Your favorite thing about kissing is how absolutely comfortable it feels. When he asked you, he said âmaking outâ, but youâre not sure what the difference is, exactly. There are things that are definitely Just Kissing that you feel wonderfully at ease just as well as the things that are definitely Making Out. You turn, mouth open to ask what exactly constitutes âmaking outâ, and catch sight of him, kneeling at the edge of your bed, hands fisted in the knee of his pants and an eyebrow raised. âYou like making out, right, Shino?â became âYou wanna make out, right, Shino?â.
He squirms, waiting for you to do something. Of course, you donât do anything. You quirk your brow to match. He takes the invitation, rolling off the bed and springing to his feet before you. With you sitting at your desk chair, he has the height advantage for once. You donât particularly like it. Not not-like as in feeling smaller for once, but not-like as in âthis isnât how we usually do this and the angle feels weirdâ. You fix it easily by standing. You only have a few inches on him but itâs enough. With that, he grins wide like heâs won something.
He gazes up at you, buzzing with anticipation of what youâre going to do next. You realize this is quickly becoming a competition between both of you to see who moves next. Thatâs a frustrating thought, you decide. Youâve done this dozens of times over. Thereâs no need for tentative back and forth. Although, this isnât tentative. This is exciting, full of anticipation, and actually somewhat fun. Maybe thatâs the difference between this and that difficult first week of a capital-r Relationship.
He lets you know youâre thinking too hard again, and you thank him. Right. Next part. You take his head in your hands and run your thumbs down the red fang marks on either side of his face. He smiles and copies the movement-- a good sign. He tilts his head a little, trying to ask with as little words as necessary if he can remove your glasses. His thumb runs along the arm on one side until you shift your head in a slight nod and he slides them into your hair. Heâs seen your eyes before. This is nothing new. You really wish he would get over it sooner rather than later so that you can finally be rid of the few catatonic moments he spends just staring at them. You try to keep the eye contact but you end up nervously darting your gaze around his face. Anywhere but his eyes. He begs you, baby, to please look at him with soft words and fingers on the smooth skin under each eye.
Your vision settles on his thin pupils and he bounces even harder, like a pot boiling over. He babbles about something before lifting up and taking your lower lip accidently-roughly between his teeth. You can tell when he is meaning to be rough. He makes a dramatic show of it and asks you at least five times if it really is okay. Itâs okay, right? You donât mid that I- Okay, okay. Okay. He doesnât say any of that this time, which lets you know he didnât mean to. Thatâs fine though. It really is okay, and he doesnât need to ask you when he tries.
Youâre thinking again. Thank you, Kiba. You try to tell him around his tongue and teeth but heâs kissing you like the third, no, fourth time he kissed you. Yes, this is exactly like the fourth kiss. Your hands dropped to his shoulders at some point. You let them slide down his chest and rest at his hips. He presses in close to you, hands trailing down your neck to undo the fasteners on your jacket. His tongue, momentarily catches on your teeth when his hands fumble. Ack, whatever, he spits before pushing gently back from you and trusting the bed to catch his fall. He shifts up on his elbows and looks at you, waiting for you to make the next move.
There's things they don't tell you about being a werewolf. Â Well, they don't really tell you much in the first place, but there are usually some givens. For one, strip down before you change. no sense in wasting good clothes once your bones snap and stretch and you fill them three times over. Some say wear big clothes, but you know for a fact you can't tell really how big you are, and you don't want to know how ridiculous you'd look, a wolf running in the wood in menswear.
Second, they don't tell you that you'll never know what not being in pain feels like again. Even off the moon, which feels like floating on clouds compared to a hellish night regrowing fur and muscle, you still creak when you walk, and can't seem to get comfortable in any chair. The new moon is the worst, bringing migraines and immobility in its absence. You carefully settle yourself in the prefect bath  like you have every month since second year, and turn the right taps to bring relief that spells alone can't fix. The loneliness fills up the empty chamber like steam and echoes like the faint fizz in of effervescent potions that knead away your tiredness. You're always tired these days. Tired of running after James and the rest, tired of keeping them and your grades in check. Tired of laying alone in a quiet bath each night with no one to confide in why.
   It wonât be how you wanted it to happen. It wonât be by your backup plan. It wonât be by your backup planâs backup plan. Your safety nets will fail and she will die by another manâs hand. The satisfaction will die in your chest as you grip the railing on the porch steps and the scene unfolds before you. You wonât get to know that you killed Mrs. Irving. No one will. No one will believe you even if you owned up to everything. Sheâll still have died by another manâs hand. Another manâs hand. You wonât be able to shake that feeling for the rest of your life.
   The car will be a black 2005 Civic. The driver wonât see her through his bleary half-drunk stupor. Heâll spend far too long stopped there, Mrs. Irving undertire. The driver will slowly step from the car, and spend another too-long gaping at the now-unrecognizable housewife that his sedan drug for half a block. Heâll shake as a police officer detains him and paramedics zip her into a black bag on a gurney. Heâll say, perhaps too loudly, that he really wasnât that drunk, officer. He will swear it, honestly. He will shake harder and begin to cry, loudly and disgusting. Heâll throw up in the back of the police car on his free ride to the station.
   She will run out onto the porch and down the drive, eyes red from crying and her hand red with blood. Sheâll clutch it in her apron, staining the pretty floral fabric with new red roses. Sheâll stagger into the street, chest heaving as she seeks help for the gash in her hand. Sheâll smear her blood on her face as she dries her eyes and shields them from the rain. She will be dizzy, having just escaped the stifling dinner party that had swelled through the night. The world will spin about her for a second as she takes in big lungfuls of air and the veins on her forehead slowly ebb away. She wonât even register the headlights approaching her as dangerous until they pin her against the asphalt and speed forwards anyways, ignoring the 30-something ex-debutante stowaway.
   The knife will fall, as planned, as she opens the cupboard. It will slice her hand on its path to her head, her neck, her heart. She will think fast, nimble seamstress fingers grabbing its blade, knocking it from its path. Her hand will fly to her mouth to suck on the cut, but sheâll realize its too much blood. So much blood. Sheâll look up at her happy guests, milling about, buzzed and blathering about this and that and this. They, they donât need to worry about her. Sheâll sway. So much blood. And wrap her hand in her apron and quietly run from the house. Outside she can calm down, right? And no one will be the wiser! She will cry with each step forward and into the freezing rain.
   It wonât work. Mrs. Irving will tap her finger against her glass, surveying the room. Youâll panic for the ten seconds you allow yourself. One, two, three, and the others. Never fear, youâll tell yourself. Youâll find another solution. Sheâll want to go to the kitchen. Sheâll want a drink of water. No one will be in there, your time will there. Youâll set a trap. Itâs easier than being caught. Youâll perch it inside the cupboard, between a worn â#1 Momâ mug and a heavy-bottomed glass. All she needs to do is open the door.
   Mrs. Irving wonât feel well. Sheâll tentatively sip from her tumbler. Something wonât feel right. Sheâll be dizzy, probably, by now. Her hand will slip on her glass. Sheâll want some water to clear her head. Sheâll take a shaky step to the kitchen and pray Ms. Farthing didnât notice. If only she could get a glass of water.
   Ah, Sarah! sheâll tell you. Would you mind mixing me a stiff drink? Iâve got a long night ahead of me, hoo hoo! Do put a coat on dear, the rain is really coming down and youâre soaked to the bone.
   Your hand will twitch above the cocktail shaker.
   She will act like nothing was wrong. Sheâll arrange her hair and splash some cool water on her face. Sheâll stride into the dining room once again as if she wasnât about to die.
   You wonât be strong enough. In the dark of her room youâll grab at her neck from behind. She wonât see you. She wonât know itâs you. But she will get away, fleeing into the hall and suffering while she catches her breath. Youâll throw the window open and make your escape before she peeks back in.
   Your hand shook with the neighborhood newsletter in hand. You press it flat next to her dinner party invitation that accompanied it through the mail. Best home and yard, Mrs. Irving. Not again. Not this year. It should have been you. You deserve the glory. At the least, you deserve to be the one to tear it from her. You wonât be, though. You wonât get the satisfaction.
   Damon wasnât one for staying inside. He would hike in the woods, building camp there and spending the night or the weekend. In the winter, too even. It didnât seem to matter. To Damon. anywhere was better than inside. Inside meant parents who looked at him like they knew something he didnât. Inside meant having to be Son instead of Damon. Outside helped sway the demons from his mind and hands into the bark of trees. Red scratched contrails on his pale skin could become a scar instead gouged into a cedar: D+G.
   Outside meant Gideon, and Gideon meant raising the dead. A cheery kid with too-long ruddy brown hair would sit with him in the field after a rainstorm, cradling drowned ants in his chubby hands, willing them to crawl anew. He was best at it when you canât see the moon in the sky. The bright satellite would refill and disappear again and again and again until it wasnât just ants that would skitter newly alive from Gideons hands, but grasshoppers and earthworms and bees. He would sit in their grassy hollow, beneath the treehouse they grew up in, and pull a weathered book from his bag. The tome held his secrets, borrowed more than stolen, from his grandmother. Sigils modified his work, strengthening it, expanding it. They were unstoppable.
   They would spend long nights waiting for the sun to crest the horizon and cast itâs light on their runes drawn in the sand around a dead crow. They would spend hours in their treehouse pouring over leather-bound textss and taking notes in the back of their math books. They obsessed over the careful spells. A lock of hair here, ash there, chickenâs blood over there. A fascination with the dead that grew once Damon realized he held the power too. He challenged Gideon, pushing him and his power further and further. He had never been wrong before, and Gideon trusted him with his life. They fell in love with each other and the safety found in their cold little treehouse. They locked the power with admissions and love and lock on a trunk well hidden.
   With power came restrictions. They made a rule. No humans. It was simple. Neither of them had ever seen a dead human in the thirteen-odd years theyâve been alive. As those thirteen wore into fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, they realized a consequence was needed on their rule. It was far too tempting to run to the scene of the car accident in front of Damonâs house, scratch a symbol into the white paint and burn it, letting the people involved live another day. Instead, the night was spent on Damonâs porch, shaking in his boyfriendâs arms. Gideon tried to sooth the boy, but his reassurances fell with the arrival of sirens and firehose mist. It was a previously-dead squirrel that had derailed the neighborâs car.
   They were more careful now. Awakenings got more complex when they could do more than make zombies. As kids, their newly-living creatures were reduced to basic walking abilities, and no senses. They would walk everywhere, leisurely, until they eventually starved or were eaten. Looking back, Damon realized that even if they tried to Awaken humans, theyâd fail. Creating living humans was exponentially more difficult, so the books told. Humans needed souls. Â
   They took precautions. Human blood was excellent at sealing pacts. No humans would be brought back, or may the Awakenerâs remaining years be halved, and shared with the Awakened. They sliced their palms and held hands and kissed until the candles ran out. They never brought up the bloodletting. It wasnât relevant. Three years passed with âwould you, if you could?â and âwe canâtâ and âI know, but would you?âs. Â
â//â
   Three years later, Gideon collapsed in a puddle of sweat and tears, clothes stained with blood -both his and Damonâs. His long hair was shorn and his fingers bruised and burned. Human Awakenings werenât meant to be easy. He started hours ago, and the candle he left burning on his desk was getting low. He didnât have much time. Damon had lost so much blood. It was hard for Gideon to keep his chest clean enough for the next round of sigils. He ran a wet rag over the shaking boyâs body, then dipped his still-sticky black fingers into the bowl of ash, twisting out symbols he had copied carefully into their In Case Of Emergency book. Balancing the flashlight under his chin, he turned the page and finished the last mark. With a sob, he pushed his knife into Damonâs chest. The candles extinguished with a rush of air, and the book closed. Gideonâs hand burned across the abused scrape on his palm. They never planned for this. Neither of them had thought about what would happen if it were one of them that died. Everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. This wasnât supposed to happen, they were careful, they were so careful!
   Gideon opened his door a crack and called out into the house. No one was home. Good. He lifted Damon into his arms reverently, and took him downstairs and out back, far into the woods. He laughed as he tucked flowers under Damonâs hands on his bare chest. He was lucky to die in the spring, when it was far too easy to find peace lilies. According to the book, they brought luck and success to an Awakening, as they symbolized death and rebirth. He would have liked this, dying outside, in the forest. Gideon ran his thumb across the dead boyâs cheek, and brushed his hair from his closed eyes. He was so pale in death, his eyes rimmed with red and purple. Emptying the can of fuel over the pyre, Gideon shook. Flames engulfed Damon, and Gideon collapsed.
   Gideon spent the entire night in the woods, waiting, nervously watching the near-full moon hanging in the sky. He had found Damon unconscious and curled around his cat, both cold to the touch. As he eased Damon from the sticky red floor, he caught sight of a circle scraped into the wood panels. Incomplete. How could he be so stupid! It was a beginners mistake. Coupled with shaking hands and misspelled runes, this Awakening was doomed from the start. He had tried too much, too many modifications for just a cat. He swallowed thick, realizing the cat may not have been dead to begin with. Was he trying to forge a human soul? Damon would have told him, right? Right? Settling the catâs body in the hamper and out of the way, he set to work.
   Worry set into Gideonâs stomach, heavy and cold like a block of ice. It had been almost a full day since Damonâs death. What if he had done it wrong? Itâs too easy to mess up such a complex Awakening. He found himself wishing he had brought the notebooks to the forest with him, so he could double, triple, quadruple check that he did everything right. But he couldnât leave the body. Still engulfed in faint blue flames through midday, Damon laid, unscorched and dirtied with blood and ash. Gideon could still make out the triangular rune rubbed over his heart. With the sun burning hot overhead, unable to stay awake longer, Gideon let his eyes slip shut.
   The flames were beginning to flicker out around Damonâs corpse by the time Gideon reawoke. He shuffled to his feet, ready for whatever happens when the flames do go out. Each blue tongue of fire flickered in slow-motion before his eyes, until finally the last one extinguished. Through the slack, dead jaw of his lover game a groan, and Gideon panicked. Oh no. What if he created little more than the zombies they made as kids. What if this was a terrible, terrible mistake.Â
   A figure lifted itself from the pyre, separating itself from the body, which laid cold as ever in the burnt grass. The light shifted weirdly around itâs form, not quite translucent, but not fully solid. It bore Damonâs face, pale, freckled skin with dark circles under pale grey eyes and short, sandy hair. When it spoke it was with the same even voice Gideon had loved. It asked after Gideonâs hair; Where was the long ponytail he usually had? And then, Damonâs clothes; Why am I naked? And lastly after Gideon, What are you staring at? He had created something he wasnât supposed to, and now he must live with it, for Awakening a human will cost him half of his remaining years, years he must now spend with an image of his late love.
wrote this a few months back, can't remember if I've posted it before. I'm going to clean it up and extend it and write another scene at the end. I wrote this before i started working on the comic linked in the title. its funny, this is the ~angsty backstory~ for a sort of dark slice of life comedy i have planned. so here enjoy this! like/reblog/let me know what you think and stuff! I might submit this as my second manuscript for my fiction class
update 4/11: I rewrote some of this and added an ending. i didnt want to just republish it so i edited this doc of it. Let me know what you think!
I wrote a short story about the friendzone and the patriarchy for creative writing and my teacher LOVED IT and so here it is without the formatting (im going to make it pretty and repost it later)
You knew she was the love of your life. Every BS love story youâve been force-fed since you were in diapers has prepared you for finding a pretty blonde woman with a full chest and red lips. A quiet woman who likes wine and fast sex. You were prepared to hop around and settle down when you got too old for 19-year-olds. She didnât fit any of that criteria and neither did you. You loved romance and quirky girls. She likes photography and fantasy books. You both hated society. Society was a shiny coin that someone left in the take-a-penny at an inner-city Circle K, waiting for another druggy degenerate to swipe it from the dish.
You put out your cigarette and slung your leather bag over one shoulder. Your glasses fogged up in the cold and a you cleaned them off as you walked back into the warm English building.
Her door was open and out flowed some Coldplay song. Not your favourite band, but still acceptable. She sat at her desk, perfect and unconventional. She bit the straw on an empty Starbucks cup and graded papers. Her bubblegum bangs covered her face. It didnât matter, really, youâve seen that face at every staff meeting this semester. She was cute, and laughed at your jokes. Even the dumb ones like âsimalaertesâ. Not even the Shakespeare 101 teacher liked that one.
âKnock, knock,â you said, slipping into the room. You wove between the rows of lab-tables and situated yourself at the edge of the mahogany desk. She didnât even look up at you. From here, you could see her star-shaped pendant hanging at her breast, half-hidden by a grey and pink sweater that slouched down one shoulder. âHey.â
Her head shot up, a strand of pink hair clinging to her lipgloss. Gorgeous.
âOh,â she said. âI didnât hear you come in.â
âWell,â you began, clearing your throat. âI was wondering if you had any plans this evening?â Her hand strayed from the essay to her iPhone to check the time.
âItâs 9:45.â She went back to the paper.
âDinner?â You raised an eyebrow. She didnât see.
âI already ate.â She crossed out a sentence on the page in red ink and wrote âmisogynisticâ.
âDessert, then?â
âFried ice cream,â she replied, a little too quickly. You frowned, considering your options. âLook, Iâm busy. Donât you have somewhere better to be?â She sets her enigmatic gaze on you and it was approximately ten years before you were able to speak. Her eyes were literal galaxies and poised to kill.
âHm?â
âAre you deaf? Come on, youâre not fooling me. Go⊠grade something.â She raised the volume on her music and made a show of looking away. Wow.
Yet another schoolgirl wench had lured you in, only to snap the friendzone trap on you once again.
Songs To Get Friendzoned to:
Canât fight this feeling - REO Speedwagon
Just a friend - Biz Markie
Like a friend - Pulp
Something to talk about - Bonnie Raitt
You belong with me - Taylor Swift
You hate him. You love being a Womenâs Lit teacher. Maybe he just doesnât get it. Maybe he doesnât know youâre married. What you know is that he is a grade-A douchebag. And that maybe you shouldnât have accepted his offer for coffee last week.
He didnât so much as offer as coerce. He followed you to Starbucks, toting the rival coffee shopâs reusable cup with him. He claims they âspeed roastâ, which makes it taste better. Whatever.
He was sweet, and funny, and cute. And so not your type. Your type came swathed in leather, tattoos, and breasts. You type came in the form of Olivia, your wife. The two of you talked for an hour about this, that, and Shakespeare. Then you both went to your respective homes. You never really had a reason to talk to him after that. He followed you for Gods sake! If that didnât set of creep alarms in your head, you donât know what you would do. you kept everything platonic- âpass the creamerâ and âoh heyââs.
He was sitting on your desk, knees apart, obviously attempting to direct your attention from Womenâs studies and more into menâs studies.
âI was wondering if you had any plans this evening?â You check the time.
âItâs 9:45.â You hoped to convey your knowledge of his intentions in your words.
âDinner?â The word was synonymous with sex.
âI already ate.â It was true. Olivia took you to that new Mexican restaurant around the corner. You strike through a line on one of your studentâs essays. âSkankâ is not an appropriate word to describe a pop star.
âDessert, then?â When would he leave?
âFried ice cream.â You grumble and move the essay into the graded stack. âLook, Iâm busy. Donât you have somewhere better to be?â You glare at him in his white cishet male glory. English teachers. He wonât stop staring.
You call him out once again, and he snaps out of it, stuffing his hand in his pocket and pulling out a box of cigarettes. You snort when you hear a faint âbitchâ under his breath as he leaves.
Crushing the patriarchy one heart at a time.
Songs To Crush The Patriarchy To!!!!
Donât let me get me - P!NK
Q.U.E.E.N. - Janelle Monae + Erykuli Badu
Girls/Girls/Boys - Panic! at the Disco
Titanium - David Guetta + Sia
How to be a Heartbreaker - Marina and the Diamonds
and here's part two! kaladin actually says more than two things in this one. must be hanging around his supervisor too much.Â
also mostly un-edited. im too tired to fix it but i promised fruity id have this for when they woke up
part one
He doesnât eat with you.
A smattering of broth and rice hit you in the face and you take notice of Thath. He shifted to the side, blocking your view of Shash.
âI asked how your flight went. You kinda lagged a bit, Kho.â He leaned forward, looking around. No one was listening. âIs this because of Truth?â Thath was the only one with you during that time. He knew what you went through, how it felt. He made himself the only other fighter you could stand to be around for an extended amount of time. Thath twisted around in his seat to follow your gaze. As if he could sense your eyes or something, Shash looked up, and dropped his knife.
âNo. And I told you not to bring it up.â You take your tray and cup and shuffle over to your navigator, shifting his tray to the side to make room for yours.
âCan I help you?â You donât answer him. He is so different from you. Youâre from a wealthy background, refined, and graceful. Heâs a barbarian who doesnât trust anyone. He spent all of last night staring at the wall and coughing through your smoke. The only thing you had in common was that you were both-
Fighters.
How are you supposed to get him to protect you?
You didnât even win the heart of the voidfeind yesterday. Your first time getting back in a ship and you lose it. That was right. This isnât like you. Truth was easy to work with. He understood you, knew what to do. If it wasnât for-
The lights began to shut off in the mess hall. You didnât realize that just you, Shash, and a few other stragglers remained. You didnât feel like finishing your meal. It was beneath you, anyways.
The two of you walked back to your room. Just outside the door, you stopped and pulled your cigarettes from your pocket. You know he doesnât like you smoking in the room. This is a step in the right direction, right? You shake the box, and raise your eyebrows. Want to join me? He glances at the large digital clock above the entrance to the hallway and turns away from the door. Sure. I guess. he seemed to say.
You find a balcony, or whatever can qualify as a balcony on a ship. You could overlook an empty central hallway. Every now and again someone would walk through, talking on phones or dressed in training gear. Maybe even both. You took a long pull on your cigarette. He waited for you to exhale a rope of smoke before he spoke.
âBetter out here than in the room.â He played absently with the fastener on his jacket, pulling it open and back closed. Your eyes followed his hands.
âDo you think Iâm looking for a reason for Linil to punish me?â A lie. Linil didnât care. Heâs the one that sells you cigarettes anyways, and treats you like a son.
Shash laughs. âThat doesnât seem to have stopped you at any point in the past.â Actual emotion from him. Good. Getting somewhere. He smiles at you and resumes his up-down-up-down with the jacket. He gets it. Heâs smart, smarter than you if the tests are anything to go by.
âDo you want to watch me train tomorrow?â You ask, putting out your near-finished cigarette and picking a new one with a bright blue band from the box. Pretty.
âDepends. Are you going to smoke that one too?â You freeze, lighter halfway to your mouth.
âI was planning on it, yeah,â you furrow your brow. Look, you know he doesnât like it when you smoke in the room, but he didnât seem to have a problem with sitting here with you.
âAre you trying to kill yourself before you hit thirty? My what a pity that would be.â
âNo,â you had an inheritance that kicked in then, so of course not.
âThen I suggest you put that back in the box. While you havenât personally victimized that cigarette, rumor has it you burned countless siblings of it in the past. They donât take kindly to murderers, see, and will do a number on your lungs for that.â He didnât even catch his breath after that rant. He sat back against the pillar, and pulling the other leg up onto the low wall and against his chest. He waited for you to respond. You sigh and tuck it back in its box and stow it back in your pocket.
âHappy?â
âOverjoyed,â he replies, without missing a beat.
âFine, but my headaches and nightmares are on you. Youâre my navigator. Arenât you supposed to protect me?â
âI did.â You are. So. Done. With this man.
âDick. Right, The Great Shash, saving me from my unfortunate early demise,â you say with grandeur and flailed arms. You arenât supposed to be the graceful one. He is.
âAnything for you, Prince,â he quips, popping down off of his wall.
âOh please,â you say, rolling your eyes. âIs this because of my âBridgeboyâ comment, because at least mine made sense.â
âAnd how does âPrinceâ not make sense?â He steps in front of you, crossing his arms. âYou act like one.â
âHow?â You scowl, but with great concern. You arenât too conceited, are you? You care very much for your personal image, and if people are going around talking about how youâre hard to talk to, or too proud, well. Canât have that.
âYouâre pretty, Khokh. With all that finesse while fighting, maybe you should be the navigator.â Your jaw snaps shut. You run your hand across the pad outside your door and push past him. Â âCome on,â he says, taking inventory of your body language. âI donât mean that as an attack on your masculinity. Youâre rather handsome as well, just, your actions arenât. Being a navigator is difficult in itâs own way.â You donât reply to him. You donât know why, but everything you say is shut down again at his merest twitch of a lip. âFine. But Iâm showering first.â
i feel compelled to apologize whenever i write fics for new fandoms i'm sorry 1000000000000 times
Also, worth noting, this isn't 100% into the StarFighter universe, and it's also nowhere near Stormlight Archive. Elements of both have bled through and they should probably draw up the custody papers over this particular fic.
also after this chapter if anyone would be interested in correcting glaringly obvious things that i miss, or my disregard for characterization, I'd be happy to hear from you
Whatever it takes.
To you, âShashâ was synonymous with words like âconfidentialâ, âexperimentâ, and âdangerousâ. And you were going to meet him today. You sat on the edge of your cot, and running your fingers through your hair. The new shipment of Navigators was to come in today, and he would be with them. You knew he doesnât belong with them, but heâd be there anyways. You know you wouldnât be assigned to this if it wasnât for your relationship with Linil. Your meals shared with him ran long, and you regarded him as a father figure of sorts. He trusted you with information. Information that included his plans for Shash.
Speak of the Devil.
The door slides to the side and he walks in. His white sweatshirt hid his head and face from you, but you could tell it was him.
âAre you Khokh?â His head tips to the side and you stand up.
âWell, that depends on who you are.â He lifts his hood off of his head and you twitch backwards. His hair was pitch black, an unlikely colour for a navigator. It wasnât unheard of, though. And with the knowledge that you had you really should have expected this. You brushed off your surprise. After all, your hair was mottled with white strands here and there, an impure lineage that you were careful to assert was unimportant. He was handsome, you guess, which would make your job a hell of a lot easier. His eyes were black and his skin tan. He was darker than you, and youâre supposed to be the storming fighter here. Youâd have to be more careful to wear your darkest black clothes when out. You donât want anyone getting the wrong idea of who shoots the guns on this ship. Â Most strikingly, however, were the scrapes on his forehead. That you werenât expecting. What the hell kind of navigator has dangerous carved into his own skin. Shit, it wasnât going to be easy to make a pilot out of him. He basically guaranteed he wouldnât be treated like one.
He makes a funny noise, as if he choked on your name first before spitting out his own. âShash.â He extends a slim hand towards you and you take it. Decent grip, warm from spending probably itâs entire life in the pocket of his coat. You fall back onto your bed. He looks at you and you nod to the other small sleeping space in the room. Your beds were maybe two, three feet tops apart from each other. Good, good. You make a mental note to thank Linil when you get a chance for the small sleeping quarters. Youâve been in Thathâs room and itâs like he and his navigator sleep in different nations. That was the funny thing about them. They donât get along as well as most pairs. Sure, amiability isnât needed for the best flight system, but it sure helps. The best pair in your entire squad have been fucking for at least the last three months, and Almighty knows it helps.
You werenât planning on letting it get that far. You needed him to last long enough as your navigator for him to accept the role. You needed him to protect you.
You rifle through a drawer under your bed and pull out a carton of cigarettes and a small device. You light your cigarette and offer Shash one. He declines, laying on his bed and rolling to face the wall and away from you. You scroll through your messages, a handful from Pattern. She was a fantastic strategist who worked in the central building. She was sweet on you, and had sent you some pictures. You exhale a stream of smoke, flicking through them. Each new opened attachment was punctuated by Shashâs amazing ability to cough on command. His command.
âDo you need to do that in here?â he asks, looking at you with his shirt covering his nose. All you can see is his brand.
âYeah, kinda.â You flick ash at him, but it falls short. Almighty help him, this wasnât going to be easy. Heâs still looking at you, and you sigh, stubbing your cigarette in a crowded ashtray. âHappy?â
âOverjoyed.â You groan, frustration pooling in your head and drowning you.
Thatâs when the alarm rang.
 He fucking sucks at navigating. The two of you hung to the rear of the attack, doing fucking nothing. You were able to knock out one or two little things, but overall you were completely helpless. He couldnât even land the thing properly. What was Linil thinking? He was nothing like your last navigator.
The second youâre cleared to exit your ship, you do. You turn back and look at him, gesturing for him to follow. He walks slowly, in no obvious rush, so you whistle at him.
âThat bridge ainât going to cross itself, Shash.â You feel him roll his eyes at you, despite not moving them at all. You knew he was thinking about it. âYouâve gotta fly sometime, bridgeboy, mad at me or not.â
âWhat did you call me?â He snaps from his bored stupor and glares at you.
âBridgeboy? That? Makes sense.â
âNo it doesnât.â
âI came up with it, of course it makes sense,â you say, running the zipper on your flight jacket down and flexing a bit. Why the hell did they think this fake leather crap was worth making a suit out of? All you do is sweat, chafe, and sweat some more. Canât even breathe in the damn thing. He stopped walking beside you and had fallen back several feet. âI know Iâm fucking Adonis here but you donât have to be shy about it.â
âI wasnât-â
âYeah, yeah,â you key in your room code without looking and make a beeline for the shower.
Did you see someone this weekend who you would have loved to talk longer with? Maybe you'd just like to learn their name? Fill out a Missed Connection card and we'll forward you any responses you may receive!
I met you at Old Chicago, in Phoenix, maybe 9:00 PM last Saturday. You were playing guitar, acoustic and well-tuned. You played three covers, then a song that was all you own, and I connected with you. âLove is Blindâ, was it? I was the kid in the sunglasses and t-shirt. Maybe you asked to pet my dog. Her name is Sadie. Â Leave me your number and Iâll call. I canât text. Box #1
I saw you during singleâs night at Old Chicago last night, the 15th. You were my fifth partner for speed dating, I remember you. You kept looking at your friend, and you untied your tie. You went through two glasses of water--mine and yours--during our 5 minutes together. You must have needed it, sweating and all like you were. I told you all about me, but regretfully you didnât return the favor. The lady running the event must have made a mistake in not sharing our contact information, because even the blind guy at the bar could see the passion between us. Box #12
I saw you at the yaoi voice acting panel, Saturday, Session 5 at the convention. You were wearing a long blue Arda brand wig, pointed white ears and horn, and sunglasses. I was wondering where you got your Daft Punk jacket--it looked like the Guy-Man wore it himself--when you got up to read your lines. You had the most beautiful uke voice Iâve ever heard, and I would love to hear it again. I was the one with the Dave Strider shirt, blonde wig, and sunglasses. My voice isnât as deep as I would like it to be, but Iâm sure you remembered me too. I spent the whole five minutes being intensely jealous of your seme when you two were on stage. Talk to me, and maybe we can watch the new episode of Dramatical Murder together. Box #2
many apologies for the lack of accurate characterization, flow, and coherency. i know that if i dont post this now ill never come back to it and i actually like like three sentences in it.
im tired and done
and i feel if i didnt post it i would disappoint a handful of you from fncc
so take it take it away from me dont let me see it again
He smells
interesting.
Itâs a scent that crawls out from the cracks in his shardplate during a duel and is siphoned up with your idle breathing. Itâs damp and spicy and makes your nose and neck and tongue and toes itch. Itâs one part him, one part something expensive and shiny that he probably didnât pay for. It rolls down his forehead and cheek and neck and stains the collar of his shirt some colour that you canât see from your station off to one side of the dueling area. Â You watch him chat with a group of people: swooning girls and impressed boys. He pulls off his helm and tucks it under one arm as he pushes back that dappled, sweaty mess of gold and black. You manage to stop watching the spectacle that is Adolin Kholin long enough to reset your footing and scan the area once again. The actual threat of anything at this time is as low as usual, but someone had to watch this brat.
Well, he wasnât much of a brat. Maybe just a suffering princeling. By that, you mean you were suffering. You canât tell if he were to be attacked if youâd turn your spear on him or his assailant. He frustrates you. Your inner protection drive over him you thought came from your promise to keep him and his family safe, but maybe it comes from something different.
It comes from his whistle- the one that proceeds âBridgeboy!â- and you following him to the bathing room. It comes from you pressing your ear against the door to the windowless room, listening to him (for his safety, of course). It comes from him at least having the decency to say your name with anger. It comes from hitting him in the back of the heels with your spear while the two of you walk, and pretending its an accident.
It comes from him leaning down in his shardplate and kissing you before rounding the corner into the dueling ring. He straightens up, leaving you in a part-confused part-totally-okay-with-this haze. He raises his eyebrows as if to confirm that he hasnât misread anything. You quickly raise your hands and yank him back down to your level, and kiss him again, breathing Light into his mouth and keeping his face close to yours. He makes a noise and you couldnât tell what it meant so you release him and he steps back, wiping his face and breathing deeply. He pointed at the ground beneath him, then replaced his helm.
âHere, after the duel.â He turned and entered the ring.
vvvv seriously joan are you going to go there vvvv
unfinished genderaspectspeciesflipped fic thats supposed to be johndave but is more everyonexeveryone this is really really really old dont judge my writing based on it plz
She didnât really get it, did she?
âIâm Joan,â she breathed, sticking her hand out for you to shake it. She must not live in one of the troll neighborhoods, you decide, accepting the human greeting. Blue blood. Her hand is just a touch cooler than yours and the blob of colour on her shirt gives it away. Her teeth are blunt like a hopbeast, and her short choppy hair clipped to the side of her face, as to not cover the big square frames that take up half her face.
She looked kind of stupid but she was the only other troll in this class. You have Ross in a later one, and J in another. You were certain it was just the three of you at this school until Joan showed up.
âStrider,â you reply. âDana Strider.â Before you drop her hand you send a slight little shock through yours to hers. She jumps and laughs.
âLike a joy-buzzer, right? Hilarious! Good one!â She says to remind her to show you a card trick she learned after class. You know better than to do magic tricks with highbloods. Nearly all the blue-blooded trolls you know have some weird mind power that makes the trick work every time, regardless of their skills. Itâs pathetic but hey, you use your innate abilities for personal gain as well. Like making human friendship with people. Like you just did with Joan.
She waves a writing implement in front of her face and you catch the edge of her notes. She takes notes in English, the human language. Interesting, you think. You meet another troll in this school and sheâs a highblood and practically a human. Jeez, if it werenât for the fucking huge rack on her, she would look just like one. You mentally high-five yourself for the wordplay, as  both the hand-shaped horns and spheres on her are larger than a humans. Humans donât even have horns.
Maybe thatâs what stops people from picking fights with you. Your mouth likes to get you in trouble more often than not, but nine out of ten times a human will back down from an argument with you. Maybe itâs because you make their thin human hair stand up on end, or maybe because you can spear their heart on your horn in an easy move.
A finger taps you on the shoulder. âHey, Dana? Whatâs the board say for number three? I canât read it.â You wanted to tell her to just move up a row, but the only person sitting in that row was Gamzee and you know way better than to sit in a row with her in it. She wasnât too keen on anyone, but had a particular disinterest in you.
You were glad she spoke your language. You may hate her guts, but Kat is one of the decent humans. She knew how to talk in the comfortable click-ridden language of the trolls, unlike most of the humans, even the teachers, at this school.
âShe takes her notes in English? Why the fuck would any troll do that?â
âShe said it was easier. Said that she didnât really know our language really that well. How thick does your skull have to be for a pair of horns like that to get through, yet the simple concept of a different writing system canât?â
âThis language thing you ladies got going on is really super cute but itâs also really really annoying,â Rezi whined, his head in your lap and his feet in Katâs. âIâm pretty sure the only word I got out of that was fucking and the only reason for that is because every time a word comes out of your mouth, Dana, it makes Kat say it.â You twist a piece of shiny firey hair in your fingers. He was a hero of Light too. Whatever that really means. Gut feelings have a way of worming themselves into your brain, making you feel more connected to your aspect and other heroes of it. Kat was a knight too, and somehow that made the three of you get along fantastically.
âDana here was complaining about her newest hatecrush-â
âWhoa, whoa, whoa back the fuck up here, Kat,â you say, helping Rezi sit up and settle himself between the two of you. "There was no speaking of hatecrushing anywhere in there."
im sorry i never finished this for you its a pain in the ass to write here just take what i wrote forever ago and we'll forget it
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, in your studio!
Well, it isnât exactly your studio, but it certainly feels like yours. Also you werenât certain they were the FBI, but itâs not very often you see such dashing men in such dashing flesh in such dashing suits.
âAre you Cecil Palmer?â The taller of the two asked, digging through his jacket for something. He pulled out a wallet and is about to flip it open but you stop him.
âThey already know. To answer your question, I tell you I am most definitely here, in the same way that you are also most definitely here.â His partner, probably his brother by the name he gave you, looked over his shoulder and out the front triple-pane of nothing that separated you from the void outside. Their car was tucked into one of the parking spaces and was still running. âDid you have any other, less difficult, questions?â
âWe, uh, picked up word that there are, as you claimed, angels, living here in Night Vale.â Your smile flips through emotions and settles on its darker cousin. You gulp, lowering your excited jazz hands and letting them hang useless at your side. Your fingers twitch against the floral corduroy jeans that swallowed your tan legs earlier that millenium. Rolling your shoulders, you stand up straight and look the first brother dead in the chest (well, he is rather tall). Â
Through clenched fangs you whisper, âwe arenât supposed to talk about them.â The tile beneath you shifts and you worry. âNot here.â A growl.
You slip another piece of pulsating seven-cheese lasagna into your mouth and let the fork linger on the edge of your lips. Your eyes, both of them this time, roll to look at your boyfriend, who was extremely engrossed in discussing science with one of the agents. His beautiful tanned skin flushes red with laughter as he says some things like: âAliens? Really? Ha!â. He hasnât even touched his lasagna!
âCarlos,â you say as if you had a particularly important person of ambiguous race, gender, orientation, and bloodtype tugging at the leg of your pants. He finishes his sentence (or paragraph. Itâs hard to tell when heâs talking sometimes when he uses those Big Smart Words that you donât always know the meaning of) and slowly turns his head to face you.
âWhat is it, Cecil?â You panic.
âThe weather at the boardwalk is supposed to be nice tonight,â radio static drips from your words and its very obvious that isnât what you were trying to say. Your hands catch your words but no one notices; he turned back and was talking with the agents again.
Well, agent. The other man had never identified himself to you, and he wasnât the brother from earlier. He wasnât talking, or eating, just⊠sitting there, watching. And then, he speaks to you in a voice like that of the fish-can you forgot to remove from your desk.
âYou are not human.â Ha!
âWhat a rude thing to say.â You look at him intently. âWhy do you ask?â
The Agent mutters something under his breath to the man, who sticks his hand toward you at a strange angle. âI am C-Jimmy. I work with Dean.â He didnât answer your question so you donât answer his. Of course, he didnât ask you anything. But he wanted to. Slowly, CJimmy lowers his hand and looks at you with his head cocked to one side, like a bird, or particularly interestingly built car.
âOh.â He works with Agent Dean. Carlos catches his breath and takes another sip of the frobscottle he ordered. He coughed, and turned to look at you.
âDean here asked if we could talk about the, uhm, you know.â
âRight, right, of course this little, double date, isnât all for pleasure, right?â You pout at Carlos who copies your expression as a mockery. Agent Deanâs hands raise in defense.
âDate? no, no.â
âYes,â his partner tells you in the same, steady, fish-can voice. Agent Deanâs jaw snaps shut and his eyes narrow. Then, a flip, and he smiles, tucking an arm around CJimmy.
âRight, right. Jimmy and Dean, ha!â Jimmy didnât react other than to lean his head on Deanâs arm. âJimmy Dean, yeah, cute. Now, about the angels?â
You sip your tea and look at the happy couple over the edge of your mug. âYouâll have to talk to Old Woman Josie.â
âSeriously?â He drops, disappointed. âOld Woman Josie. Whatâs she, a witch?â
âSheâs a human,â Carlos assures the man. âI think.â
Rose Fabrial - SA Beauty and the Beast crossover au thing
As we're working on our production of beauty and the beast, i couldn't help but parallel shallan to beauty and adolin to gaston and the rest is sorta falling into place as i work enjoy
im going to say mild wor spoilers??? just things that help make this happen and such but its not important for you to have read wor
also this is extremely au because sometimes things just dont work out in canon. also unfinished/prologue/non!fic is all that i have here
A woman approached him, huddled, clothes torn, wearing a cloak. Kaladin could only see her eyes, and that's all he needed to. Her eyes were light, a bright turquoise that contrasted with the drab muddy tones she wore. She begged for shelter, and Kaladin hesitated. He wanted to help her, but superficially, her eyes had burned into his and he told her he's supposed to close the gate now, and that she couldn't be trusted anyways. They didn't need anyone making an attempt on the highprince's life while he was around. The woman backed up, then shed her cloak, skin glowing with, with, was that stormlight? She grabbed Kaladin's wrists, and told him that it's unwise to gauge trust on something silly as eyes. Stormwinds whipped her dress, now fully repaired, around the both of them, and he struggled to get free of her, but she was strong and stable as a statue.
Kaladin had begun to change. Bones cracked and reformed as his legs elongated. His hands now bore claws and thick shells along the back. His hair felt like fur- strange and fluffy yet coarse. Thick plates grew along his arms and back as well, somewhere in between the feel of shardplate and the shell of something like an axehound. He felt his teeth grow into something- fangs? mandibles? Thin, twisted horns sprung from his skull and curled around his face. Something made his eye burn.
Keeping him restrained with one hand, the woman produced a mirror from her robes, and held it to his face. He gasped, staggering backwards, when he found one of his eyes burned along the edges and replaced with something that looked like the woman's own. His other eye remained untouched. What was left of his old skin that was still exposed, glowed with the whispy light the woman held. His nose had flattened, and hardened, like the face of a chicken, though not quite as pointed.
The woman told him his old self would be restored if he could learn to trust lighteyes, and love one before the light left a gem. She let him take the mirror, and instead held a gemstone, cut strangely. A fabrial? It glowed a brilliant red. She pressed it into his other hand.
Testing his strength, he found his arms and legs enhanced by the plate they wore. He tore free of the woman's grasp, and aimed a clawed swipe at her head, but she dissolved in a puff of mist and light. Distraught, and fearing being caught, trapped, like this, Kaladin took off into the night.
Shallan Davar stood out. Her Veden appearance was stark, pale and bright against the Alethi people who crowded the streets of Alethkar. She sat outside, sketching a picture of a boy playing with a cremling he had caught on a stick. She wasnât supposed to be so far from the Kholin House, but the town is obviously much more interesting. Back at the palace she can only find her tutor, Jasnah, to draw. Which, wasnât that bad, but drawing the same thing repeatedly makes call for a break. Carefully, she removed the picture of him from her book and retied the binding. It was just a sketch for the child, and not worth preserving. She handed it to him, and he ran off, leaving her without a person to sketch. She stored her book and pencils away and headed back towards the castle. It was a long walk, a long walk that took her around the dueling ring erected so that princes and warriors alike could battle each other for honor or spoils. Of course, Adolin was in the ring, alone, practicing. His entourage sat in the stone stands, clapping and ooohing at each swish of his shardblade. As Shallan walked by, he paused, raising a gauntlet-covered hand to catch her attention.
Shallan and Adolin were casually betrothed. Just casually. A political alliance arranged by her tutor and Adolinâs father. The sentiment meant nothing to Adolin, who spent quite some time courting other women, and even less to Shallan, who thought him nothing but another pretty face. He was wealthy and would bring honour to her family, so it made sense. She wasnât sure what she brought to the alliance other than basic knowledge of language and writing and impeccable art, but Adolin seemed to like her.
He asked what she was doing later, and she told him that it was the same thing she did every day. Retrieve books for Jasnah. Read the books. Talk about the books. She wasnât free for a wine tasting later that afternoon. What a pity. He threw out a âmaybe next timeâ and resummoned his shardblade. Swish. Whoa. Swish. Oooh. His younger brother, Renarin, trotted up beside him as Shallan walked off. It really was time for her to meet up with the only other strange person in this town. Jasnah, the heretic.
In creative writing we had to write a couple pages in second person point of view as an exercise
jokes on my instructor because i love writing second person
anyways here's kind of a???? summary piece for a story i probably will write more for later
set in earth 2550
He wolf-whistles when you exit the tent, and you frantically twist your fingers around your shirt buttons, trying to dress yourself. Exhausted from your half-finished task, you drop your hands and roll your neck, working out the sore muscles from sleeping on the ground. Youâre never fully awake until you shower. There arenât any showers in the outback, however.
He was sitting on the ground, shoes off, exposing his inhuman two-toed feet. Between them, he clutched a navy-blue water bottle with the schoolâs emblem on the side: New Earth International Ambassadorial Academy. He held the handle of a small pot and carefully emptied the contents into the bottle.
âMorning, Princess,â he says, flicking golden eyes toward you. You suppress your instinct to shudder at his alien gaze. Your father had trained you well to avoid his kind. Even your insatiable curiosity of their being couldnât make you unlearn that gut-twisting fear that follows them. The break in concentration causes hot water to dribble onto his red foot. Looking around groggily, you notice something.
âWhereâs the fire?â He was purifying drinking water for the two of you, right? You need fire to do that, right? You learned that in the Young Menâs group you belonged to back home.
âBabe, I am the fire.â He sets the pot down then throws his hand towards you, the back facing you and his index finger raised. He watches you as the finger ignites. It wasnât a finger-- you knew that. It was a claw that held a frightening potion of venoms. It glew red, hot without being on fire. He was right. He was fire.
Virusa have always captivated you as a species, forbidden, and mysterious. It was illegal for them to be within your home countryâs borders. The Terrever Republic wasnât known for its hospitality.
There was only one other student from your country at the Academy. Their name was Mal. Well, their last name anyways. Kiara Malcomb was their full name, according to the black placard on their door. The same door you found ajar last night when you went to give them the phone to call home. Their parents waited on the other end, eager to speak with their child halfway across the world. Their bed was unmade, and you would have immediately assumed a kidnapper had taken them in the night, but then, ever attentive, you noticed something.
Their bag was missing, as well as the scarf that was an extension of their body. Mal was funny, and just a little too sensitive to anything. Â They always had this scarf with them. They said their mother had knitted the green and gold monstrosity for them. The special, home-made touch was evident in how it was wider at the middle, making it easier for the particularly sensitive teenager to wrap it around their head, in an effort to block out any sounds, lights, or curious aliens.
Malâs particular sensitivity didnât apply just to their physical senses. Mal had a tendency to shut down, to turn their brain and forms of communication off. You could be talking to them and theyâd just deadpan, and not listen to what you were saying. Maybe theyâd stand up, and wander out of the room and into the courtyard between your dormitories. Mal loved being outside.
Though, now, it seems like theyâd taken that insatiable, unpredictable wanderlust to a slight extreme, and left the campus completely. Immediately, you notified their dorm advisor, who shrugged and said that it was a big campus and that Mal was âprobably at the library, or something.â Mal hated the library.
You packed a bag, putting a few bottles of water from the vending machine, as well as a bag of some brand-name cheese-flavoured chips. A semester into this new culture, and you still werenât used to the commercialization and processing of something simple as food. You went back to your room to snag the book you were reading - Sun Rain- off your nightstand and sneak out before the security patrol caught you, when you roommate stirred.
He wasnât your first choice for a roommate, all angles and burnt orange skin. He was weird, and tall, and just so alien that you didnât like talking to him. He was handsome, you guess. But his fascination about your being combined with your dislike of making eye contact with him made it difficult for you to like him.
âWhereâreâya going?â He had asked, already sitting up. He wasnât wearing any clothes. That was another weird thing about him, as if there werenât enough already. You rubbed your eyes under your glasses and avoided looking at him.
âMalâs gone.â He stood, pulling on a pair of blue jeans and tieing his matted indigo dreadlocks into a ponytail.
âIâm going with you.â Clawed hands fit through his Academy hoodie's sleeves. He took his keys off the hook, and searched for the button-thing that unlocked his automobile. Cars unnerved you. They werenât legal for citizens to own in Terrever. You make a noise as if to say âNo,â and he sets the chain back on the desk. âFine, Princess, no cars.â
âMy name is Codah. Iâve told you this.â He laughs.
âIf you say so. Now, câmon, the security patrolâs gonna come by soon.â
I know you haven't really met christopher yet but i wrote a fic for my creative writing class and i figured y'all would find it interesting or something sure. sorry its kind of weird. it might be obvious why its weird. it might not be. shrugs.Â
Alan was never someone you meant to get attached to. Before you knew hir, you just assumed everyone was just like you. Casper had forged you and your siblings from plastic, and gave you life. Discovering people, like you but blood and flesh, was so interesting. Eventually you would ask Casper to leave your roomâs door unlocked at night. Finally, you worked up the courage necessary to sneak out and use Xâs computer. Going out at night never bothered the other actors, much. Hidden under a bathrobe, stolen from the costume closet, you key in the letters from a sticky note hanging from the monitor.
âI didnât expect her to leave that out,â you mutter, thanking Casper that X did. Just after logging in, your cursor finds the âSâ icon. Kindness is what lead you here. Lately, Alan had been rather fond of you. Mostly, xe just picked out clothes and let you draw on hir arms. Never did xe let on that hir curiosity ran as deep as yours. Once the chat program had opened, you hunted for hir name. Partly out of anxiety, and partly out of a lack of social skills, you waited before clicking. Quickly, you close your glass eyes and push the button. Really, would it be worth it to call hir this late? Sleeping is weird with hir, right? Telephone ringing flows quietly from the speaker. Until you heard the click and a faint âhello? X?â you werenât sure if xeâd pick up.
âVery well, then: itâs Christopher.â
âWhat are you doing up this late?â
âX left the password out.â
Yawning, Alan groggily mutters, âagain? ZZzzzzz,â xe fell asleep on the other side.
This is a prompt I got back in April, and only got around to finishing now. Enjoy!--
"...I think I left them it in the other block hang on," you turn to ask Crabdad to fetch your technicolor sickles for you and falter. Right. Not everything really was the same after the game. You make your way up the stairs trying not to let it get to you. Downstairs below, the remainder of your friends, those who weren't dead or otherwise busy, sipped drinks and watched Vriska and Sollux duke it out over some console game he brought over. Previously you and Terezi were curled up on one end of the couch. It pained you to leave to go find your weapons for Eridan to check out, but your perfectly platonic front had to remain in place. The two of you have had a complicated waltz -no, its more of a Merengue, something faster- with no end, no relief from spinning in circles around each other. You just don't want to lose what a great thing you already have.
The door to your respite block closes behind you. You stick your head out of your footlocker to see who had followed you but all thatâs left in the rush of the door closing is a nasally giggle and a flustered tealblood. She surveys your room with the delicate slope of her nose, searching out and inhaling every detail.
âUhm, Terezi?â
ââUhm, Karkat?ââ Was she mocking you?
âCan I ask why you followed me up here?â You stand and captchalogue your sickles for now.
âI wouldnât be pinning myself as guilty so early, Karkat. I had an accomplice, of sorts.â Her words are careful and you arenât exactly sure how much of her free will was involved in bringing her up here.
ââAccomplice?ââ That same laugh you heard earlier, now recognizable as Solluxâs, answers from behind the door. It sounds as if his back is up against it, preventing you from opening.
âI know what youâre thinking, Vantas. Donât even try it.â You grit your teeth. Heâs spent all night goading about your totally and completely subtle and smooth flushcrush on the really pretty... and fantastic... and smart... and charming... and- troll before you. You shift a little uncomfortably. The room is small, having only really needed to allow you enough room to sleep and dress in, and overcrowded with two people and the tension between them. You lean back against the wall and slide down until youâre sitting. She copies you with an exaggerated sigh.
âSollux?â She says and receives no reply. Damn bulgeswallowing bastard locked you in here for kicks. He probably thinks heâs so funny, as if this will obviously solve all of your complicated emotions towards Terezi.
âHowâd he even get you up here?â You ask, well aware of Solluxâs capabilities and fully worried for her wellbeing. She doesnât answer you, but instead twists sideways, wedging herself between the edge of your recoopracoon and the wall, facing you. She leans on you, and with equal force you lean away, as if there were a force field around her skin and you couldnât pass through.
âHold still,â she says, taking your face in one hand. Her claws bite into your skin and it hurts but you donât say anything. You close your eyes and try to focus on stopping your leg from shaking under your combined weights. Or your anxious tic. Whatever. âI was right,â she breathes on your face with sticky cherry soda breath and you cough, forcing down hatred long-past stained indigo. Not now. Nowâs not a good time to mention it. âDo you like me, Karkat? Hmm?â She laughs and parts her zig-zag smile in mirth. Another wave of jealous vexation boils hotly past you again. How can they be so alike sometimes? âAre you okay?â You push out an âIâm fineâ but your voice is a buzzing lie detector that doesnât fool her.
She pulls away from you quickly; your lava-red skin burns everything it touches. âLook, Iâm sorry I brought it up. Iâll get Sollux to unlock the door and-â
âYou did this?â you ask, trying to put your usual umph back into your words.
âWellllll-â She drags out. âSollux offered and I said yes.â You sigh and slump back against the wall, banging your head and horns against it for good measure. You feel Sollux flinch on the other side. She exhales loudly, the Pyrope equivalent of shaking her head and saying â1D1OTâ.
âSo what is this supposed to be? Is this one of those situations where a boy and a girl get locked in a room and it gets all exciting?â You look over to her with one eye.
âThat was the plan.â
âHm.â Time begins to get very un-exciting as the stale air twists around the two of you. You want to suggest you go back downstairs but that feels unsatisfying for the both of you. You were trying to process her motives, her emotions but are frustratingly hit with wall after wall. Why couldnât you have been the hero of Mind? That would make this all a helluva lot easier on you.
Her head hits your shoulder and your shoulders tense.
âCalm down, Vantas. I was just getting comfortable.â
âOh.â
âIf you want to go back downstairs, thatâs fine. Just tell Sollux to âFUCK OFF AND LET ME OUTâ,â she says, mimicking your voice to the best of her ability.
âNo,â you say too quickly, cutting her off. âThis is fine⊠this is nice, uh-â You trail off when you realize that godawful song Dave used to play around you flows under the door. U. G. H. How the hell did Sollux know that?
âSollux you can leave us alone now. Weâll be back down in a bit,â she calls.
âA bit?â He laughs. âDonât tell me youâre that fast, KK.â You flip him off before realizing he canât see you, and instead grind your horns against the wall in frustration.
And then she kisses you. You kiss her back but it isnât nearly enough. The sticky scarlet sugar lingers and you roll it across your teeth and tongue and lips and soul. The flavor reassociates itself with its coordinating red instead of the broken and beaten pink it used to. You love it.
âStop beating yourself up. Youâre cute when youâre angry, but not when youâve got bloodied horns- no matter how much I love how that red smells.â You swat at her and she swats you back and the feeling is better than kissing. Well, almost better, you think as she shoves your shoulders to the ground and your head hits a storage cube. You whine and she kisses you and apologizes and Sollux says thereâs a pail outside the door and that heâd be downstairs if you needed him. You cuss him out and forget all about bringing Eridan those sickles to show him.
Anonymous asked you: ok this is what you should write. karezi. it's after the game, and they haven't gotten together, but they've sort of been dancing around their feelings for each other, so sollux decides it's time to make them stop being so coy, and he does something very silly like lock them in a room together
sorry its short i might revisit this sometime later i just felt like writing and picked up an old prompt enjoy
