc best ship)

Lucy searching for her little sea-girl soulmate (in Dawn Treader she sees this sea shepherdess and even though their eyes only meet for a moment they have this beautiful affinity and Lewis describes it as something like “even though they had never spoken, Lucy knew if they were to meet again they would rush to each other with open arms”. and, well, otp)

SUSAN - basically her side of the story

AU where Jill and Eustace don’t go back to Narnia but go to uni instead. Jill struggles with sexism and falls into depression, and each night in her dreams she returns to Narnia

Jadis’ previous life before she came to Narnia

god so many things. i wonder if they could ever get published or whether they’d forever be confined to the realm of fanfic…

We Are Complicated, the fanfic

i wrote a thing. it's based on this mashup. it kinda sucks and it's supposed to be the introduction i guess but i think i'll leave it here for now.

---

You know, I still can’t remember where and when I first met her. She’d been in my peripheral for most of my life – she was just one of those girls at school, y’know, the popular ones, the cheerleaders. Posers and sluts. I never really gelled with that crowd. I’ve always been the weird one and when I got to my teens I guess I just embraced that. Got a nose ring, shaved off half my hair, cut the rest into a bob and put electric blue streaks in. Really fucked off my parents, let me tell you. Boy was that a laugh.

Oh right, her. Yeah so we obviously were walking pretty different paths. And I never really noticed her. Though she was definitely always there. Like, if she was sick from school something would feel off. I dunno.

So anyway right, spring break. That’s when I properly met her. There was this barbeque or birthday party or something and my parents dragged me along. A load of mid life crisis bores talking about their jobs. Of course I couldn’t stand more than a minute of this bullshit, so I snuck out for a joint. And that’s when I caught her, leaning up against the fence, lighting up her cigarette, her hand shading the ember from the breeze coming off the sea.

#lanny-ism #mayathebea #you guys were interested?

mystery-ink

This is how Firo feels. As life becomes infinite, boundless, home shifts. Home is no longer the place you live, where your friends are, where your love lies. Home is the time you were born. Home is hearing a song painted onto a record, magically transported to your ears via gramophone. Home is running down the street in the middle of the road, because there are so few cars you know you’re safe. Home is seeing everyone dressed in familiar fashions. Home is smooth jazz and walking home late from the speakeasy. Home is laughing with friends long gone, not cursed with longevity.

But as the ages pass Firo just drifts further and further from home. It’s true he has time to build a bigger life than he ever thought possible, achieve things he’d never dreamed. But there’s also the increasing threat of scrutiny, shifting names and identities and places to avoid hassle. His youthful face stares obstinately back at him from the mirror, the maturity and wisdom he has learnt refusing to make their imprint on his appearance.

Firo aches for easier times. Not that the 30s were perfect, or better even, than the now that keeps going. But they were his time. They were his home. And they are long gone now, while he is still drifting, drifting, onwards.

Ever cursed to be in a time not his.

To be adrift.

#baccano

mystery-ink

Ariadne and the Minotaur

So I’ve been studying “The House of Asterion” by Jorges Luis Borges, which tells the minotaur’s side of the story. And seeing as Ariadne is one of my favourite figures of Greek mythology, I was inspired to tell her tale too. I might continue this later, because I want to explore more of her relationship with Theseus, but for the moment I wanted to focus on the minotaur.

—-

I love my brother. There are those who would say I didn’t, that my brother was loathed and feared by all (no exceptions). These would be lies, falsehoods spun by those looking for a scapegoat. For regardless of what a monarch does, he must never be at fault for it. And so it is that the beast is blamed for devouring the victims of the king.

But I knew the truth. My brother could hardly help it. His talents lay in his strength, his passion, his innocent joy. That is not to say that thought or contemplation was beyond him. But he never considered challenging our father’s commands. He did as he was told, as we all did, lest suffer the consequences. For my brother, however, his orders also formed his punishment.

My brother was born different from most: his body was human but his head defied reason (proof of my mother’s bestial infidelity under the spell of Poseidon). Appalled at my brother’s appearance the king banished him far underground, pitch dark caverns and a muddle of tunnels forming his prison. This solution was a win-win, a win-win for my father, that is. For the king now had himself both a prisoner and a monster, a tool to use to exact revenge for his true son’s death.

I won’t go into to the politics of it. Suffice to say that each Great Year, maybe thrice in my lifetime, seven trembling boys and seven terrified girls were sent off to the slaughter, across a tempestuous sea then deep underground, to be sacrificed at the hands (and mouth) of my brother. Yet it was my father who demanded these deaths, my father who frightened the boys and harassed the girls upon their arrival, my father who herded them into their tomb.

The first time I hid myself, under the bed, muffling my ears so their screams could not reach me. (For although they were trapped far below us, the stone walls reflected and rebounded the sounds of their turmoil, so that even the palace echoed with cries.) The second time I went to meet them, an innocent girl of 13, and offered them all the comfort I could in the form of flowers and wine. Yet that night I still could not escape their screams. The third time was different. A prince led the sacrifices. As I came with my comforts he whispered his plans, and suddenly I was hopeful again.

In the years between sacrifices I had grown up swiftly. My childhood was filled with resentment and anger at my father for his murder of so many. After the second sacrifice my fury turned to sadness, then cooled into pity. And as I considered the fate of my brother, it was he I pitied most. The sacrifices’ fate was lamentable, yes, but their deaths were quick; I knew my brother would do that much for him. Yet his was a life of imprisonment. After a childhood in the sun he was torn from his home and thrown far beneath it. For him the years were dark, cold, lonely. I longed to free him from his torture.

And this is why, when Theseus tried to seduce me into helping him, I agreed to his plan. Not to give him glory. Not to save the sacrifices. No, it was my brother who steered my decision. It was him I wished to save.

#ariadne #theseus #theseus and the minotaur #greek myths #greek mythology

mystery-ink

The Labyrinth of Loyalty

Fandom: Soul Eater (anime canon) Chapters: 1 (and counting!) Summary: as Marie and the other death scythes return to the DWMA, tensions are high. As the shadow of their days as students of the Academy comes back to haunt them, the group remember exactly what happened. But will this help their fight, or would it be better to let the past rest? Word count: 1,700

Prologue: Capture

“Come on, everyone stand together!” “Fine, fine. God Az, give it a rest. We’re graduating after all. You’re not class president any more.” “Aw, she’s fine. Here Spirit, stand by me!” “Hey Marsh! Over here! Don’t wanna get missed out again do you?” “Don’t give me that! It’s not my fault you guys went off without me last night.” “Marie, you’re stepping on my toe.” “Ooops! Sorry Franken. Heh.” “Ok, everyone together? I’m gonna take the photo!” “Yes yes, my sweet love….” “Jeez, Spirit if you don’t stop blowing kisses I’ll-” “Eri!” “Sorry, Azusa. You know I’m just kidding.” “Right, are we all ready?”

#the labyrinth of loyalty

the-ships-log

that Persephone poem reminded me of a fic I wrote

so my friend and i have this thing where we’re obsessed with Greek myths. and we’ve spent hours coming up with our own headcanons and ships and plots.

so i decided to write him a massive fic of it all. except then i got really busy and abandoned it.

but here’s one snippet that i’m quite proud of…

—-

It wasn’t her beauty. That was what hooked the others in, the hordes of suitors that fawned over her. That was what her mother boasted of, to rouse the mortals against their tyrant gods. That was what was considered her defining feature, for which she was famed for leagues around. That was all there was to her. But not for Io. No-one thought to look deeper. And yet, it was all there, beneath her haunting gaze. The strength, the loyalty, the defiance and ruthlessness that mirrored Io’s own. She was so much more than a princess, a sacrificial lamb. Her very name meant leader, meant strength. Andromeda. Io could just hear the armies that would one day shout it in victory. And yet, whether or not it would be their tribute who lead them remained to be seen. Io watched her. As she span her threads, weaving tapestries she would often rent in frustration. As she hunted, putting the men to shame. As she bathed, the light glinting off her silken skin. Io knew she shouldn’t. But she had lived too long not to indulge her baser instincts. And besides, the men did it all the time. That being said, it wasn’t long before Io made her move. She needed more than just observation, after decades of merely watching humanity. The time had come for Io to shape her own destiny. To stop watching, and act.

- -

“You’re slipping.” The voice came from directly behind her. Low, melodious, seductively feminine. In the cacophony of the gathering, one of her mother’s balls, it was hard to hear even those right next to you. Andromeda couldn’t stand these parties. So she had retired to the gardens, though the din seemed to follow her. And yet this voice commanded attention, was clear even though the other voices sought to drown it out. “What? What do you mean?” Andromeda didn’t need to turn as she replied. The speaker snaked around her, moving to lean on the ivy-choked pillar that divided them. Andromeda’s breath caught in her throat. This woman was hauntingly lovely, a beauty that snuck into your mind and spoiled you for anyone else. “That mask you keep up all the time. It’s slipping. Soon everyone will be able to see what I see.” “And what’s that?” The woman leaned closer, her arm wrapped around the pillar, her lips now close to Andromeda’s ear. “Boredom. Contempt for all these fawning idiots that surround you.” Her breath tickled Andromeda’s neck and she shivered, but from the sensation or the insight, she wasn’t sure. “And defiance to all those that would trap you, the beauty, here in your palace forever.” Andromeda stepped away, glaring at the woman sharply. “Pray tell me, stranger, what power gives you the right to talk to your princess in such a way. I should have you flogged for such insolence.” The woman smiled, enjoying Andromeda’s barbed response. “Oh, you’re no princess of mine. Though I dearly wish you to be.” Andromeda frowned, yet to her annoyance her heart skipped at the woman’s words. “But alas, I am far too old to be bound by mortal ideas of kingdoms and royalty.” Andromeda narrowed her eyes, suddenly afraid. “What are you? What do you want with me?” “Now, that would be telling. Isn’t a little mystery more exciting?” The woman languished against the pillar, obviously enjoying Andromeda’s discomfort. Andromeda pursed her lips. She’d had enough of this. She was far too important to suffer fools like this creature. And she was far too sensible to be as inexplicably drawn to this woman as she was. But before she could call out to the guards, end this idiotic encounter, the woman darted forward, wrapping a hand around Andromeda’s neck and another around her waist. “I can feel your longings, little one. Don’t allow yourself to be confined by these chains of responsibility any longer. Come away with me.” A delicious mixture of excitement and attraction and fear swirled within Andromeda. But she was not one to give herself up so easily, as much as she wanted to. She glared straight into the woman’s deep purple eyes, making her will quite clear. “It’s obvious I can’t fool you. So I won’t try to. You make a very attractive offer, strange creature of darkness. But I will not go with you.” And she struck out. A swift blow to the woman’s solar plexus made her hiss and fall back, releasing Andromeda from her grip. Andromeda raised an eyebrow, and smiled. The woman was looking at her in surprised admiration. “May I at least know the name of my seducer?” Andromeda asked coolly. The woman chuckled. “Io,” she purred. “Thank you.” Andromeda turned to walk smartly away, calling back “I will not go with you… yet, Mistress Io.” Io’s silky laughter chased Andromeda as she left the gardens. But as she returned to the party, the thrill of the encounter wouldn’t leave her, the touch of Io’s fingers still tingling upon her skin.

#greek mythology

Hidden Depths: Mary Bennet

Work in progress. Very not edited. Also the title sucks. And it's unfinished.

Lol enjoy!

(Mary Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, just fyi)

---

I do not recall the first time I realised my heart had no patience for the contests of romance my family delighted in. Men with their conquests of women failed to interest me, not that many were ever particularly interested. In truth, though I vied for attention, longed for someone to set me apart from my sisters, I welcomed the cold shoulder offered to me by almost every man I encountered. I revelled in my isolation from these silly games called love.

Do not take this to mean that I was content to be a shrinking violet, hidden in the shade of my sisters. Oh no. I did not seek to conceal myself from the world. Quite the opposite. However, my lack of intellectual talent, of musical gift, of conversational prowess, ensured I would never get the recognition I so sorely craved. Of course I was no great beauty. In my small world of balls and proposals and dresses and vanity, being plain was as good as a death sentence, consigning me to the life of spinsterhood. In my youth I grasped at the talents I thought I possessed. I jumped at any chance to prove my worth, playing discordant ditties, lecturing morality to anyone who would listen. Yet all I succeeded in doing was to embarrass myself, to mortify my family. I know now what I was to them: a nuisance, someone to shoo away from important gatherings lest I bring more shame to our name.

I longed for education. I felt sure, were I to attend the private schools and prestigious universities my sister’s suitors bragged about, I would discover my vocation, tap into my potential for intellectual pursuits. Or maybe I could become a lawyer, a philosopher, someone to contemplate morality or exercise justice. This was my passion. Yet for someone of my standing, a person of the fair sex, this was impossible, unthinkable.

So I whiled away years, watching my sisters fly the nest, to be tucked away in tidy marriages with their own brood to care for. It was then, when I thought all hope was lost, when finally she came for me, as she promised she would. Yet escape was not as simple as I had dreamed, and I had many demons to conquer still.

Oh, you did not think I had been idle all this time? Consigned myself to simply watch life pass me by? You do me a disserve to think thus of me, dear reader.

The truth of my being, my path to discovery of myself, was not an easy one. Though I always felt I was different to my sisters, stifled as I was by the customs they so celebrated, bored and repulsed by the gentlemen snatching them up, it was a time before I realised the true reason why my reactions were such.

I had always admired feminine beauty. Family excursions to the village allowed me the chance to gaze at the ladies in all their finery. Sunday services gave me corsets and summer brought heaving bosoms as the ladies flapped frantically with their fans. As a young girl, I did not quite understand the joy it gave me to watch those of my own sex. Far too shy to play with the other girls, I would watch instead as my sisters and their friends ran down to the stream, splashing among the water and sunlight, diamond droplets gracing their bodies. My young life was filled with glances of delicate hands brushing hair, feminine bodies moving gracefully among crowds, snatches of heady scents as my mother conversed with her friends.

As I grew older, learned about romance from books and my mother’s plots for my sisters’ engagements, I started to suspect there was something immoral about my character. I denied my desires, repressed my tendencies, buried myself in Biblical scripture.

Then she came into my life.

Actually, perhaps I should first recall my initial foray into the world of romance. I was eleven. It was the summer fete, a day filled with sticky sun and provincial fun. The sun beat down on old Mr Tailor’s field, dotted with tents and stalls. The whole village mingled on the green, the maypole at the centre the convergence of celebration. All the village’s young girls had been practising for weeks, learning their steps and the intricate play of ribbon and movement. All except me, of course. I would not have been permitted to partake of such low extravagances even had my social standing not been so lofty. Dancing, as with all other creative gifts, was a talent that eluded me.

My mother soon set to work, weaving her web of social interaction, making connections, rubbing shoulders with the few gentry that had deigned to attend this parochial gathering. My sisters darted off to play with their friends. I was left behind, a state of abandonment I was accustomed to by this point.

Grasping my book, as literature was my constant companion wherever I went, I snuck away to the woods beside the field, settled down in a glade, and began to read.

#mary bennet #clottedcreamfudge

mystery-ink

Hole In Your Heart

so i wrote this little Clint ficlet last night, in response to this gorgeous art, and today i added a little extra bit with Natasha and decided to post it.

headcanon inspired by this pretty gifset

allusions to Natasha’s past from one of the backstories in the comics, specifically this one…

A revised, retconned origin[4] establishes her as being raised from early childhood by the U.S.S.R.’s “Black Widow Ops” program, rather than solely by Ivan Petrovitch. With other young female orphans, she is trained in combat and espionage at the covert “Red Room” facility. There, she is biotechnologically and psycho-technologically enhanced—an accounting that provides a rationale for her unusually long and youthful lifespan. While there, she was trained by, and a lover of, the Winter Soldier.[5] Each Black Widow is deployed with false memories to help ensure her loyalty. Romanova eventually discovers this, including the fact that she had never, as she had believed, been a ballerina. She further discovers that the Red Room is still active as “2R”.

(sorry it’s not under a read more - my laptop still doesn’t like the cut text thing and tends to delete anything i put under it!)

—-

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Music thumped through the walls, the yells and laughs of the others reminding him of the party they so sorely deserved. Tony was hosting, of course. And somehow Clint had drifted away from the others, got lost on the way to the toilet, found his way up here. To the top of the tower. Tony’s private lounge.

Complete with Loki-shaped hole.

Clint’s glare bore into the floor, frozen fury capturing him. Holding him there. With everything that bastard did to him, all the control and the submission and the twisting of his mind to the point where he still wasn’t sure who he was.

What he was.

Memories were tricky. They shifted and swam when he tried to get a grip on them. Eluded his logic, ignored his anger. The best he got were glimpses - driving through destruction, giving orders, shooting a fellow agent, a moment alone, a stolen glance (or was it a kiss?)…

But far, far worse than any of that. Worse than knowing what he had done, been made to do. Worse than the betrayal, worse than the shame.

Was the invasion.

Because to control minds the magic needed to bind them to the controller. Needed to establish the connection, to force them together.

So in that moment, along with the blue and the power and the enchantments, came flowing Loki’s mind. His memories, his experiences. His emotions. His pain.

A pain that just wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave Clint. Even now. Got inside him, tangled up in his own feelings until he wasn’t sure whose pain it was any more.

A burning, furious tear snaked its way down Clint’s cheek.

Fuck Loki.

In a rush, Clint wrenched his bow from his back, secured an arrow to it, fired it into the Loki-hole. And another. And another. Fired them again and again and again until all his rage was spent, and the floor looked as beaten and broken as his mind.

Or was it his heart.

—

And that’s how she found him. Staring at the ground, eyes slightly bloodshot, fists clenched around his bow. A floor pierced with multiple arrows. Natasha raised an eyebrow. Someone had been having himself a party.

“Practicing your brooding smoulder?” she quipped dryly. Leant against the door, light pouring in from the hallway, she didn’t feel the need to enter the room further. Natasha knew a tense situation when she saw one. Not that she was afraid Clint was going to go all Hulk on her, but it couldn’t hurt to keep her distance. For his sake as much as hers.

Clint didn’t reply. His head tilted slightly in her direction, but how aware of her he was, Natasha couldn’t be sure. They stood in silence for a while. But just when she had decided enough was enough, it was time to pull Clint out of this, he spoke up.

“I thought it would get easier.”

Natasha suppressed a sigh. Not that she was frustrated with him – far from it. She just wasn’t good with emotion or dealing with personal issues. But for Clint she had always made an exception and now was no different. No, her sigh was one of worry. She had never seen him like this before.

“Talk to me. What’s going on with you?”

Clint grimaced. “I…” he started but stopped, obviously unable to continue. But whether this was because he didn’t want to tell her, or couldn’t, Natasha didn’t know.

“It’s not going away any time soon, is it,” he said lowly.

“What isn’t?”

Clint looked at her for the first time, his expression twisted and hurt and furious and tired. “Him. In my head.”

“No.”

He looked back to the hole. Then moved swiftly, hitching his last arrow to the bow, yanking back the cord. But Natasha’s hand stayed his shot, as she moved to place it on his arm. Clint looked at her. She stared back. He lowered the bow.

“It’s gonna be tough for a while,” she said. “A long time. But you’ll get through it. You’re strong. And I don’t mean physically. You have a stubborn mind. Trust me, I know.” She shot him a small smile and his expression softened.

“How long did it take you?” he asked.

The smile disappeared from Natasha’s face. Because Clint wasn’t the only one to have his mind invaded, his memories violated. At least for him it had been only months. For her it had been years.

“Something like this, the knots of… It takes a while to unravel. But it’s different for you. Can’t compare it really.” She spoke shortly, in monotone. Her own experience were something she wasn’t in a hurry to talk about, even to help him. Not yet anyway.

Clint shot her a searching look and she avoided his gaze. She punched his arm lightly.

“Come on tall, dark and glowery. Let’s go get you nice and drunk.”

He grinned at her, walked with her to the door. “Tony’s providing alcohol? At least one of us should stay sober.”

“Come on, we both know that’s gonna be Captain Buzzkill.”

Laughing, not unkindly, the two left the room, the light dimming as the door slammed shut. And darkness pooled in the Loki shaped hole, as the victors celebrated downstairs.

—-

hitchlock

Tricia's Improbable Occurences

Right! The time has come, methinks for the second installment of Haley’s and my fic, Whatever Remains, However Improbable (credit to her for the title). This is another prologue of sorts, this time from the point of view of Tricia McMillan (or Trillian, as she is more commonly known in the original books).

To know what the hell’s going on, I suggest you read Haley’s brilliant prologue here. It’s honestly amazing and quite short.

But onto my installment! I hope you enjoy.

(Look out for the Hitchhiker’s, Sherlock, and Third Star references!!)

——-

It wasn’t a particularly large bowl of petunias. In fact, as far as bowls of petunias go, it was perfectly ordinary. What was rather less than ordinary, however, was its inexplicable appearance in Tricia McMillan’s shower one Thursday evening when she was doing her best to mind her own business and not get caught up with preternatural shenanigans.

It had been a trying day. Four months, four long, arduous months Tricia had slaved over an in depth series of columns on the day-to-day lives of the Metropolitan Police. She had pitched this series herself, feeling that after the summer riots and those dreadful bomb-strapped kidnappings the public needed to have an insight into the force to understand their jobs, to empathise with them. She had felt very passionately about this, and it was only after the hour long pitch meeting, where the volume of her voice increased with each slide she showed of her presentation, that she realised it was likely her editor only allowed her articles in order to shut her up.

mystery-ink

Freak

Just a little fic I bashed out for Finding Sherlock’s Sally Donovan week. It’s not by any means my best, but I was just thinking about how Sally and Sherlock first met and this happened. 1,862 words.

—-

She had been following the case for months. Multiple murders, seemingly unconnected, dotted around London. Everyone else had laughed at her for seeing the pattern, for thinking they were anything more than random events. But she knew there had to be something more to it.

Sally hadn’t been a detective long. In fact, she’d only been on the force a few years. But her intuition and knack for spotting details others missed had given her the edge, and she’d soon shot up the ranks to detective sergeant, making not a few enemies in the process. Freak, they called her, bitch extraordinaire. She didn’t care though. Why should she bother herself worrying what others thought of her when there were crimes to solve, people to help. Her calling went beyond pandering to others’ sensitivities, and she wasn’t afraid to step on others to get to the top.

Passage from my Hitchhiker's Guide sequel.

So basically I'm accidentally writing a sequel to Hitchhiker's (because although I liked aspects of it, I wasn't totally happy with Colfer's sequel and I guess I wanted to experiment with the story myself). I randomly wrote a passage from the middle last night in a fit of inspiration. And here it is!

Sorry about the weird footnotes - for some reason Tumblr doesn't support this specific writing aid.

Paradiso. Not a very imaginative name, but with landscapes as staggeringly beautiful as this, with beaches that stretch across the horizon, with vivid palm trees that languish beside little starfish patterned beach chairs, the locals felt that any name that didn’t get straight to the point of the matter would be gilding the lily. Paradiso was, essentially a paradise. Ford and Zaphod visibly relaxed as soon as their feet first sank luxuriously into the silky diamond sand, all conspiracy theories and petty rivalries forgotten at the first sight of the chilled Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters waiting for them by the sea(1).

Random hated it.

The hazy ochre sun hanging heavy in the sky burnt her eyes with its natural light, and by the way it sank into the sea she could tell it was one of those pesky cycle things. Ever since, on Lameulla(2), she had first encountered the notion of suns and moons that whizz across the sky, Random had loathed and resented these orbital cycles. Having grown up in spaceports she was accustomed to the comforting bland glare of artificial light, and the idea that one’s life should be dictated by the concepts of night and day frightened her.

To Random, paradise was her bunk in Rhothomellon City, surrounded by the pulsating glow of her SleepyTime ShimmerOrbs(3). She longed for the peace of mind it offered. Her bunk meant relaxation, comfort, and the knowledge that she didn’t have to do another bounty run for at least 3 hours.

So she stomped off the ship grumpily, kicking aside the drink offered to her by the sea, and slumped down in one of the hammocks that grew between the palm trees. The hammock was delighted by her attention. A relation of the mattresses of Squashorn---, the sentient hammocks of Paradiso have a companionable nature. Their low level telepathy allows them to mould to the shape of the entity reclining on it, resulting in a thoroughly enjoyable experience all round. It was a poor substitute for her bunk, but Random appreciated the small comfort it gave her.

Regardless of this slight lift in her spirits, Random glared at the two men busily getting drunk at the water’s edge. She sulked aggressively.

Then she frowned and decided she was a notorious bounty hunter and far too old to sulk anyway.

Then she scowled and thought that despite her numerous adult credentials she was upset and was going to sulk if she damn well pleased, so there.

In fact, she was so engrossed with this internal debate between maturity and immaturity that she didn’t notice Zaphod sidle up to her, sinking into the hammock next to hers.

---------- (1) Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters, among a myriad of other intoxicating beverages, grow naturally on Paradiso. Or rather, a fresh batch appear on the shore’s edge every morning as if by magic. The locals have never thought to question it. Questioning fortuitous incidences such as this tends to lead to heated debate, headaches, and in most cases resulting in that particular miraculous occurrence suddenly ceasing. Also, most of the locals were far too drunk to hold philosophical query anyway. (2) Known for its idyllic pastures, stomping herds of Perfectly Normal Beasts, and sandwich makers of the wind-up watch wearing variety. (3) One of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation’s more successful creations as it produced a low, soothing light to relax the mind. The pulsating effect was completely accidental and actually caused by faulty wiring, but for once the SSC’s incompetence helped the product achieve its desired effect: to induce, as the name would suggest, sleepy time.

#the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy #the hitchhikers guide to the galaxy #mostly harmless #douglas adams #random dent #ford prefect #zaphod beeblebrox #fanfiction

AtS: Untold Fairytale

So I wrote this fic about a year ago. It's from Eve's POV because it pissed me off that she had no personality, when her character concept was so intriguing. So I wrote her a backstory. I re-discovered this fic, and because I was unexpected proud of it, I posted it here! I hope you enjoy.

Btw my changes in past and present tense were creative decisions, not sloppy writing.

Title: Untold Fairytale. Fandom: Angel, the series. Word count: 2,074 Characters: Eve's POV, Lindsey, Angel, Lorne. Ships: Eve/Lindsey. Disclaimer: if I wrote the show, Lindsey would not have returned. But seeing as he did, here's some fic to fill in the blanks! Summary: as Eve watches LA burn (post Not Fade Away) she remembers experiencing love with Lindsey after aeons of immortality, and finds a new purpose.

Eve has been alive for longer than she can remember. She’s learnt many things over the years, watched as civilisation flourished and fell, watched humans live and flourish. Unable to live her eternal life, trapped as she was, caged by animals. And now she’s watching civilisation burn, demon wrath brought down by the world’s champion. And she wonders whether he realised what he was doing, whether he thought he was saving the world, or whether he sought to end it because he could no longer stand to live in it, trapped under guilt, regret, loss... Just like her. Freed from her cage only to be trapped again. Eve shakes her head sadly. The one thing she knows above all is that there is no good or evil. Just power. Just power, low and hot, burning through time. When one lives the years like seconds, one has to realise this quickly. Or else to watch human’s mayfly lives, struggling so hard for good, burdened by evil, would be torture. So she attached herself to the biggest power source she could find, bound herself to their will and whim, turning away from the world and its torment. And for the longest time there was just power. Detached, white-hot, comforting. But then there was love. Then there was him.

He’s not coming to save her. Eve knows this now. Saw the coldness of a murderer in Angel’s eyes. She should have known better than to let Lindsey go alone. Should have stayed with him, protected him, loved him at the end... Eve bows her head as burning tears run down her face. Once there would have been rage, exploding inside her until she acted on vengeance. But the years have worn her down. Now there is only loss, pain. The harsh knowledge that she should never have let herself feel, never let herself love. The knowledge that if she had stayed true, believed only in power, her world would not be crashing around her right now. As the city burns, she remembers the first time she met him. She was a little girl, older than immortality, lost in a world of lawyers and lies and men. Before LA she had worked in the other dimensions, familiar with lords and gods and eternal pacts. But here it is slippery, words twisting to reveal two faces, nothing to be sure of. She had to learn fast, though. Back straight, game face on, talk their language. Soothe, reassure, punish when necessary. Make sure these suits know who’s in charge. Know that the Senior Partners are watching eagle eyed, through her. He is young, all bravado and twisted veneer to cover up the innocence and pain. She sees him out of the corner of her eye, tucked into the corner of a meeting, watching snake-like, listening, learning. She smiles to herself. Little boy acting like a man. Their encounters are brief, water cooler banter exchanged in bustling corridors. But there is something underneath it all. Lindsey is obviously attracted to her. Her aeons of experience have made Eve an expert in the male mating dance. But there is something she did not expect, an echo of attraction within herself. Something she has not felt, or allowed herself to feel, for generations. Lindsey reminds her of herself; she recognises crushed idealism and cold ambition inside him, mirroring her own. Alone at night Eve dares herself to believe that after centuries locked up in her chest, her heart might have begun to love again. Appalled at her humanity, she crushes it, shoves that spark down so that when she looks at him there is no pesky rush of feeling. So she watches again, the passivity familiar after years of the practice. Watches as he struggles with himself, morals rising to the surface. Watches as he betrays and is betrayed, wounding and wounded. Watches as his amorous infatuation kicks him to the curb, his heart bruised but not broken. Eve closes her eyes against emotion, won’t let herself feel his pain. But now every time they chat idly there’s a sadness in his eyes she cannot bear. And then he’s gone. Finally she can get back to what she’s best at. Manipulation, liaising, power. Except everything’s not what it was. Somehow that boy has shaken her up, reminded her that she was once human. The spark of love burnt into a flame, searing her eyes as she tries to sleep, filling her mind as she tries to work. But she refused to let it shake her. And for a while she did her job, putting emotion to the back of her mind, trying to forget his face. The administration changes, shifts and flows, high positions usurped, the usual lies and betrayal. Just another day at work. Eve watches as their office is torn apart, torn herself by that Beast but unable to die. She won’t let herself cry, just suffers silently as the building is rebuilt around her, moulded to fit its new commanders, the heroes. Talks nice to the new boss, soothes his ego, but reminds him with her cool looks and pointed phrases just who’s in charge. He thinks he’s doing good here, twisting the Wolf, Ram and Hart to his own aims, but she knows this story. Seen it before it countless worlds. He’s no longer fighting for good. He’s fighting for power. Because that’s all there is in the end. Except no, wait, there’s a blip on the radar. Something hidden, forbidden, veiled from the Seniors’ eyes. So Eve finds it out. Curiosity, always her biggest flaw. She figures, the amount of power she’s brought into the corporation, she’s earned her right to snoop. And there he is. She finds him in a dive, tucked into a corner, stereotypical brooding hot guy coming complete with glass of whiskey. That familiar rush in her heart, and she wanders over to him. “Long time no see, Lindsey. Last I heard you’d sworn off LA for good.” “Eve.” He simply smiles that low, slow smile, the one that sends shivers down her spine and curls desire into her stomach. And soon she’s up against a wall, pulses rising, breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pumping so fast she realises she’d forgotten what true passion was. For a while all the corruption and power melts away and there’s just Lindsey and his hunger and pain and need for her. It becomes an addiction. At the office she’ll be cool, collected, indifferent. To the Partners she’ll be their loyal servant, professional as she ever was. But in the shadowed hours she steals time with Lindsey, riding their passion until they are both spent. Then lying there, her nimble fingers tracing the patterns over his body, his precious spells that keep him here for her. For a while this is all there is. But idle conversation becomes meaningful, topics shifting into secrets and plans. She discovers why he is here – overthrow Angel, destroy the LA office. There is excitement when he talks of his plot, but underneath she can sense a deep resentment, a feeling of betrayal. One night, atop his chest, she challenges him. “I know why you’re doing it. Taking down Angel. And it’s not for the greater good or evil, it’s not for any principle or moral. It’s because he betrayed you. Pushed you away from Wolfram and Hart, acted the hero then turned on everything he’d said to you. He took your home away, Lindsey. The one place you felt respected, even if every so often there was an assassination attempt. And he made your home his.” Lindsey was shaken by her insight, she knew, but he hid it under a smile. “There’s this talent you have to see into my soul. It’s very unnerving.” “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie. I’ll be good.” He grinned and tipped her underneath him. “God, I hope not.” She doesn’t know how it happened. How he turned her against her life’s work, got her to betray the Partners. Because Eve knows this has gone beyond playing, beyond a dirty little secret. It’s treason to liaise with a threat to the Partners, even one intent on taking down their old adversary. But somehow she doesn’t care. She’s had a taste of love, humanity, and she wants more. Needs more. It’s midnight, hazy and hot when he tells her he loves her. Calls her babe, whispers it in her ear. She shivers as the words course through her brain, feels his delight when she tells him the same. It’s the single most glorious moment of her life. Then it all comes crashing down. Lindsey charges in, all bravado and hope and righteous fury. But it doesn’t help. Somehow the Powers threw them a curveball, sent their most annoying saint to aid Angel when times were hard. And she can feel Lindsey, sent screaming into the abyss, the loss of him bringing her to her knees. Hiding ragged and broken, trapped by the magic Lindsey showed her, Eve can feel him go through hell. Feel sickly sweet suburban perfection, tear with agony when he goes to the damn basement, taste his frustration that there must be something else, another life. And finally she cries. Sobs. Begs whatever Power doesn’t hate her to spare her, spare him. She would march into that hell herself, rescue him, but she’s terrified. She knows if the Partners find her they’ll steal her immortality from her. She’ll die. DIE. Humans have an innate fear of death, one she never used to understand. But now she feels it pull at her, it’s dark gleaming grasp waking her up at night. Eve cannot be mortal. But she has to. Trades imminent death at the hands of Hamilton for a limited life. Because she can feel him now, bleeding but breathing, and his presence back in this world pulls at her heart. There is no heartfelt reunion. She keeps her cool mask on to hide from the heroes. But every touch, every crooked grin burns into her soul, and she soars in the delight he brings her. For a while everything is birds and bees and sunshine. The Partners, unable to touch her or Lindsey under Angel’s protection, turn a blind eye to their happiness. Eve discovers that she likes dating, loves the rush of pleasure when Lindsey buys her jewellery, adores how his face glows in expensive candlelight. She starts to believe that these moments with him were worth giving up eternity. But as Angel begins his apocalyptic last stand, sucking Lindsey in with words of honour, Eve knows her happiness is spent. She remembers Lorne’s prophecy of doom for her, and something inside her breaks. She savours every last moment with Lindsey, knowing him, loving him. Though she knew it was in vain, she warned him. Said Angel didn’t trust him. Tried to make him realise his was a suicide mission, one way or another. He brushed her warnings aside, soothing her with his easy smile and gentle touch. But she saw real fear in his eyes when he told her to stay away, and she realised they both knew they weren’t coming out of this alive. And they didn’t live in a fairytale. Her prince died at the hands of a coward, leaving her trapped in her ivory tower to die alone. Eve frowns as a dragon sears across the burning sky, her tears now dry, her emotion spent. She wonders what the point in it all was. She aligned herself with power only to be tossed aside. Sacrificed everything for love only to lose her soulmate. Now she’s here again, traded one cage for another, watching this godforsaken place finally burn. And, broken, Eve falls to her knees and sobs. No. Lindsey wanted her to live. Wanted to protect her. He’s gone, but she isn’t. Not yet. There isn’t anything else, no sacred cause or mission. There’s just life. So Eve stands, struggles out of the building as it falls apart around her. He had wanted to show her the world, pitying her when she talked of her cage of service to the Wolf, Ram and Hart. So she’s going to see it for him, see the whole world before she finally joins him in whatever dimension she falls to after shifting her once immortal coil. Eve has been alive for longer than she can remember. And now, finally, she’s going to live.

#eve #angel #angel: the series #ats #lindsey #lorne #fanfiction

Arisen

This is weird. I had no internet last night so I planned to write a Feferi fic. Then I got put off by the fact that I'd probably have to write in fish puns, as it's from her POV, which I CAN'T do. I was gonna write it anyway but then this happened. I guess I was in more of an Aradia mood. It hasn't really got a purpose, this fic. I just wrote it to try and expand on her POV on events. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

(734 words)

---

She remembers everything.

The way it felt, pure power searing through her. How he just hung there, inexpressive, blank, deaf to her pleas. The look in his eyes as he killed her. Him crashing to the ground as the world faded to burning red and icy blue.

Everything.

Afterwards, floating in numbness, she tracks him down. Seeking to exact revenge, torture him to death by relentlessly reminding him of his crime. And yet... He just sits there. Staring blankly at his computer screen. She is infuriated until she hovers closer. He’s trying to contact her. Clicking on her name again and again, yet all that pops up is the offline icon. She frowns, murmuring questions to herself. His head snaps up, looks straight through her. He can hear her, she realises, and for a moment she is tempted to carry out her plan of vengeance. But that look in his eyes, tense worry tempered with fear... No.

As he whispers her name in question she flees. Cannot help but contact him, assure him she’s alright. The voices are getting worse, he tells her. Constant screams and now he recognises them. He reveals his worry that he knows the voices, that they belong to his friends, to her.

She tries not to tell him, though she is desperate to relieve her burden. Her own whispers have confirmed what she has suspected all her life. The world is going to end. And it’s going to be because of them.

But she attempts to placate him. There’s a horrific distance between them, one never present before even in their online conversations. Once she could confide in him, tell him of her fears, how the voices frightened her. And he would say the same to her. They understood each other, haunted always by the souls of those dead and doomed.

Now she’s one of them.

And yet she can’t help but haunt him.

It’s a sick addiction. She knows she can do nothing but hurt him further, add to his daily torture. And yet her love for him remains even in her state void of emotion, like an aftertaste that is far stronger than the food swallowed hours ago.

But still she can’t forget. How merciless he was, the fatal agony that stretched far further than physical pain. To be killed by one you love is a torture few can understand.

So when there is life, or something like it, substance at least, she cannot return to him. Her heart, pounding fiercely, is an alien sensation. And she cannot bear to stand what seeing him might do to it. Then of course there’s the other. He’s never been more than an amusement to her. But suddenly she finds affinity in the most unexpected of places. Another just like her – empty yet full of frustration and need. Plus let’s face it, he’s hot.

And then there is far too much to let herself worry about silly things like emotion. Wars to be fought, demons to overcome, heroes to be made. Yet whenever she catches his eye across the battlefield, or shares a thought with him before a fight, she cannot quell the longing in her chest, nor the vivid memory of his form hanging over her corpse.

Their interactions are false, stilted. He’s got Her now. That bundle of joy and excitement and royalty. And yet she cannot begrudge him happiness. She feels nothing, waiting with the others in the Veil. Cannot make her passions rise even to her lover’s fierce kisses. Can do nothing but watch him from across the room, love still burning within her, refusing to be defeated or ignored.

So she finds an escape. A way to cheat the rules of rising. The game is over, after all. What should it matter exactly how she vacates this tin can excuse for a body?

Before she leaves, she cannot help but say goodbye. He will never understand, she realises that. She can only apologise and hope that he finds happiness, even if it is with that glorified mermaid.

But as she embraces him, before she dies for the final time, she stares into his eyes, shares one final thought. It is just a whisper, from his mind to hers. Terrified, small, pleading.

not again

She staggers back, shocked, yet cannot halt the inevitable. But before the world fades again she realises.

He remembers everything.

#homestuck #aradia megido #sollux captor #sollux/aradia #equius #fan fiction #fanfic

Saviour of the Dreaming Dead

Inspiration struck me after the last update. I don't know what this is really, just a drabble, but I needed to write it :D

It's from Dream Jade or Jadesprite's POV, and there is a Dave/Jade theme because this is my canon for that ship :D

Enjoy!

(738 words)

---

She hadn’t always been this way. All weepy and weak. Once upon a time she could find the beauty in everything, inspire her friends to great adventures, feel the glory of the world made of sky. Back then she had lived in a palace of gold, spent her days exploring towering turrets, sparkling canyons, dizzying bridges. Had plotted elaborate schemes built of time and dramatic irony, revelling in her foolproof plan to lead them all to victory. She lived in the certainty that they would win. That she would become a god. That perfection had been served her on a golden platter.

Stupid, stupid girl.

How could she have been so dumb? Everything went to hell. She watched as her whole world was torn apart, desecrated, destroyed. Sacrificed herself to save her brother, only to realise what hell she had brought on them all.

It was all her fault. All of it. Jack’s rise to power, her golden castle’s annihilation... She had even doomed those she had never met, her own creators. She watched it all unfold, trapped in her bubble, unable to change any of it because after all, it was just a memory. It had all happened and it was all her fault and she COULDN’T FIX IT.

So she wept.

And wept and wept.

She didn’t have the advantages the Other Self had: a life of reality, of occasional hardship, of lessons that taught the Other strength and hardiness. She had existed only in a blissful fantasy, a dream. And now that’s all she had left. Just dreams now. Insubstantial and pallid, nothing compared to the life she had once known.

But then he was there.

The red text guy. The one that talked in exotically wrought irony. The kid that liked records and swords and rapping. Dave. At first she didn’t care for him, so wrapped in her guilt and remorse. All she could think of was the misery she had brought on her friends, how short sighted she had been.

Of course Dave wasn’t having any of that. He showed her his happiest memories since entering the game, the goodness she created. Showed her them laughing together in the snow. Showed her John’s ascension. And slowly, slowly, she felt her old self return. And she realised he was far from healed himself. There was so much anger in him: at the friend who betrayed him, at the game’s futility, even at himself, the Alpha Dave, the one chosen to live while he was forced into oblivion.

And in the moment she realised that, she swore she would help him. She would remember who she used to be, the bright girl who could inspire light in even the darkest soul. And she would make him realise just how wonderful he was, to her if no-one else.

It took a while, but eventually he remembered. Because come on, anyone that awesome can’t deny his ego for long.

They were happy then. They made the bubbles their home. Time was irrelevant. There were others too, they soon discovered. Broken, beaten, betrayed, all seeking refuge in the land of the dreaming dead. All destroyed. And she was their saviour. Wherever she walked she brought happiness, reminded them of who they were, of what joy meant. She felt she could bear an eternity of this. She was finally happy again.

Until.

No.

She was in his arms, they were happy, everything was quiet and warm and perfect and then...

No.

Rushing noise, space crashing in on her, frozen air tearing her apart, blinding light searing and searing until... She was alive again.

No. Half alive. Half.... dog? Bent into another shape, glowing lurid green and oh God the world was so painful! And she, no, Her, the Other Self, was screaming at her! Slapping her, yelling, and she didn’t care she didn’t care she just wanted to go home and get back to her friends, her new life, her... Dave.

As soon as the Other turned her back she was gone. Drifting aimlessly. At first she tried desperately to return, searched for a portal, even tried her hand at suicide but no luck. So it was back to weeping, to weakness.

Until.

He was there. Sword hanging heavy in his hand, a look of hardship on his face, somehow still pulling off the coolguy stance even despite his delicious orange glow.

And wow.

Those battered wings.

“dave?”

“hey”

#homestuck #dave strider #dave/jade #davesprite #jade harley #jadesprite #fan fiction #fanfic

Impurity, chapter one: Discovery

Right! So this is the first chapter of my Bunny fic. Atm it stands at about 6 chapters and is undergoing fierce plot renovation for the final chapters. Hopefully by the time I'm done posting the first few chapters here I'll have a solid idea of what I want to do next.

Basically this is set in High School. At 17 Kenny is bored of girls and looks for something new. But what he discovers will change the course of his life forever.

(1,720 words, credit and link if you reblog!)

---

I’ve never been what you would call... reserved when it comes to sex. Bored out of my mind in a house full of drunks, at 7 years old I stumbled on my first porn magazine. My dad’s, hidden behind the toilet. From the moment I laid my eyes on the centre piece fold-out I was hooked. With nothing else to do but listen to my parents fight, I busied myself with learning as much as I could about this fascinating sport. Soon, I was renowned for my sexual knowledge: I even had 6th graders asking my advice at recess. Let me tell you, the power felt good. To be honest, it was the only thing that got me noticed. I tended to blend into the background when the sex encyclopaedia in my head wasn’t wanted.

It wasn’t long before I started experimenting. First blow job at 9, I think that’s some kinda record. Must be. Plus there was that suffocating-masturbation thing. Gotta say, best time I ever died. Anyway. So at 17 I’m bored. I’ve done pretty much every girl in the school. And you know what? I’m underwhelmed. I mean don’t get me wrong, they were great. It’s not like I don’t like these girls: I respect the hell out of them. I even went steady with a couple. Fairly sure Bebe’s planning our wedding now, though officially we’re not together any more. And sure, to start with, sex was great. Really great. But... there’s only so much you can do with a girl before it all gets a bit... old, y’know? It’s not like I haven’t tried branching out. Hey, I even gave Cartman’s mom a run (definitely high on the list for best screws, btw). I guess you could say I’m looking for some new thrills.

So I’m sitting in shop class, as far away from the electric saw as I can get, and this kid keeps grabbing my attention. He’s stacking up his waste wood neatly, smiling softly to himself. He’s completely oblivious to the classroom full of shouts and screeches of machinery, totally absorbed in a little bubble of calm. I think I can catch him singing happily under his breath. I grin. But apparently my creepy stare is too much, and he looks up, dismayed. Baffled at my attention, he waves slightly, then edges over to the sander and tries to ignore me. I chuckle under my breath.

“Dude, what’s the deal?”

“Huh?” I murmur from under my hood. Kyle’s giving me an odd look.

“Don’t play dumb. That hasn’t worked on me since that time with the dildo. You were totally giving Butters the hairy eyeball!”

Hairy eyeball? Jeez, Kyle no-one says that any more. But I just shrug and grin at him and he rolls his eyes. He’s used to me staring at chicks and he’s never made a comment before. Guess he must be projecting or something. He’s seriously closeted, especially when it comes to Stan.

So anyway. I spend the rest of the class stealing glances at Butters. The kid’s always kinda fascinated me. He takes more shit than me, I swear, and yet he still comes into school every day with that goofy smile on his face, ready to be nice to everyone that gives him hell. But today is different. Maybe it’s cos I’m bored. Maybe it’s cos I’m horny as hell. But as I watch him potter about the classroom I feel that sensation start to burn in my stomach.

Definitely a new thrill.

Class ends all too soon. I was all ready to chase Butters out of the classroom, corner him by his locker or something. I dunno. I don’t really do planning. Luckily, most of the girls in the school have the forethought enough to carry condoms otherwise, let me tell you, I’d be in the maternity wing every other week. In any case, I jump up to follow Butters when old Adler holds me back. Thanks to my (sensible!) wariness of belt sanders, saws, drills and the like, I almost never get anything completed for this class. So it’s the same old rant, “you’ve gotta stop screwin’ around, start doin’ work, you’ll flunk this class” yadda yadda, and all the time I’m thinking Butters is gonna be long gone and too far away for me to... what, exactly? I mean, am I seriously considering pursuing this guy? Butters is like the most repressed kid I know. I’ll probably just damage him even more with my advances, let alone get his father angry. That guy’s so screwed up, Butters gets grounded for so much as breathing wrong. God knows what his dad’ll do if he finds out he’s queer...

And what if he’s not? Rejection’s not exactly something I’m used to. I may be the poorest kid in school but the edgy, bad boy vibe gets the girl every time. But what if I get shot down? What if Butters tells everyone I’m a fag? Not that I care that much – my reputation couldn’t get any sluttier – but I really don’t need Cartman’s shit right now. Not with finals coming up.

I’m so lost in these thoughts, and trust me, this doesn’t happen often, that I don’t realise Adler’s stopped talking until he throws a chalk eraser at me in frustration.

“Young man, did you hear anything I just said?”

I nod ferociously, hoping that will be enough. Thankfully, he has a date or something, so he lets me go with only a few more mutterings about “screwing around”. Little does he know, but that’s exactly what I intend to do.

By the time I get out into the hall everyone’s quit school for the day, leaving the corridors deserted. Needless to say, there’s no sign of my current favourite blond. I sigh, annoyed. Probably a good thing I missed my chance though. I really need to keep my hormones in check. After all, screwing (with) poor naive Butters? Not exactly what Brian Boitano would do. Before I flock to the bus stop to join my friends though, I stomp off to the toilet. For some reason, I don’t think I can handle Stan and Wendy’s cooing (and Kyle’s jealous stares) just yet.

The door to the bathroom swings open quietly and I saunter into a stall. I’m more of a urinal type of guy, but deep contemplation needs to be sat on a toilet seat. I stay there for a bit, glaring moodily at the doodles on the walls. Bebe’s a slut apparently. There’s a tally of how many guys have had her. I’m pretty sure at least 7 of those strikes are mine, though. I get a bit eager with a Sharpie. Remembering past flings with a grin, I barely notice the stall door next to me opening as someone sidles out. Eventually I break out of my lusty reverie, flushing and opening the door.

And I freeze.

There’s a chick here.

She’s standing at the sink, gazing into the mirror as she does her makeup. She’s got this cute little white number on; it barely grazes the bottom of her tight ass. Best legs I’ve ever seen and hair that sticks out from her head in an adorable pixie cut. There’s a sordid grin plastered on my face as I glance into the mirror to check out her features and then... Holy crap.

My heart starts pounding and I can feel my blood heat up.

That chick is... That chick is Butters.

My mouth drops open of its own accord, but thankfully he’s so absorbed in applying lip gloss that he doesn’t notice me hiding in the shadows. He’s singing that cute song from earlier – “lululu, I’m puttin’ on gloss, lululu, you can too...”

I can’t... my mind can’t get a hold of this image. Hot chick and Butters rolled into one? It’s my fucking dream come true, man! I never realised this before but gender bending? Totally up my street, apparently.

And he still hasn’t noticed me.

I can use this.

Treading as softly as possible, I edge closer to Butters. As the smaller boy is on tiptoes to lean in closer to the mirror, my height doesn’t give me away as I get near enough to touch him. His back’s almost pressed against mine and this fresh, intoxicating perfume fills my head. My God, I want him so badly, it’s all I can do to stop my fast breathing from giving me away.

“...that eyeshadow really works on you”, I whisper into his neck. I’m so close I can almost feel his body tense as he realises I’m there. In the mirror, his eyes widen, terrified, and he falls back on his heels, crashing into my chest. It’s a feeling I don’t much mind. Squeaking, he twists himself around so he’s backed up against the sink. Again, not a position I don’t enjoy seeing.

“K-Kenny! Wha...how...oh hamburgers!”

His fists bump together frantically while I admire how his face delicately flushes, heightened by the perfectly applied makeup. Jeez, he does it better than most girls I know.

“What are y’doin’ here?”

I raise an eyebrow and smirk. “It’s a free bathroom, Butters. Or should I say... Buttina?” I chuckle at my pun, which goes over his head completely.

“Marjorine,” he corrects, then throws a hand over his mouth. “I mean...let me go!”

“Huh? Oh.” I realise I’m still kinda pinning him against the sink so I take a step back.

There’s a pause. I think he doesn’t quite know what to do. But just when I open my mouth reassure him, he dashes out of the bathroom, stopping only to say “jus-just stay away from me!” before he’s out the door.

Shit.

I wince. Probably didn’t handle that so well, looking at it in hindsight. I just couldn’t help myself! Seeing him there, all delicate and innocent and...well...hot, I just HAD to mess with him a little.

And now he’s gone. And probably thinks I’m a complete perv. I blew it.

Sighing, I stomp out. But just before I leave I notice a huddle of clothes in the stall next to mine. I scoop them up. Perfect. Now I have an excuse to talk to him again.

As I saunter home I grin. If there’s anything I love, it’s the chase.

#butters stotch #kenny mccormick #bunny #fan fiction #fanfic #south park #marjorine

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come fly with my fantasy