She could either be very good or very bad but would never, ever be both because her body had room for only one.
important psas. character development challenge.
Click here for easy tagging.
Mortals are instruments. Some drums. Some flutes and harps. And others pretty or heavy things that make too much noise and have old spit in old corners not worth their silver.
He is the lyre in his hand. New. A few dents near the middle. You pressed louder and you got louder. Most notes were nice next to one another even if they were out of tune. He was always looking for someone to play him though. Because an instrument is a lonely thing and only as good as the hand upon it.
She knows Greensleeves by heart now.
She ghosts her lip with her tongue and it’s pennies and it’s surprise and it’s seven hells with a specific sort of faith that makes her toes curl like the curly-wurly touch-me-not’s in his mother’s garden.
His neck is a mess. So is his back.
She needs blood and he’s got more than enough.
She’d been a pretty thing and her job had been to make more pretty things.
Somewhere along the line she became a bad man.
And then a bad wolf.
At last; a beautiful rat.
She was naked save for the strip of red tartan around her sharp wrist.
“Beowulf…It has been a long time since a man has come to visit me.”
You try and justify it to yourself that you’re better than he is. You say that what had happened last night was nothing more than a gin-fueled joke and a horrible mistake. He loves you, but he doesn’t.
And that hurts more than it should. More than your headache from the gin and the sex or from a smoky room while you crooned a ditty of Yankee Doodle wearing a star-spangled hat; more than it hurts when he yells at you and stiffens his hand as if he’s going to strike you and you’re craving the sting and flash of red on your cheek.
You shrug these things off for the day and walk around the city as if you own it and you admire the boys admiring you. You forget about his body, your bed and your heart. You forget that you want him to die, that you might love him.
You forget that he loves you.
But he doesn’t.
You leave when the autumn wind starts brushing your golden curls and you return to your apartment and find him, a bottle of gin and three dollars gone.
It aches your heart and you’re not going to let him have it. You open up a bottle of his apple-tinged, bootlegged brandy and you decide that all young and troubled starlets become an alcoholic early.
You’re drinking, just like last night and the night before and many more nights from now.
And by some cruel, disgusting act of God, you realize:
He loves you, but he doesn’t.
It was all just a mistake, but it wasn’t.
Your cycle is late, but it isn’t.
And everything is so frightfully different and so horribly the same.
And all of that hurts more than it should.
she built her gods on the tips of her fingers and built the churches from the sticks of her ribs.
while the others drink their wine and eat the bread given to them by holy fingers, she drinks her blood and carries flesh and soul inside her.
she waits for no man, messiah, or symbol to speak to her; she speaks only to herself and knows the word of disciples and apostles, priestesses and traditions by watching the sky and its stars melt away to reveal the jet black of Tartarus.
she knows and breathes the secrets of the universe. they speak in whispers of translucent patches across her calves and shoulders.
when the humans leave and their presence no longer haunts her, they’re either embraced by the arms of friends and family or seven devils come to carry them off and it is nice — nicer than what awaits a self-made god and messiah; church and steeple.
she builds her gods on grimy fingertips and builds a graveyard in the rest of her.
“you’re beautiful,” he breathes out in the early morning air as sea salt fills his head and gold fills his vision.
she leaves the bed exactly thirty seconds later with tawny fur wrapped around her breasts and her backside peeking through like milk through the draping edges. he drinks her in like a human ocean. he bathes himself with the light speckling of freckles and the translucent patches that fritter down her scrawny calves.
she says nothing but her eyes burn brightly. the chief raises up on his elbows, sheepish and very interested in what she might have to say. he wants her voice, yearns for words to visibly drop from her lips and fall to the floor; he needs it, if he’s being honest.
(the need to consume her like the sea on the shore is a new feeling and it is always, always only for her.)
when the faerie does speak, he watches her wings lift and fan out in a defensive gesture (even her touch was cruel and yet so delicate; he learned that from a scabbed over gash on his mouth) and he watches her worn, guarded face fall to mortal depths.
“why would ye be sae cruel tae me?”
it is spoken with a certain kind of loneliness, a melancholic aura that stains her words with indigo sadness and for a few moments, Hiccup feels guilt.
“…what are you talking about?” he asks her quietly, pleading for her to continue on, to not stop and, who knows, ghost the furs and space of his bed and leave him pining for the trees.
“tha’ was cruel,” she speaks again, this time her usual bite staining her words, “I am a monster tae ye. M’flesh isnae ivory and milk, it’s littered with speckles an’ scales of my inhumanity an’ yer a cruel bastard for remindin’ me with yer tri—”
“Wai-whoa-wait! I’m telling the truth!” I’m .. telling the truth ..”
they slip into a silence and as swiftly as she left, she slips back underneath furs until he felt the curve of her hip gently touch his torso. his fingers found that curve and gently pressed in while he brought his cheek to press against the lean muscle of her back.
“… you’re not a monster,” he lets his breath brush against her and his eyelashes to flutter against her skin.
an abrasive declaration of, “yer an idiot.”
and softer still, “i love ye…”
punctuated his brain in the final moments of consciousness before he and his faerie drifted back off to sleep.
daylight, as requested by warm-iceheart
When the stars are swallowed into sunlight’s mouth and the bosom of Jesus rises as warm and as bloody as the day they killed him, we are washed in a bath of love and serenity.
Birdsong scatters through the trees spoken in lazy sighs and murmurs, something the faerie enjoys and adores.
She wakes with the first fingertips of sunlight gripping the entrance of her burrow and cracks a crooked grin. A sun was Christ’s heart, but the day was going to be hers.
It starts out mutual, maybe with the wondering of what it would be like if paint of oceanblue and twilight curled across her flesh as well.
It starts out wondering how her name would sound if she were a Macintosh instead of an Asleif and would she be just as naked with tartan curled around a breast while the other lay exposed to the air and the world.
It always starts like this but it never ends in this way.
He would give anything to be in her place; immortal and throwing things to the wind, never having to worry about time or the certainty of demise. She knows he thinks that she’s lucky and it is maybe a mortal thought she would give half of her wing to have.
He slumbers peacefully next to her, chest and torso rising and falling with his breath and she watches him with fascination — she takes him too far up onto her pedestal and makes him God, Caesar and Icarus.
She watches him and breathes him in as her breasts press against the flats of her thighs, fingers gently tracing down the map of woad on his arm.
He is a mortal Jesus and she is a disciple. Messiahfucker and godmaker on top of a faerie.
Now wouldn’t you think it’d be the other way around?
In the early mornings when neither can sleep, their bodies crash like waves. Trading soft snores for slow rhythm and little sighs, he knows he’s about to be capsized from their ocean.
But still the tide draws out and comes back in with the small cry of a faerie beneath him, leaving him to be enchanted by the siren’s song as another wave tumbles and crashes; thighs, pelvis and stomach meet each other in kisses.
She rocks the shorelines with lazy kisses and murmurings of his name and he brings it home with another crash on the craggy rocks near shore.
“Good morning, Mrs. Haddock.”
She was a queen who would have him beheaded while she left the ruins of his body to rot in flames. A blonde-haired harpy whose war cry and snarl was fearsome, striking woe and agony into the lava and fire of men and boys.
She had burned his village, his home, his way of life with only a few well-eloquently put barbs that sliced the metal from his leg and somehow slit his throat and drained the words out like blood.
She’s never been more beautiful to him.
She always catches him staring right after she slaughters him and there is the saddest sort of adoration in his gaze. It makes the wings shrink and fold away, it makes the smell of the forest dissolve, it makes reality shiver.
She comes to him and he recoils from her as if she’d strike him — a habit he’s learned well over the years — and she never knows what to do about that. Her lips always find their way to him first before words can.
Maybe it’s better like that.
They kiss and they hold and maybe she feels like she needs repentance from soulless, star-born harbinger to take the beast from her heart and instead make her human, the vain faerie scouting the embers and near-distinguished flames of the last raid she gave his body.
I will nae burn ye again.