Genevieve Macanthos. xx. Stoneskin.
You shall not twist my bones
into a star's shape, nor plant
my hair as roots for the dreams
of the living;
And if you open my HEART
and run your poet's fingers, over its walls and cushions, you will find it is, like yours
DARK
The stoneskin proved her wrong — she couldn’t have known, but if she had, Helene knew it would’ve been intentional — when she accused the princess of paying for a kiss out of spite (she was somewhat right in that aspect), but the burner took it in stride, a condescending sneer gracing her lips.
And what, exactly, did she stand to gain from the gesture? Nothing, really — not if the woman in front of her didn’t rise to the bait — but that wouldn’t stop her from trying.
“I’m feeling charitable,” Helene shrugged, her fingers closing around the rim of the jar and shaking it softly. “And you don’t seem to be satisfying many patrons.” The older girl was having no trouble attracting them; the line of potential customers behind her spoke volumes about the ivory woman’s appeal. She was beautiful — she’d have had suitors fighting for her hand if she wasn’t such a warrior herself, but the fiery princess respected her more (admired was simply too adoring of a word) for her rough edges.
Stone didn’t need to be smooth; Genevieve Macanthos was as ragged and brash as she was pretty, and best of all, she couldn’t have given less of a damn about the crown prince. Gods, she’d probably kiss his youngest sister before she ever laid a finger on Dom, and although Helene had no interest in locking lips with the woman, the notion was SATISFYING.
“We can’t have my brother thinking you’re a terrible kisser, can we?”
“I can’t say I entirely mind what your brother thinks of my kisses, given that he won’t ever be receiving one,” Genevieve said, voice cool and low like a breeze through a graveyard. She was good at faking many things; an interest in Queenstrial was not one of those things, though. The idea of it made her quite sick; to back herself into a marriage, where SHE would be the lesser one, where she only had power because someone else was allowing it.
It was the most insincere thing she could think of.
She took it upon herself to stand then, because Helene had paid and the service given in exchange wasn’t in question, and she couldn’t very well offer a kiss whilst seated. There were times when Genevieve disliked standing near Helene; not for any dislike of the woman, but because it was difficult not to admire her height. Genevieve stood a little shorter than most of the Silver ladies, and Helene a great deal taller. One of the few lessons taught to her by her mother that resonated with her, though, was that physical presence meant little in terms of real power. When you have natural power it is easy to grow fat and complacent on it. Slight as she is, Genevieve would have to work every day of her life; complacency was not an option.
And if nothing else, Helene had several admirable qualities - though Genevieve would never say it aloud. She was strong in every way that her siblings were not; certainly she was the least detestable of the Calores, if Genevieve was to kiss one.
There was a slight wave of surprise that took over her face before disappearing when she tried to seem more composed. Surprise was definitely there though as everyone seemed to want to stab at the new woman Domitius had brought back. It was a harsh competition that she wasn’t even aware of, and she had become the target of all those that aimed to become queen. She hesitated to say anymore to Genevieve for fear that she would reveal this weakness that she now had to find those that weren’t lining up to judge her. She longed for someone to just be there and present without wanting to stab her in the back as soon as she turned around. She struggled to even form a proper reply before a pattern of flashing lights caught her attention. She eyed the close ride to them with an ease that ran through her chest. “If you will excuse me, I must try every ride here tonight. Maybe we will have the pleasure to meet again, yes?” She left the question hanging between them before walking towards the ride without a proper response.
He wasn’t surprised at all by Genevieve’s response, which really wasn’t too different than how another Silver would humor him. Almost shortly, as if she didn’t want him there. But he knew better. If there was one person Cavan genuinely enjoyed the company of, that as Genevieve Macanthos and perhaps that might have been because she was the only one to enjoy his, but there was more to it. The suggestion that held. What other things she enjoyed if his company was one of them.
“I would never believe you were.” But wouldn’t it be a sight to behold? Gen intrigued him because she didn’t fear him like anyone else, didn’t back down, never took orders. Still as much as that interested him, there was a part of him that knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything other than complete subordination from all of his subjects. “Although, the bright sign might suggest something questionable to those less observant than I.”
It was sheer arrogance, on Cavan’s part. But Genevieve had never condemned arrogance, considering it an old friend. You weren’t a braggart, after all, if you could back your words up with your deeds. They all knew that Cavan was observant. It was why they all feared him; he watched, he saw, his thoughts burrowed deep beneath their skin.
It was why Genevieve lionised him. It didn’t matter to her that his House was far lower in standing than hers, because Genevieve’s ambitions could never be so bland as social climbing. What she thought Cavan could give her, she could get from nobody else. Perhaps Augustus Samos held a similar sort of power, but he seemed crude, a poorly written limerick next to the sonnet of Cavan. “If a person is so unobservant as to believe the sign means anything of my standing, I can’t imagine I would find myself caring about them at all. I think there are few left in these parts who could ever dream I was entertaining, of all things, in any case.”
Octavian felt the hum of the carnival echoing through him like hymnals. The pounding of feet on the ground, the buzz of the rides, the steady endless white water rapids of chatter—cresting, swelling, always on the move and threatening to overwhelm. It was like being at the centre of some great beast, twining its coils around Archeon and washing it in revelry. He loved it so much he felt fierce and wild with it, the loneliness that had been plaguing him since arriving in this city and beating its champion into the sand smoothed out for a single night.
He stood now at the edge of a great circle of dancers, one hand wrapped around a cold beer, wishing absently for a partner to grab and launch himself into the dance with. But he didn’t know the steps—was sure to show himself up as a clumsy provincial, the boorish Pict to the dancers’ assured, fluid Romans. If he had been surrounded by laughing reds he would have chanced it, thrown himself in without a thought of self-consciousness. Even if he’d been around the lower silvers he’d grown up with. But he wasn’t—he was in the middle of a throng of the highest silvers, regal and imposing, and he was blisteringly aware of his status among them. Their champion, the current shining star in Archeon. And as that figure, he couldn’t just wade in and make a fool of himself.
But if someone invited him in…he drained the last of his beer and set his glass down, then cast his gaze around himself measuredly, hoping to catch the eye of somebody seeking a partner.
Though they had never spoken, Genevieve’s feelings towards Octavian Carros were uniquely complex - on the one hand, she adored that he had orchestrated Gerard’s fall from grace, knowingly or not. But on the other hand, he was also the one at fault for tearing Diana from her family, and that wasn’t a sin easily forgiven. Naturally, Genevieve had made enquiries here and there - by all accounts he was a sweet young man, generous with his affections. Gerard was his only discernible enemy.
It was just difficult to know what to do, because Genevieve saw two options: find out what makes him tick, use it against him, and destroy him for taking Diana from her. Or, she could get close to him in order to drag Gerard further and further down. Both were appealing in their ways. Either way, she supposed, getting close to him was a necessary first step. She wondered if he’d heard about her; probably she couldn’t get away with being sweet to him. They all knew she wasn’t sweet. So how was she supposed to play it?
Finger tapping impatiently against her glass ( only water within ), her mind was made up for her when he glanced around and found her gaze. She couldn’t well pretend to have not seen him; instead Genevieve moved to his table, taking the seat opposite so that she could watch him. “Are you not enjoying the festivities?” she asked, opting to be herself for the time being. “I would have expected you to be up and dancing till sunrise,”
His fingers slid across her lips, down the slope of her jaw to wrap around her throat, “There is a dark thing in you,” he whispered, “It brings out the monster in me.”
Love Potions Gone Wrong, or Short Stories Yet to be Written pt. 2 [a.m.b.]
(via abadonna)
The pretty little jar the stoneskin had designated for patrons to drop their tetrarchs in was completely and utterly barren, the burner noticed, and more for the sake of christening the container and — she hoped — getting some kind of rise, whether neutral or malicious, from the woman than as payment for a kiss, the lithe princess’s fingers released the coin balanced between them, and it clattered at the bottom, the loud clank of metal on glass. The sound pinched the corner of her lip up in the slightest, and something akin to a dare lingered behind shades of blue.
Helene didn’t want a kiss; by her colors, she could set up her own booth and run it the same way — sending patrons away with burned and sore lips — if she really wanted, but the blonde had far better things to do, involving her mouth or otherwise. She was almost certain that the little woman in front of her hadn’t situated herself behind this booth of her own accord; Lavina Macanthos, she assumed, must’ve had some sort of hand in it.
Delphine Calore would’ve laughed aloud at the idea, harsh and mocking — “Princesses do not sell themselves like whores,” she’d have sneered, and while her youngest daughter was more than happy to opt out of a kissing booth, the lithe girl was also inclined to point out that QUEENS didn’t make whores of themselves, either, given the chance.
But she hadn’t seen her mother in a few hours, and gods, she wanted to keep it that way.
“A fool? I don’t think I’ve been called that before.” Bastard, baby, brat — bitch, most recently — but never a fool, and if she had been, the memory escaped her; she doubted, though, that Genevieve had been referring to her.
Genevieve didn’t flatter herself that Helene was paying out of any desire to KISS her; theirs was an unusual relationship, complex, even - but not sexual. It bore admitting that if she had to kiss anyone, Helene was one of the less vile options around Archeon, but that said more about the rest of Archeon than it did about Helene.
Had she ever been kissed?
It was difficult to say, and it was not something Genevieve was a good judge of - nor something she cared a great deal for. If Helene had never kissed someone before, she supposed this would be as good a place as any: on her money, on her time, on her command. In control. It was how Genevieve would do it.
“And yet you are a fool indeed to pay for a kiss from me, out of nothing more than spite. What do you really stand to gain from it?” Genevieve asked; it didn’t occur to her that it might be a poor idea to insult a princess. She was the unfavoured one, the one who couldn’t even have a birthday festival in her name without it being a cover for something else, and somehow Genevieve couldn’t imagine the King being too upset at the insult.
Besides, it isn’t really an insult if it’s the truth. And as far as she could tell, it was. They both knew Helene didn’t want a kiss; perhaps in the end, she was no better than the rest of them. Prodding and pulling at Genevieve to elicit a reaction, when in the end she would only cut off her nose to spite her face.
send me ♢ for my muse to get dared to kiss yoursdivergent!au1,528 words
Nobody had ever had any doubt over Genevieve’s faction allegiances. Too selfish for Abnegation, too much of a warmonger for Amity, too deceptive for Candor, and too focused on her one area of study for Erudite, she was a Dauntless through and through. The Macanthos siblings represented a long line of Dauntlesses, though Graham and Griffin had surprised and disgusted them all by choosing Abnegation and Erudite respectively - it was just Genevieve and Gerard left, though the less said about him the better. He had come out top of his initiation training, and Genevieve’s mother wanted her to be aware that she was expected to follow in his footsteps.
That in itself had been enough to convince her to join another faction - almost. But the sun rose on Choosing Day, and she felt sick at the thought of a life in any other faction. It was a choice for her, and her alone, and the fact that it gave her mother satisfaction meant NOTHING.
There were few surprises this year. When Genevieve cut her hand and dripped her blood into the bowl, declaring herself Dauntless, the rest of her faction were on their feet whooping and stamping their feet, and the rest of those in attendance shrugged. So what, another Macanthos in Dauntless. The first time a ripple passed through the crowd, it was only a few kids later; O, for Oliver. Matthew Oliver, what was he, a baker’s kid or something? A shadow in the chaos of stamping feet around her, Genevieve only arched an eyebrow as he cut his palm with the look of steel in his jaw.
The train ride back was abuzz, the Dauntless born crowding around the newcomers. Sitting with her legs swinging from the open side of the train, she kept herself removed from the chatter; though she kept an eye on Matthew. The other newcomers weren’t entirely a surprise, with reputations for scrapping and taking stupid risks. This one, she’d heard nothing about. His smile was sweet and soft, and he looked earnestly excited to be here.
She was just thinking how he would be eaten alive in a place like this, when a voice called out that it was time to get off. The train showed no signs of slowing; the new blood cast anxious looks about. Her peers were content to stand around and watch them panic for a moment, but Genevieve had no interest in that. Weak, little bullies. Jumping off the speeding train, she landed on the balls of her feet and rolled forward. Standing to brush herself off, Genevieve almost tripped in her haste to stumble back as another figure came barrelling out to land almost on top of her. They must have jumped only seconds after they saw her leave the train.
Other figures were dismounting now, but she was still staring at the boy at her feet. Matthew. “Not bad,” she said, a frown beginning to form. She held out a hand to help him regain his feet. “Next time, roll into it. You won’t hurt your ankles so much,”. And with a stiff nod of her head, she turned to leave him. Amity-born made her uncomfortable.
Only the ten best of them would actually make it into Dauntless. The rest would be cast out to the streets, factionless. Genevieve, for her part, knew she wouldn’t be one of them. She had earned her place here the day she was born, and indeed was consistently one of the highest ranked initiates. Few of those born outside of Dauntless were leaving an imprint, but she was irritated to see Matthew’s name creeping up the list at the end of each day.
He wasn’t even that GOOD, she thought to herself, just seemed utterly uncaring of whether he got hurt. He’d kept sparring with her long after she’d broken his nose the week before. And still he was at training the next say, two black eyes and a piece of tape across his nose, and with new callouses and scars forming new continents across his knuckles all the time. When the results were being read out one evening, Genevieve had to stop herself from staring. He was far better looking with a little wear and tear.
She hadn’t even realised that anyone had seen her watching him; it was only sometimes, and only because she was impressed with his determination ( so she told herself ), until several weeks into training. The final results, and the ten that would be accepted into Dauntless, would be announced soon, and most of them had stopped caring. There was nothing to be done about it any more. Instead of falling into bed and getting an early night as they usually did, for training started early and ran late, they all sat up in their bunks whispering.
Genevieve had been trying to ignore it, not caring for the games of her peers. But they wouldn’t accept it - she was the most boring Dauntless they’d ever met, and they wouldn’t let her sit out of this one.
In the end, she relented to the sharp whispering of her name, and sat up to glower about the room. It was barely lit with a few candles casting their silhouettes into flickering life. She recognised Matthew’s by the length of his neck, but couldn’t tell who anyone else was. “Truth or dare?” A voice asked her. Genevieve threw a dirty look in the direction it came from. Was that Alessa?
She would get no peace until she relented; the easiest thing to do was to get it over with. “Dare,” she spat, the word bitter against her teeth. She wasn’t going to let them know her secrets.
“Alright,” the voice responded, “I dare you to kiss Matt,”
They paused dramatically, as though this revelation ought to shake Genevieve to her core. It didn’t, but it did have more of an effect than she would willingly show. Something akin to a twist in her gut. She told herself that she didn’t want to kiss him, but that wasn’t quite true. She just didn’t want to kiss him in these circumstances, at someone else’s bidding.
For her own sake, because nobody else could see in the half light, she rolled her eyes and rose from her bed without a word. Refusing the dare would only cause more excitement among her peers, loud as they were. His was the bed across the room from hers, and she picked her way cautiously across - none of them were terribly good at picking up their things from the floor. It felt like a long, long way until her shin brushed the thin sheets on his bed. He was sitting up, and she saw the glint of his eyes - hazy in the candlelight, and more alert than she would have thought of him.
Slowly, so as not to embarrass herself by poking him in the eye, Genevieve reached out her hands to find the edges of his face. One cheek was swollen and warm to the touch, and she felt his skin shudder just a little as her thumb brushed a cut beneath his brow. His eyes, she was startled to find, were fixed intently on hers. She could make out no expression that she knew a name for, but he didn’t break eye contact even when she stared back.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” he whispered, so quiet that the rest wouldn’t hear him over their chattering and jeering. They were close enough now that the breath his words was carried on fluttered past her ear; it sent a shiver down her spine, but she found she didn’t dislike it. And his words, whether because they implied she could fail at a childish dare, or because they made her realise the truth, she knew then that she did want.
Closing the distance between their lips, Genevieve’s hands were still touching, just barely, his cheeks. His lips were soft, and she parted their plump warmth with a quiet, questioning tongue. The others around them were whooping, but Genevieve barely heard it. Matt’s hands closed around her waist; and they felt broad and strong, the callouses rasping against her shirt as he pulled her down and closer to the bed.
“You can stop now, you pervs!” Someone called, and Genevieve sighed into Matt’s mouth. His lower lip was held softly between her teeth and she didn’t want to stop, but was one moment away from letting herself fall into his bed. The kiss had barely lasted a minute, but she felt her cheeks flushed furiously from it. There was so much clamour around them that she could barely stand to look at him; it felt cheap, and insincere, to kiss with all those people watching on. He was breathing heavily, still watching her with those wide, thoughtful eyes.
It felt wrong to turn and walk away, but there was nothing left to be said between them. Genevieve nodded, and before she turned away she thought she saw his eyes crinkle up into a smile.
Damon frowned then sighed when the knife retracted from his stomach, the adrenaline coursing through his veins slowing down as her evil devil eyes looked at him. He knew they were nothing more than snakes, hiding beneath beautiful clothes and fancy voices. How could someone like her even know how to use a knife apart from cutting up a double frosting cake or a slice of expensive cheese. He would have laughed if the knife had pushed any deeper into him. Nothing like a dagger in the gut to remind him who the real enemy was.
And then that was that. She waved him along so she could prepare to stab the next sad red in the stomach. Who cares that her lips were like stone, it was all worth it for a kiss with a silver. The only reason Damon saluted her instead before he left was because telling Brooks the good news only meant one thing; he could see Kris again. Although he had almost been gutted, he knew a kiss was a kiss, and Damon was going to be damned if he didn’t get an opportunity to talk to Kris again, even if it meant kissing a snake.
“I am not insulting anyone.” He replied coldly towards his older brother. “If I wanted to insult you, I would just come out and say it.” He in no ways meant to insult Genevieve, though he didn’t mind insulting Graham. She hadn’t done him harm emotionally. “Gerard just thinks he knows what he’s talking about when in reality, that’s quite the opposite.”
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In another universe, the four of them got along swimmingly and he hated that it wasn’t this universe. What he wanted most during his youth was to feel a sense of love and family and he never got that. Now his bitterness and envy had virtually taken over him.
Griffin accepted Graham’s offer and positioned the knife in his hand once he secured it. His face was emotionless as he turned towards the target. His eyes concentrated on the target as he threw the knife and it landed a few lines away from the bullseye. For once, he was quiet. Not for long though, as he tried to think of something on his feet. “I just need to get used to the distance, that’s all.”
Somewhere, maybe, there was another world in which Graham hadn’t grown up resenting the rest of them for the freedom he hadn’t been given. There was another world in which Griffin’s every childhood wish had been granted; four happy siblings, two loving parents, a family that didn’t take every chance offered to tear each other down.
That wasn’t this world, however, and try as he might, Gerard could feel nothing but apathy for his youngest brother and his ego ( one that was far too large for someone like Griffin, who had really done nothing to deserve it, save for looking down at others from the imaginary step stool he seemed to carry around everywhere ).
If he hadn’t known any better, or if he’d been around a group of people he wasn’t related to, Gerard may actually have believed himself capable to have a good time. Genevieve’s sarcasm, not unlike Kieran’s at times, should have brought a smile to his face. And Griffin’s embarrassment was a prize in and of itself, as evidenced by his brother’s bad throw and the flimsy excuse that followed. Elicited of all people by the Major General himself, it seemed that his siblings, for once, were openly battling each other.
“Pathetic,” Gerard commented as he stepped up to the counter again, ready for his next throw. “Maybe Genevieve should teach you how to better your aim, Griffin. You could use the practice.”
There was something repulsive about Gerard’s response. Genevieve hated those sort of comments; barbed, but utterly lacking in subtlety. The best insults leave the insulted unaware of the slight until much later. But Gerard always had lacked finesse, hadn’t he?
It hardly mattered to her, in any case, that Griffin’s aim was less than perfect. Clearly he hadn’t attained the rank he had for nothing; if he didn’t want to market his skills to the rest of them, good for him. At least this way, nobody saw how powerful he could be until it was too late: everybody knew what Gerard could do, so they would more easily be able to defend themselves against him.
She was about to make a comment to that effect, when she remembered that Graham was there, and she didn’t want him to mistake her words for trying to build any bridges. And then, she wondered why she cared what he thought. And then she was frustrated, because he shouldn’t dictate what she wanted to say, one way or the other.
“DON’T drag me into your squabble,” she said at length, curt and distant. “And people that live in glass houses oughtn’t throw stones. Graham and Griffin have both found success in the army; they’re both many things, pathetic isn’t one of them.” Curse Gerard, for making her speak so kindly of her brothers.
Well, that was unexpected. It wasn’t that he thought she’d passionately kiss him back, their chemistry blowing the worlds apart or anything super lame like that…but he had expected to her to endure until the next lips sat in front her. He should have known. A disgusting smile tickled his lips and he scoffed, the knife keeping its weight on him as it pressed into his stomach with little sympathy. If there was one he had underestimated, it would have to be silver ladies.
No one jumped forward to stop her either, he could only assume it was either common occurrence, they didn’t notice, or they just didn’t really care. He thought it could potentially be all of them too. He obviously didn’t want her to stab him because that would be kind of bad. Who did she even think she was pulling a knife on a poor boy when children could see. The nerve.
“I knew you were a fucking snake.” He smiled. Perhaps Brooks was right, Silver girl’s weren’t all that after all.
A snake, how devastating. She shouldn’t be too hard on the boy, she supposed - he hadn’t had an education, so she couldn’t expect too much from him. Still, his insult was weak and she was a little disappointed. Tucking her knife back into her sleeve, she leaned back into her chair with a sigh that started in the very deepest part of her lungs, and expelled a breath that reeked of distaste and blood.
“If I were a snake, you would be dead,” she said, one neatly groomed brow arched. “You’re excused now, move along.” Make room for the next stinking oaf that wanted to try his luck, she thought. For a moment she’d almost enjoyed herself, but Genevieve tired quickly of games without purpose.
The princess stepped back to read the sign once more, a sneer gripping her red lips when the words “a tetrarch for a kiss” leered down at her yet again. “Don’t tire your lips out, Genevieve. It seems they’ve a lot of work to do,” she simpered, he tossing a glance over her shoulder at the line; the man she’d slipped in front was growing visibly more impatient.
Oh, if only he knew what he was getting himself into. He looked to be a lower house Silver — her mother hadn’t ever bothered to teach her the differences between them (Delphine had been fairly confident in the idea that they were insignificant and would stay that way) — but she wasn’t sure even that would be enough for him to survive a kiss — however brief — on the lips from the warrior of a woman in front of her.
She’d sneered something at the stoneskin’s black sheep of an older brother a few days prior about what it felt like to kiss a statue, and here Genevieve was, allowing anyone with a tetrarch to find out.
She’d always imagined the smallest among them would be the bravest to compensate. Helene reveled in the fact that she’d been right.
“The Macanthos children are rather expensive. Are you, at least, worth the price?” It was more of a jab at Gerard than it was at his little sister, but Genevieve could take it however she liked.
None of them were; none of them could ever be worth a price. Not because they were worthless, but because the worth they held was for themselves and nobody else. Besides, what would a person do with Genevieve once they had paid for her? If they kissed her, she would bite their lip. If they touched her, she would bruise their wrist.
All of her previous visitors had left, disappointed. Or angry. She had been rude enough to each one that they left in disgust without a kiss. Thus far her time in the kissing booth had earned no money, and she was pleased with that. Genevieve didn’t want anyone to mistake her for a girl to be kissed. She was not the object of their affections nor attraction. She was a blade on which they would cut themselves.
“No, I’m not. A tetrarch gets you an angry woman who won’t follow orders; at best it gets you a cold, dead kiss, and my worst is so much worse. Anyone visiting this booth is a fool with no clue of the value of anything.” She said, looking not at Helene, but the queue beyond her. She would rather kiss a corpse than any of them. You can’t buy kisses; the heart isn’t in them, and that’s the only thing worth kissing.
