paper inc.

hey guys

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 18:46:51 GMT

I'm posting this to let everyone know that I've finally finished moving to a new website. (:

All my fics are now posted on http://lotus-machine.com, and I will no longer be updating this LJ. I've moved all the R+ rated fics over to a new LJ as well, lotus_machine, so if you'd like to be able to read all the smut, just friend that LJ instead. It will only be used for R+ fics.

Otherwise they will be posted on the actual website, along with other updates like a new blog and other random crap I feel like throwing up there.

I love you guys. ♥

masochist.

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 03:08:05 GMT

characters: Lucky Genevra & Sophie Klein.
rating: PG-13 - language.
genre: pure and unadultered fluff.
words: 1205.

---

There are very few absolute truths in this world. Death is final. It happens to everyone. No matter how annoying you think they are, there will always be children infesting the streets. Taxes suck for everyone. And Lucky does not get sick.

He simply doesn't. Never, ever. It is a preordained thing that must have been decided by some higher being, and it had held fast his entire life.

This is why it's so damned fucking stupid that Lucky is sick right now.

Sakejet has confined him to bed, and that had been perfectly fine with Lucky, because he does not think he could be up and about if he even wanted to, much less tried. He lies beneath the comforters, simultaneously sweating and freezing himself to death. His nose is so congested he hasn't been able to breathe through it for the past three days, and his head feels like an egg dropped in salt water; swelled and fit to burst, and there goes Sakey's expensive feather pillows. He'll regret giving to him, then.

Today is the first day he has been conscious for more than two consecutive hours. It had been something of a relief to witness the rising sun throwing faded light between the blinds, painting a picture of his room that did not make his eyes want to rupture behind their lids. He is also distantly grateful that his room is in neutral shades as opposed to the blinding, clinical white of Sakey's, or the bear cave that is Alaric's. He might never see the light of day had he been shut in there.

The relief and comfort is short-lived, though, as things are so wont to do when you are sick, because he can hear the creak of his door pushed open, and there is a tiny pink thing standing in the empty frame. She is so small, Sophie in her overly large pajamas, the fabric wrinkled and bunched over her limbs with impossibly small fingertips barely poking from the end of the sleeve. He can vaguely make out her little feet wriggling in the 'footies', or whatever the fuck those are called. Lucky decides whoever invented the words 'footsie pajamas' ought to be shot.

But footies are what she is wearing, and Lucky will never understand because Alaric is certainly wealthy enough to afford some damned clothes that actually fit his little girl. Lucky finds himself scowling in irritation, only noticing the way his eyebrows furrow and his lips tug into an annoyed slash because Sophie suddenly looks rather intimidated, and she very nearly drops the book clasped in her arms that is almost bigger than she is.

"What is it?" he mutters, and he immediately regrets his tone when she seems to shrink into herself, and Lucky hasn't the foggiest idea what he will do if he makes her cry.

But cry she does not, and she scoots forward with an intensely shy look on her face. He senses the disappointment even before she opens her mouth to ask him, like time has reversed itself for all of a moment, and he can hear her ask him if she will read him a story before the words come out. And he wants very badly to tell her no.

Honestly, Sophie is smarter than that. Can't she see he's fucking dying of some sort of plague come straight from the bowels of hell to make his life miserable? But then Sophie moves forward, peeping at him from over the edge of the bed, and Lucky can feel his heart plummet in his chest and knows immediately that his tongue will not be able to form the word 'no', no matter how badly he fights it.

Because her pretty white cheeks are puffy and red, her tiny nose is running so that she has to sniffle every few seconds, and the skin that isn't splotchy and dark is sickly pallid, and damn it all if Sophie isn't sick too. And Lucky is the one who made her that way.

When, moments later, Sophie is buried beneath the sheets with him and curled into a ball in the crook of his arm with a tiny pink hand clutching his shirt, it seems like it has simply been inevitable. He is ridiculously weak for the little girl in spite of his aggressive desire to deny it, and this is why he is reading her German fairy tales.

She cannot understand a word of what he says, but he supposes this is no different from any other time he reads to her. Last week, before he'd become ill, he had been reading the Russian Anastasia. The three days before that had been Beauty and the Beast in French. Before that, Yiddish folklore, Spanish fables and Italian stories. And even before that, she'd been fed Saiaelic myths from Sakey. She loves them all unconditionally, and Lucky is terribly grateful that she has not made a habit of asking questions.

After the fact, it doesn't seem like such an awful form of punishment or divine retribution for however many sins he'd committed last week. It doesn't seem like such a burden when Sophie is listening so raptly to him that it's a tiny boost of ego in and of itself.

Really, it doesn't seem so bad at all. It's even... comfortable, in its own stupid, embarrassingly domestic sort of way that Lucky really hates. So much that, when Sophie falls asleep shortly after he begins reading, it takes him almost twenty minutes to notice that she's stopped listening.

The book is slowly pressed closed, and Lucky peers into the little girl's face with a small frown curving the corners of his lips. The book slides from his lap, falling to the floor with a dull thud, and Lucky does not even acknowledge it as his attention is arrested by Sophie tucked into his arm. It is very decidedly foolish of him, his affection for this miniature human being who isn't even old enough to understand what's fun in life.

It is most definitely not scrawling crayola pictures on big sheets of manila paper or playing with refrigerator magnets or putting your father's soaking hair into a mohawk as though it's the funniest thing imaginable.

And, try as he might, he can't bring himself to care. This teeny girl is something precious to him regardless. She is quiet and intelligent and sweet. She is half the man he almost sort of likes a lot. She calls the love of his life 'mommy'.

She is Tolstoy asleep on his chest. She's the daughter he never really had.

And Lucky kind of loves her.

Because he kind of loves her, because she's the daughter he never really had, because she's Tolstoy asleep on his chest and calls Sakey her mommy, because she's Alaric's baby girl, because she is so tiny and pink and perfect, and because no one is around to see it, Lucky draws his arm upwards and presses his lips against the top of her head in a feather light kiss, and he whispers to her,

"Get better soon."

infliction.

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 04:14:22 GMT

characters: Edward Caim Yvan & Sakejét Yvan.
rating: PG-13 - violence.
genre: angsty introspection & character exploration.
words: 798.

---

He looks like a doll, all porcelain skin and vacant eyes, lying perfectly poised and immaculately still on the kitchen floor. He looks as though someone had put him there and arranged him that way, with his hands tucked neatly at his sides like a good doll should.

Sakejét is near flawless, even, delicate and fragile like the way his dusty eyelashes brush pristine white flesh. Caim wonders somewhere in the dark corners of his mind that if he picks the boy up by the gentle slopes of his shoulders, perhaps his eyes will open and he will be able to see the enthrallingly pale brown irises like he is alive, and maybe when he sets him back down, they will close again, and he can do this whenever he likes. He can have him any way he likes. But Caim is too afraid to touch him, convinced that Sakey will shatter on the black and white tiles beneath his lithe body if he chooses to do so.

So he doesn't. He sits feet away from him, curled into the corner where the dark cabinets meet, drawn tight into himself with his skinny arms looped around his knees. Caim watches Sakey from there, where it's safe to look and not touch.

His doll is almost sacrosanct in its perfection, and Caim does not want to ruin the illusion.

But that's getting hard to do while the rust colored liquid inches towards his feet, dragging itself across the linoleum. It had been easy to ignore when it was going the other way, running beneath Sakejét's back and his arm until it finally reached his hair, threading through the blond strands like a ribbon tied into a halo. But now it's coming towards him, and Caim can no longer fool himself into believing it's not there, not when it's flowing beneath the soles of his shoes.

The blood is accompanied by a lurch of his stomach as it attempts to free itself from the cold fingers of nausea that grip at it, squeezing and twisting until Caim thinks he is going to vomit. His own hand grasps his face and sews his lips shut, and he wonders with a crash of his heart if Sakey is dead.

From here, he still looks beautiful and clean, all smooth hair and smooth features and perfectly filed nails. But Caim has already broken him; ruined him with the blade of his birthday cake knife and spilled him onto the floor when he'd sliced him between the hips six different times.

The cuts are anything but precise, not surgical and neat. Just jagged and ugly and angry red, staining Sakey's pretty white shirt and draining the life from him until he is as motionless as a mannequin.

Caim can feel his blood beneath him now, and the enchantment is destroyed. Sakey has been stabbed six times. His legs roll apart as he falls to pieces, very nearly collapsing onto the floor with a broken and strangled sob that sounds more like he's choking. The knife clatters from one of his hands and slides away, and Caim pulls himself to his knees and crawls towards the boy outstretched before him.

"Sakey?" He reaches out with an icy hand, slick with sweat and trembling, and he presses the tips of his fingers against the silky white column of Sakejét's throat. It takes several moments for him to realize he hadn't said anything out loud at all.

His throat is too constricted for that, and he knows this because he tries to whisper Sakey's name again and nothing comes out.

Caim does not have the energy to try a third time. And he doesn't need to. He can feel the beat of a vague and insubstantial pulse, throbbing slowly, and Sakey is alive. Caim collapses again, right there beside him, his forehead slamming against the tiles with a thud that echoes back to him and the squelch of blood beneath his cheek. He lies curled against Sakey's side with one hand clinging to his shirt. His face is pressed into the other boy, breaths coming in too short bursts, and for a moment he is convinced he is going to pass out.

Lips split around his gasps as he inhales. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't even make a sound. He is pathetic, Caim who can't even say his cousin's name or ask if he will be okay, who can't even breathe or pray to anyone to not let Sakey die.

Please don't let Sakey die.

He pushes his forehead deeper into the curves of Sakey's ribs, tears sleucing from his eyes like flood water, and he opens his mouth and screams.

beautiful inconsistancy.

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 20:08:56 GMT

characters: Hollis & Sweden Hewlett-Yvan.
rating: G - rather ridiculous humor.
genre: humor, of course. purely silly humor.
words: 705.

---

The fish stares at the pair with thoroughly vacant black eyes, floating inside the little bowl before deciding the other side of the glass might be slightly more interesting to look at. Hollis frowns back at it as he watches it swim about with very little aim, and he wonders at the back of his mind why Sweden had chosen to buy it. He concedes to himself that, alright, the fish is awfully pretty to look at with its large fins streaked with dark blues and equally dark reds.

However, it seems to defeat the purpose of what Sweden had initially claimed to want. Yes, the fish is pretty -- and, all in all, not particularly masculine in any way, shape, or form. If he had wanted the embodiment of a certain machismo, he thinks Sweden would have been better off buying a large German Shepard.

But here stands a fish bowl, and Sweden is staring right back at the new betta with a very mild frown. Hollis blinks at him, and he is quite surprised to find that Sweden's normally soft features are coming together in a most stubborn expression, as if he is absolutely determined to right all the wrongs done to him the day his mother had chosen to name him Sweden.

Finally, he turns to his oldest brother with a scowl, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, and his bright blue eyes look awfully unforgiving. "His name is Armand." If Hollis had known Armand meant hardy man, he might laugh at how obscenely obvious the name is.

Ever since the day Armand had come into the house, their mother had complained endlessly. Hollis thinks she's simply irritated because she had wanted to name the fish Armani instead. But Sweden would have absolutely none of it, and he'd said that it was his mother's fault in the first place for being so utterly awful at naming her children. This, naturally, hurt her feelings and only served to annoy all four of their other siblings (Italy, Austria, Ridley, and Sierra Leone), who regardless of the fact that they hate their names as well, were not particularly happy to have it reinforced.

"I still think you should rename him." Mural sniffs, looking delicately away from her son as if to hide the deep feelings of hurt his rejection has caused her. Unfortunately, Sweden does not particularly care, and he merely continues to scowl in annoyance and cross his arms defiantly.

"No," he says, and Hollis is briefly reminded of their father and his sudden bouts of bullheadedness that had been both his own and Ridley's only saving grace. "His name is Gaston."

Hollis and his mother blink almost in unison, peering at Sweden with equally strange expressions. "Gaston?" Hollis questions, cocking his head slightly and doing little to mask the confusion written upon his face. "I thought his name was Armand."

Sweden appears to be momentarily taken aback. "Oh. Is that what it was?" Hollis is going to tell him yes, that is certainly what it was, however he is interrupted by his younger brother who promptly asserts, "Well. It's Gaston now."

The sudden and frequent name changes soon come to be expected. Hollis can't figure out if it's because Sweden has found a far more masculine name and simply changed it to that, or if he's honestly forgetting and moving onto the next manly name he can think of.

Gaston lasts about as long as Armand had, and then Sweden begins referring to the poor fish as Alexandre instead. After that, it's Alphonse, and after Alphonse comes Constantine. And, soon after he's run out of relatively normal names, Sweden inexplicably begins choosing more... unorthodox names.

"Hey," he says briefly, catching Hollis in the hall by the arm and peering anxoiusly into his face. "Can you do me a favor and feed Valtiel for me? I need to go to grandmother's house."

His brother only blinks dumbly, eyebrows furrowing in obvious befuddlement. "Valtiel?"

"My fish." Sweden watches him with wide blue eyes, features remaining quite blank, though it seems distinctly like Sweden thinks it should be perfectly obvious who he's talking about. "Can you feed him?"

gun metal black.

Sun, 18 Nov 2007 00:07:22 GMT

characters: Lucky Genevra & Seven.
rating: PG-13 - vague violence.
genre: eidetic angst.
words: 946.
author's note: Lucky belongs to kaitlinbell.

---

Paralysis is what's got him.

Lucky is only distantly aware of the arm clamped around his chest, pressed tightly against his sternum. The nails digging into his shoulder, chipped red and shaking, aren't what acts as the vice -- the restraints.

It's the fear. The cold, quiet, primal terror that seizes his gut with frosty fingers. That's what keeps him still.

He can hear Seven breathing behind him, with her arm around his shoulders and her lips beside his ear. He can see the gun clutched in her hand, skin white as a dove, and he can feel the feral fury in her pulse. He feels the quick, tight beating of her heart crushed against his back, and Lucky wonders if she is more afraid than he is.

He can see the other gun as well, reflecting dully in the moonlight, and it matches Seven's with the notable exception that it's pointing at Lucky's face.

It isn't the gun. Either one of them, really, that gets him.

It isn't the stranger standing in front of him or Seven behind him or the blood dripping from her temple to her chin that frightens him.

Knowledge is what's got him. The paralysis of fear.

He is going to die.

Lucky wants to laugh, in a distinctly strangled way. It's funny, in a sick sort of fashion, the situation at hand. It's funny that instead of being confined to a hospital room or an empty apartment to die alone of lung cancer like he thought he would be, he is going to be shot to death by a stranger with a gun the same color as Seven's hair.

The teenage boy glamor of the death appeals to the writer within, and Lucky can't help but be grimly amused. He wonders if Seven has thought of that, and he thinks she hasn't.

Her finger tightens on the trigger. So does the stranger's.

It's stupid, so very stupid of Lucky, that beyond the veil of fear, he thinks the stranger is a rather appealing one to look at. His lips are full and parted slightly, the lower one only fractionally larger than the top. His nose is straight and proud, and above it, Lucky thinks his eyes are a pretty blue. The boy's hair is dark and mussed and his eyebrows are drawn together in anxiety. But, even so, Lucky can appreciate a handsome murderer. At least he would be treated to that before his brains are smattered on the wall behind him.

The boy is looking at him. And Lucky looks back, for he cannot will himself to move. Not even his eyes; impossibly wide, impossibly green, and impossibly still. He is shackled firmly into place.

Paralysis is what's got him. The paralysis of fear.

What happens next, though, comes as a slow surprise. Time comes to a grotesque stop, the noises around him melting to run together as though someone had put a tape recorder in reverse. Like crayons in an oven, he can't tell one from the other. The sound is obscene.

He can barely discern as Seven moves, her chest pressing tighter to his back, no less sluggish and languid than if she had been moving through water. He does not see her pull the trigger, just hears it -- the sudden cacophony of gun metal as the lever pushes the hammer backwards, compressing the spring inside the handle, all while the pawl attached to the trigger pushes the ratchet, and the cylinder rotates in a smooth circle.

The breech chamber is positioned in front of the gun barrel in a single, fluid transition. Seven pulls the trigger all the way back, and the hammer is released.

The compressed spring drives the hammer forward; the firing pin on the hammer extends, striking the bullet's primer with a single note of finality. It explodes, and the propellant is ignited.

Another explosion, and the bullet tears forward so fast that time is ripped back into place in its wake, surging Lucky forward until nausea grips at his stomach and leaves him in a dizzy heap on the floor with Seven sprawled on top of him.

He struggles to raise himself, looks up with wild eyes and is stunned to see that the only trace that the bullet had ever been there is the ribbon of blood suspended in the air in a lazy spiral.

The bullet buries itself in the wall, and the stranger's legs buckle. Three bodies collapse to the floor. Two guns clatter across the ground. One of the bodies is dead.

Silence is sudden and overwhelming until Lucky drags himself to sit in a daze, and Seven slides to the floor behind him. He twists around, groping blindly for her, and when his hands find her shoulders, she is jerked forward. The woman's body comes pliantly, and Lucky's arms encase her.

They sit that way for an hour, Seven on his lap with his arms across her back, and they wait in silence for the police to arrive and take her away. She is resigned to this. She accepts that her fate had always been one behind silver metal bars. But the police don't come, and it's another quiet hour before Lucky manages to stand.

The body is still stretched out on the floor when Lucky quietly leads Seven back to his bedroom, a hand on her elbow and an unsteady gait. The boy lies alone in the dark kitchen with a hole between his eyes, dark head haloed by a darker circle that stains the kitchen floor, spreading over the tiles like a cancer.

dirty.

Sun, 11 Nov 2007 06:25:32 GMT

characters: Yamaguchi Seygue.
rating: G.
genre: angst.
words: 730.
author's note: Seygue belongs to kaitlinbell.

---

Sometimes, when you come home, you find her waiting there for you.

Sometimes, she's sitting on the couch with her hands in her lap, so tiny and pale and delicate just like yours, and she smiles at you. Like she's happy to see you again. And you're happy to see her too.

You run and throw yourself at her, pathetic and desperate in the way you grasp her shoulders; the way you can feel your fingertips dig into the bones of her frail little shoulders, and you press your face into her chest and you cry and you cry. And it's alright, because she lets you do it. She smiles above you, her arms enfolding you in their impossibly warm hold, and she lets you do it.

Sometimes, she's sitting in front of the piano, and her fingers fly over the keys like little white birds. You want to run to her again, but you don't. You stand behind her and listen to her play. It's beautiful and soft and perfect, quiet in how it draws you in and keeps you there, and you can't move. You stand and you listen as tears collect in your eyes. You listen until she disappears again.

You always hate when you find her at the piano, because then you cannot touch her. You can't ever reach her before she's gone again.

Sometimes, she stands in front of the sliding glass door, and you can see her reflection in it. You can see her face through the rain, translucent and so beautiful with her smooth skin and pretty lips and her eyes like Asia, but she is always sad when you find her here. She will turn to look at you, let you throw yourself at her again, and she'll smile.

But you hate that it never goes further than her mouth.

No matter where you find her, every time you do, she always has a reason. An excuse. And you devour them like a starved man, your head pressed to her lap and your arms around her waist. You cling to her, tight as a vice because you know if you don't, she'll get away again. She will leave you again.

She lets you do this too. You can feel her fingers through your hair, sliding through it, stroking and smoothing it away from your forehead. Loving you with her hands and soothing all the hurt. She can make you forget things this way.

She makes you forget that she left you. She makes you forget that she left you with nothing but a father who left you too. She makes you forget how much it hurts to see her again. She makes you forget that she abandons you every time.

She makes you forget, if only for a single perfect second, that you are alone.

The first time she does this, she gives you an entire story about why she had to go away. She tells you all kinds of things, and you believe every word of it. You love her, and you believe it.

The next time, the story is shorter. She is more quiet, more subdued, but you believe her anyway.

The more she comes back, the weaker her excuses become. She becomes smaller, and quieter, and her stories grow smaller and smaller until finally, all she ever says is, "I just had to."

Then she stops talking all together. She will not speak to you, and that's alright with you anyway. Because she can speak through her hands, stroking your face and hair, holding you tightly and wiping away your tears every time you cry, and it's like you can hear her actions.

Sometimes, you think that's better.

And sometimes, you hate finding her there, waiting for you.

You know that when you do, it will only hurt that much worse when she goes. You know you'll slip further towards the edge until you finally fall over in a crashing, downward spiral. You know when that happens, you'll never be able to get out of it again. You'll never be okay.

And you know that when you wake up and she disappears again, another cold phantom, you'll find yourself sobbing like a child, curled up in bed and crying alone on dirty sheets.

skin.

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 13:00:07 GMT

characters: Lucky Genevra & Victoria "Seven" Townshend.
rating: PG-13 - perversion, red lace, and a horny Lucky.
genre: yet again, more of my perfectly degenerate humor.
words: 696.
author's note: Lucky belongs to kaitlinbell. ♥

---

"Are you mad at me?"

Her voice slides like silk between her lips, the way it usually does, and Lucky is not going to fall for it this time while her hands curl over his shoulders. Her skin is deliciously cold against his collar bone, her palms roaming across his flesh and gliding down his arms. Staunchly, he refuses to give her the satisfaction of seeing just what she is doing to him all over again, and his mouth tightens into an irritated line.

"Yes," Lucky snaps, and he can hear Seven laugh in his ear, grating in how absolutely not grating it sounds. Rather, it is smooth and perfect just like always, and that annoys him more than if it had been obnoxious and loud.

"I told you I'm sorry." She is very nearly purring by now, lips lacing into a grin that brushes behind Lucky's earlobe, and she finds Lucky's burnt hand in one of her own and immediately assumes rubbing it with gentle fingertips. "Honestly, if you were any more stubborn, I don't know what I would do with you."

Again, Lucky adamantly resolves not to answer her, and he's very tempted to jerk his hand away and grumble his displeasure, but damn do those fingers feel good. Thus does he have to content himself with simply grumbling his displeasure, leaving his hand at Seven's mercy and feeling awfully embarassed that he is so weak for her.

Seven is well aware of this fact, and she smirks quietly to herself, pushing Lucky forward and urging him to lie on the bed directly in front of them. He does not particularly want to (meaning that he very much did, but did not want to give her the pleasure of obeying), but he winds up complying to her anyway, flopping down on his stomach and groaning his annoyance more loudly. Seven ignores him patiently, sidling onto the bed after him, knees finding the sheets while she sits on his lower back.

"See how nice to you I am?"

"You are sitting on me."

"Yes, well, that's beside the point." Really, there is not much of a point, but Seven would like to think there is while her palms come flat against Lucky's back, and she begins a slow, gentle, and utterly tantalizing massage that go all the way up his spine.

"Then what is the point?" Lucky is mumbling into his pillow, but Seven understands clearly anyway, and she laughs gently in the knowledge that she doesn't have one. Which, honestly, is not very funny, but she finds it inexplicably amusing.

"The point is, I'm nice to you."

He can feel Seven's comforting weight settled at his back; feel the intricate pattern of her lace underwear biting into his skin, and his brain is making an extremely admirable effort, working furiously to keep his body in check while he attempts to resume conversation as though he is not overwhelmed by the desire to roll over and pin her beneath him. "I should hope so," he grunts. "Considering you're living in my apartment."

"Yes, darling, I know." He can feel her grin sizzling at the back of his neck, and it bothers him significantly - until he realizes with a start that her grin is quite literally sizzling at the back of his neck, as she has bent over him and pressed an impossibly warm kiss against his throat.

He can also feel her breasts pressed against his shoulderblades.

"..."

Lucky swallows a sudden knot in his throat, and the pain coursing through his hand is ignored in favor of a very strong sense of arousal.

Damn it.

He comes to a quick decision in that very brief moment just before Seven breaks the kiss and pulls away, at the very second her lips come away from his skin, and Lucky turns over unexpectedly quickly. His hips roll along the insides of her thighs, both hands lifting to grab her shoulders, and in yet another liquid motion, he has the woman pinned beneath him.

She does not look particularly surprised.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

Seven sends him a searing smile, lips bright red that Lucky likes so much. "Good."

righteous indignation.

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 00:01:55 GMT

characters: dominique & christophe.
rating: PG-13.
genre: purely degenerate humor.
words: 546.

---

"Ugh. This completetly defeats the purpose of born as a prince, you know."

Christophe considers complaining further, as he certainly does have a lot to say. But Dominique is sending him a seething glare, full of icy green resentment, and it rather frightens the poor boy into quiet submission, even in spite of his impressive ego.

The other boy huffs very loudly, a few blond bangs rustling slightly (or, rather, the pieces that are not stuck to his forehead, adhered into place by a slick layer of sweat), and he soon looks down again, wrinkling his nose at the dead girl he is currently dragging across the orchard.

"I cannot believe you are making me carry her."

The prince frowns deeply at his demure fiancée, pouting his lips to achieve the desired reaction and placing indignant hands on cocked hips. "You're a big boy, you can handle it. Besides. You made me dig the hole, you know. It's only fair that you should have to carry her."

"Hardly." Dominique sends him another soul-scouring glower, gritting his teeth and pulling the deceased princess Amorette the final few feet before releasing her, and allowing her to fall to the ground with a loud and unattractive thud. He moves to the side, skirting the hole, and follows Christophe's suit, tilting his hips and placing his hands on them, cocking his head and peering at Amorette with a mild and academic interest. "She isn't all that pretty." Although, to be fair, she'd been a great deal more attractive when she'd been alive and breathing.

Christophe brightens a bit as it appears that Dominique isn't completely angry with him any more, and he moves to stand at his side and fold his arms across his chest, staring at the girl as well and wrinkling his nose. "No, no. You're much prettier."

The blond narrows his eyes immediately, and it would seem that he hasn't quite forgiven the other male entirely. "Aren't you such a sweetheart."

"Are you still mad at me?" He heaves a melodramatic sigh and throws his arms in the air for emphasis, looking back down to return Dominique's accusatory stare. "For goodness sake, you're just like a girl. I don't know why I want to marry you so badly."

"Because I'm prettier than Amorette." And with that, Dominique nudges the aforementioned princess into the hole with his foot. "And you love me."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot."

Dominique rolls his eyes as he reaches for the shovel, thrusting it at Christophe's chest. "Now you get to bury her."

"What?!" The prince quickly adopted a horrified expression and pursed his lips just before launching into a tirade about why he should not have to do such a thing. "Have you seen my hands? They're red and calloused and ugly just from digging it, and now you expect me to do it again?"

Dominique reaches up to pat the male's cheek with a sympathetic hand, shaking his head with an expression of mock pity. "No, of course I don't. I expect you to fill the hole you dug."

He turns to walk away, long braid swinging over one shoulder as he does so, and Christophe throws the shovel down haughtily. "This is ridiculous."

"I concur. It really is a shame that an eighteen-year-old boy can't even fill a hole with dirt."

Whatever would Dominique do with him?

bliss in ignorance

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 00:00:26 GMT

characters: dominique & amorette yvan.
rating: G.
genre: prologue.
words: 615.

---

In all his years of serving a royal family, Dominique had never before experienced the utter abomination of one Amorette, and he was caught quite unprepared for her when he arrived at her family's castle.

She had been born to a typical royal family - her own people loved her, the English hated her, and the Saiaelic people would not have cared one way or the other if she ever happened to drown in a fire (she would actually meet her unfortunate end at the hands of a rogue pretzel, but this will come later on, and will be covered in great detail). Typical royal heritage, and she herself a typical princess.

Amorette rather enjoyed mirrors, for it was a no great secret that the girl was stunning. In fact, her head always seemed to be tilted downwards ever so slightly, as if her slender throat could hardly stand to support the weight of her own beauty, although there was some speculation that this was really due to the great masses of curly blonde hair piled on top of her head and could therefore be accredited to gravity wreaking its havoc on her poor throat. Her eyes were large and brown and constantly wide, giving one the impression of permanent surprise, almost as if she had just caught her reflection in the mirror and had discovered that she was really really good looking, and this impression was only made all the greater by a small mouth with lips that were pursed into an 'oh' shape, the way one looks when one is attempting to gasp and failing to do it properly. Dominique did concede that she was pretty - in a very fishy sort of way, and he briefly humored the idea of her living in a giant fish bowl.

In addition, Amorette also enjoyed flowers and the color yellow, even though she refused to wear dresses of the same color as they looked absolutely garish against her skin tone, and she quite fancied pretty music. However, unlike the other princesses, Amorette was almost nineteen and still unmarried; it was a source of eternal embarrassment to her parents, who had married at fifteen and fourteen respectively, and couldn't explain to anyone just why she hadn't a husband yet. Really, no one else could understand either. She was pretty enough, no one could deny that, and she was a rather talented dancer (no one bothered with the fact that that was about her far as her talent extended; she was quite helpless in every other field, leaving her with "dancing" and "looking pretty", and little else, and this did not make for the ideal spouse).

But it was a mystery everyone forgot the day Prince Christophe St. Claire proposed to her, and Dominique arrived at the Yvan Estate. It had been a particularly irritating day for Dominique.

He thought it horribly unjust that Christophe got to sweep Amorette off her feet, which took all of fifteen seconds to do, and was then allowed to leave - abandoning Dominique with the excuse that his purpose was to "help Amorette prepare for the wedding". Of course, Dominique knew his true purpose, and that it was rather necessary for him to stay. But it didn't make the staying itself any more bearable, and he made a great show of letting Christophe know just how annoyed he was with him before the prince rode off with quite the amused smirk, leaving Dominique with a very sudden urge to punch someone in the crotch as hard as was humanly possible.

For soon after Christophe had left to return home, Dominique unraveled the mystery of why Amorette was still not married.

She was, quite possibly - honestly. Genuinely.

Utterly retarded.

shameless.

Fri, 20 Jul 2007 00:25:16 GMT

characters: Alaric Klein & Sakejét Yvan-Lacun.
rating: R for more language.
genre: stupid fluff. stuff?
words: 672.

---

It is a rather nondescript thursday. It is also a rather nondescript january, much like every other january before it: hot, sticky, and unbearably humid.

Sakey is convinced he is going to freeze to death.

Alaric, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying himself immensely. They had arrived at his home only a few hours prior, and already the air conditioner is going full blast in a wonderful escape from his aunt's hellhole of an apartment. He is sprawled across the couch, and he's so pleased with enjoying the dramatic drop in temperature that he does not bother entertaining himself with the television, and were it up to him, he'd lay that way all day.

Unfortunately for him, Sakey is pressed firmly against his side, curled into an impossibly tight ball and wrapped in a thin zip-up jacket that does very little to keep him warm, and he is not of any sort of mind to endure his discomfort for long.

"Alaric. I'm freezing." He presses harder, pulling an unhappy face at the older male who appears quite content to ignore him.

Eventually, the boy in question turns to stare back at Sakey, idly pushing his glasses farther up onto his nose. "I'm not."

"Obviously."

Alaric takes another few prolonged moments to stretch his arms over his head before offering Sakey any sort of response, and when one does finally come, it comes in the form of Alaric tossing a blanket over the blond's head. "There you go."

"Gosh, thanks. Your sacrifice is duly noted and much appreciated." Of course, he takes the blanket anyway, going at great lengths to cover himself entirely and curl up in it; however it doesn't seem to improve his mood in the least.

Alaric merely grins, folding both arms behind his head and allowing Sakey to remain pressed so close into his side. "Better than burning up, don't you think?"

"Not particularly, no."

"You're just being an ass. No one likes an ass, Sakey."

"I don't know, you seem popular enough."

Alaric actually laughs at this, slinging an affectionate arm around Sakey's shoulders (after thumping the hell out of him, of course). "Well, that's just because I'm so awesome, through no fault of my own."

"Be that as it may, I'm still really god damn cold."

"I'm not turning the thermostat up."

This is to be expected. Sakey knows Alaric much better than to expect compliance to anything that does not suit him, and he is quite prepared to resort to what he does next. That is, he scowls, tosses the blanket off and pushes himself to a stand directly in front of the other male, who peers at him in utter confusion.

Before he can ask what the hell Sakey thinks he is doing, Sakey has grabbed the hem of Alaric's t-shirt and tugged it upwards, dropping down to sit in his lap while pulling the shirt over his own head. "... Sakey. What the fuck are you doing?"

It takes a bit for Sakey to get situated. He straddles Alaric's hips with legs bent at the knee, and after a fair amount of wriggling, his arms winds up draped across the older male's back and his forehead pressed into Alaric's collar.

"Well, Alaric, you're almost a foot taller than me, your circulatory system is far superior, you're generating more body heat, thus you are warmer than me." Sakey's voice is slightly muffled, as his head remains beneath Alaric's shirt, but he continues anyway. "And since you won't turn the thermostat up, I'm going to shamelessly exploit your inner heating facility for my own gain. How's that?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're fucking weird?"

"No."

"Well you are."

Far too flabbergasted to contribute anything else of importance to the conversation, Alaric lapses into a very thoughtful silence.

"My apologies."

His annoyance soon gives way to a more familiar affection, and Alaric indulges in a very slight, amused smile as he reaches over to grab the blanket Sakey had discarded and settle it over his shoulders.

"That's okay."

carousel.

Thu, 19 Jul 2007 01:24:43 GMT

characters: Seven.
rating: G.
genre: eidetic introspection.
words: 233.
author's notes: introducing a new character. meet Seven, everyone.

---

Rust seems to characterize it best. It's there, along the grating of the bottom, spidering up the iron poles and reaching into the circular roof; it shows on all the horses, red like muscle and tissue beneath an enamel of chipped white skin and thin wisps of dark hair against many different throats.

It doesn't go very fast any more. It goes in a creaking circle, slow and laborious as though it's making its final rounds, but no one is fooled. It's been doing that for years.

She stands at the outer edge, a milky hand against the pole, feeling the cracked metal beneath her fingertips and staring into the quiet space around the carousel. It'd been there for so long, no one could remember who built it, and no one has bothered to maintain it over the past decade. And so it sits, dilapidating on a silent hill, just beyond the city limits and alone amongst the white fog and snow.

Music churns itself from beneath one of the multi-colored veils stretched across the top, and it sounds as old and tired as the rest of the machine is. Seven can't imagine what it's been feeding itself on all this time.

But it doesn't stop. And as far as she knows, it hasn't stopped since it begun, and she stands there along with it while the carousel makes another revolution, beginning the cycle again.

Over

and over

and over.

sunday morning.

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 21:18:07 GMT

characters: Fenix Velasquez & Bianque.
rating: PG.
genre: character exploration.
words: 743

---

It's approximately seven forty-two before Bianque begins dressing, cocking her leg out from underneath its counterpart and dropping her foot to the floor, muscles bending and moving fluidly as she shifts her weight to it and pulls away from the bed to make her way to the tiny closet across from it.

It does not take her long at all to find what she's looking for, especially considering there are only two outfits hanging in the cramped space, and she turns sideways to accommodate for her stomach, one arm shifting around it instinctively as she reaches in with one arm and pulls her clothes out by the hanger.

"What are you doing?"

Fenix rolls onto her side, blinking sleepily and running a grumpy hand through mussed pink hair; she is obviously the owner of the other outfit, now hanging lonely in the closet.

"Getting ready," Bianque replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and she turns away from the closet, shucking the clothes over her other arm and stepping across the room.

"Yes, I see that." Fenix pulls an irritated face, but concedes and ignores the invitation to stay curled up in the warm cocoon of the covers, opting to sit up and stretch her own arms, yawning broadly just before pursing her lips and squinting at the other woman. "Why?"

She's in the process of bending over and pulling thick green pants on, a long braid of the same color hanging over her shoulder and swinging lazily, when she tilts her head to spare the younger girl a brief glance. "Because I have a job to do."

Fenix has no response to this, and she simply tilts back on her hands and watches Bianque prepare with vague interest, occasionally allowing her gaze to drift and study the tiny hotel room, though her attention always returns to the other, who is now pulling a black turtleneck over her head and having some difficulty getting it over the bulge of her stomach. "What are you going to name her?" she asks, as if it had just occurred to her to do so.

"Liadain." Her lips curl into a mildly humored smile as she pulls her jacket on and casts her braid back over her shoulder.

"How appropriate." Fenix grins back to her, equally amused. "What did Nero think?"

"It was his idea." A thoughtful expression settles atop normally blank features, and she reaches for the bureau to grab her holsters and buckle them to her thighs, two pistols sliding into their respective places.

"I like it," she says as the toys with the goggles on her forehead.

"I do too." Bianque begins unrolling her socks and pulling them onto her feet, prior to tugging heavy combat boots on and tying them with deft fingers.

"Your roots are showing," Fenix offers in an offhanded voice, leaning forward and peering at the dull brown hair half hidden by forest green strands.

"So are yours."

Fenix raises narrow eyebrows and drags herself to stand in front of the mirror, tilting her head down and glaring at her reflection silently. "Oh yeah." Her own bright pink hair, framing her face, at least what isn't sticking out at wild angles, is indeed getting a bit long, as dark auburn roots are poking through at the top. "Damn."

Bianque is just reaching for her set of knives when Fenix turns to her, tilting thick hips against the dresser's edge and folding her arms. "What color are you doing it next?"

"What is today?"

"Twenty-third of May."

"White, then."

"Oh. Too bad. I like the green."

"I do too. But it isn't very practical in the middle of winter." The knives drop into their own slots with ease, and Bianque is pulling on fingerless gloves while she moves towards the door. "I'll be going now."

"You haven't killed anyone, have you?"

Bianque slowly turns on her heel, offering Fenix a deeply disapproving expression before the other girl interjects again. "I mean in these past eight months. You know. With the baby."

"I have," she responds shortly, lips curled into a frown.

Fenix wrinkles her nose, studying Bianque's stomach as she passes a hand through her hair once more. "Seems kinda morbid, don't you think?"

One of Bianque's hands settles against her stomach, almost protectively, and she eyes Fenix in silence before she turns back to the door and pulls it open. "It pays the bills." And before she can say anything else, Bianque steps through the frame and pulls it shut behind her.

Fenix flops against the bed with a heavy sigh. "Damn."

over and over.

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 21:14:44 GMT

characters: Edward Caim Yvan & Sakejét Yvan.
rating: R for violence and squick.
genre: emo. abstract.
words: 648.

---

It had taken hours to get the apartment clean.

Of course, Sakey had done it. He had vacuumed first, going through each room, one by one, the guest room, the bedroom, little Seygue's room, the living room. And, somehow, he'd found ammonia under the sink, and he poured it on every spot of blood in the place, even pouring it down the drain of the bath tub and both sinks. Then he'd wiped most everything down to get rid of any finger prints that might still be there from previous visits, paying special attention the the piano that both he and Caim had touched several times before.

And Caim isn't sure what to think of him any more.

He lies on the couch, and they're going to have to vacuum it too before they leave, Sakey says, but right now he's busy holding Caim's hand, shaking in Sakey's more steady one because he's pushing a needle through his skin and sewing the tips of his fingers back on where Ai's husband had sliced them off.

Neither of them had ever known his name, and neither of them had ever cared to know it. All that was ever important about him, all that would ever be important about him, was the fact that he'd stabbed Caim in the eye. His fingers had been an accident.

But Sakey killed him anyway, because he'd tried to murder his cousin, even if his aim hadn't been kind to him.

"Be still."

His voice is gentle in its command, because he feels so sorry for him right now, even though he doesn't like him and certainly doesn't love him. And Caim listens to him, though the odd tremor steals down his arm and jars his hand, sometimes causing Sakey to drop the needle.

But he understands and doesn't say anything, merely pursing his lips and trying to fix him, though he knows Caim is broken in too many different ways for that. He's trying anyway, even though he isn't sure why.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

Sakey glances down briefly, studying Caim's eye as he ties the threads together with deft fingers. It's almost completely healed, though the white of his eye still isn't white, but a horrible bloody red, and his iris is a dark and angry purple he finds so very unnerving. Pasque isn't meant to be bitter.

"Can you see out of it?"

Caim swallows before he's able to respond, having to take a few quiet moments to wrap his tongue around his words. "Not yet."

The blond nods slowly, returning his gaze to Caim's fingers, all of them sewn back into place but still not healed, so he reaches for a bandage to cover them with. He already knows that if his mother ever asks what had happened, he won't be able to lie to her, and everything, the bodies burnt, the vacuum, the ammonia, everything would be a waste and Caim would be locked in a mental institution or prison for something he wasn't really responsible for and Sakey would probably spend the rest of his life in jail.

Sakey doesn't know why he cares.

Doesn't know why he'd just risked everything, his career, his family, his entire life, for this boy he doesn't love. He doesn't know why he'd just destroyed a murder scene and risked being sent to prison himself just to spare someone else.

He doesn't understand why it felt like the right thing to do, killing Ai's husband who had tried to kill Caim, then making as if it's never happened.

"Do you think you'll be alright?"

Caim nods against his thighs, and the way he's looking at him almost offers Sakey some shred of understanding, some tiny sense of peace because maybe he had done the right thing.

And maybe he hadn't.

Because he's also getting the distinct impression that all of this is one giant mistake that he's going to regret.

But maybe it's worth it.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. He shouldn't have saved his life.

it's true, no body does.

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 21:04:58 GMT

characters: Pyramid Head & Cheryl.
rating: PG-13. Pyramid Head's emo and mentions of rape and penises.
genre: humorous, if your sense of humor is as tasteless as mine.
words: 761.
author's notes: Pyramid Head originally copyrighted to Konami. I just borrowed the idea of him.

---

"I hate my life."

Cheryl imagines that he has a very sombre expression upon his face as he says this, and she supposes this will have to do as she turns her head to look at him, because Pyramid Head does not have much of a face at all, but sort of an ugly, rusty red grating that happens to make a very funny noise when one hits it with a stick. But Pyramid Head does not appreciate this very much at all, so Cheryl has stopped doing that.

She offers him a very pleasant smile, but he cannot fully appreciate it, because Pyramid Head has no eyes. "Yes, I know," and she pats him on the arm very sympathetically. "You told me already."

"Oh. Did I? Well, I am sure you can imagine why. No body knows what it's like, being a Pyramid Head." He does not look at all happy, or so Cheryl pretends, because he still does not have a face, only a very large metal pyramid shape where his head ought to be. Pyramid Head seems to be a very practical name for him indeed.

Cheryl sighs and opens her mouth, silently mouthing along the words as Pyramid Head says them with a very deep and melancholy voice that might make her sad if she did not find it so very funny.

"It is a very sad life. No body loves me. They are all afraid of me, just because I don't happen to have a normal head."

The girl nods and continues to pat his arm until she notices that her palm is bloody, and she wrinkles her nose and wipes it on Pyramid Head's manskirt, which is equally bloody. "Yes, yes. I am very sorry no one loves you." She cannot figure out where the blood has come from, because Pyramid Head has never killed anything in his life, which she supposes is yet another one of his many woes.

Pyramid Head pulls a face - or he would if he had a face, as he has told Cheryl many times before - and a heavy sigh rattles from beneath the edge of what is functioning as his head. "It is a very sad thing."

"Yes, it is a very sad thing."

"I am not even a very good Pyramid Head." He tries to bury his pyramid in his hands, but he only succeeds in lifting one of them, as the other is wrapped around the handle of an enormous and vastly impressive blade. Well, slightly impressive, because, while big, it is very rusty and old and bloody, but again, Cheryl has no idea where the blood originates from and sometimes wonders if Pyramid Head had splashed red paint over it instead. But then, he cannot really see, so if that had happened, his sword would probably be purple instead. "I hate my life."

Perhaps he just came that way.

"Oh, don't say that." Cheryl frowns to him, which he misses entirely. "I think you are a wonderful Pyramid Head."

"No I am not, I am not a wonderful Pyramid Head." He continues to hold his pyramid head with one hand. "I can't even rape you."

"Well, that's just as well. I shouldn't like it at all if you raped me."

"Why not?"

"Because rape is a dreadful thing and also I don't like penises." She has already had this conversation with him many times, but it succeeds in distracting him from his eternal mourning, so she does not mind it terribly. "I'm very sorry."

"That's okay," he says after a pause. "I don't think I would be a very good rapist anyway."

"Well, good."

"I hate my life." Pyramid Head falls silent for a few very long moments, but Cheryl doesn't mind it, and she simply continues to walk down the forest path with him, both arms looped around one of his biceps. He speaks up again after awhile, clearing his throat, Cheryl thinks, and says, "I killed a squirrel yesterday, you know?"

"Did you?"

"Yes, I did." His voice almost swells with pride, and Cheryl can see his chest puff up, as he had recently abandoned his apron for a more manly, torn up skirt. "It was very gruesome."

"I am very proud of you, then." His chest raises further, and he is so very pleased; he doesn't need a face, because Cheryl can tell.

But she knows he didn't kill a squirrel yesterday. She won't tell him what she thinks, though. For now, she simply smiles while Pyramid Head attempts to incorrectly describe what the innards of a dead squirrel look like, and she allows him to be proud of himself.

At least until tomorrow.