carob wildberry
Flavors: carob 1 (apathy), wildberry 10 (pit stop), pomelo 8 (Only those who were born to hang are not afraid of the water.)
Characters: Alex and Kez.
Rating: PG
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: Basically follow up to this. Alex and Kez continue to discuss Alex's looming death. And Kez finally introduces herself.
Alex’s cheeks burned. He had rolled up his sleeves to cool himself while chasing after the girl who was about to kill him. It seemed counterproductive now, but he was embarrassed. Her eyes bored into the dark bruises, scars, and scabs that covered his arms, mementoes of both the past week and the past thirteen years at Greater Saxus Holy Mercy Academy. His feeble attempts to hide the injuries by pulling his sleeves over them were thwarted by the yelp of pain that, despite his best efforts, escaped his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, bowing his head in another weak attempt to hide the pain written across his face.
When the silence stretched from seconds to minutes, Alex stole a quick glance at the girl standing opposite him, only to see her features contorted with disgust. He bowed his head lower.
“You should kill me. Those big guys are gonna find us pretty soon.”
“Will you stop saying that!” The girl snapped.
“Sorry,” Alex responded automatically, shrinking back. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing to die, just instinct. At least that’s what he told himself. And although he hoped it wouldn’t hurt, he knew he deserved it if it did. He forced himself to be still, bracing himself for the blow.
The stranger sighed. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“But-” Alex protested.
“Not yet at least,” the menace that was clearly supposed to be conveyed through her tone was overshadowed by her obvious exhaustion. For a brief, confusing moment Alex felt a wave of relief, but before that wave had even reached the shore it had become just another drop of sickly salt water in the tide of guilt that seemed to never leave his body.
The stranger seemed about to speak again, but whatever she’d had to say was suddenly overshadowed by a look of deep distraction that settled on her face like a mask. Finally, she addressed him.
“They won’t come here,” she announced. “You can sit, you know.”
He did as she said, placing himself directly on the damp forest floor while she sat delicately on a fallen log.
“I should have told you,” Alex started. “But I didn’t because I’m a coward. But I’ll tell you now in case you change your mind... I don’t think I’m very good at dying.”
The girl looked up, for once genuinely interested. “How so?” She asked.
“Its just sometimes I think I should but I never do. I can lose a lot of blood and I don’t even pass out. So you might have to try something different, I don’t know.” Alex hated himself for saying it as soon as it was said, because the girl winced and that revolted look came over her face again.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised quickly.
“Stop apologising,” she chided. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t think.”
Alex shook his head slowly. This girl - his captor - must be really stupid.
“I’m not a good person,” he said. “If you kill me... I think it would be a good thing. For everyone.”
She sat quietly for a moment, staring not at him but past him to the trees behind him. When she got to her feet he did not flinch. He was ready to die. Ready. To die. Ready. It was what he’d wanted after all. So he was ready. He couldn’t care less, didn’t feel a thing. Completely apathetic. He closed his eyes tight and let the strength slide away from his body, staying carefully limp and ready. He wanted to pray, but resisted the urge. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He repeated it over and over again in his mind, sending the words out to his mum and dad, his teachers at school, the boys who’d broken his bones, the girls who’d broken his spirit, the priest, the baker, even the ugly old lady who sold carrots at the market. Everyone he could imagine would get a silent apology with his dying breath.
“Hi,” the stranger said, startling Alex out of his fatalistic stupor. “I’m Keziah,” she said, holding a hand out expectantly.
Reluctantly, he shook it. And she smiled. At him.
Flavors: carob 6 (languor), wildberry 10 (bad influence)
Characters: Aoibhe and Suriel
Rating: PG13
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: Just some random alcohol soaked fluff while everyone is at Suriel's place. This is shortly after Aoibhe gets involved.
“What the hell is goin’ on here?”Aoibhe demanded as she stumbled blearily down the stairs.
After several long moments of confused observation, Aoibhe deducted that the hat hanging precariously from the chandelier - which itself was hanging precariously from the drooping ceiling - was of some great interest to Suriel. Through some strange variation of logic, most likely assisted by the moat of empty bottles surrounding his person, Suriel had apparently decided the most effective method through which to obtain said hat was by lying on a mouldy coffee table and repeatedly throwing glass bottles at the chandelier. At which point it struck Aoibhe that the bottles surrounding him could not have possibly been all he’d consumed. There was a thick coating of broken glass on the floor.
Aoibhe shook her head slowly as the surveyed the surroundings, her expression tinged more with awe than disapproval.
“Tha’s a lot o’ liquor, Suri,” she grinned. “Even for you.”
Suriel grunted mournfully in the general direction of his just-out-of-reach hat, causing Aoibhe to wrinkle her delicate brow.
“Don’t tell me ya kept drinking so you’d have more to throw. Or have ya forgotten about bein’ an angel? Ya know, with wings?”
This time the only response she got was a strange compression of the angel’s neck and shoulders which she could only assume was the drunken and reclining version of a shrug. He glanced briefly at the couch next to him - the last noble holdout among an ocean’s worth of furniture sunken in glass.
“Yer aware it’s not even eight in the mornin’, aren’t ya?”
To this entirely irrelevant objection she was granted no response.
“Fine,” she grumbled, clumsily shifting into a winged creature of sorts - as close to a bird as her pre-breakfast abilities would allow - and flew, rather than risk walking, over the irreparably damaged floor. Taking care not to accidentally retrieve the hat, she quickly reverted to her more human form and sprawled herself across the couch, effortlessly catching the bottle that was tossed in her general direction.
“Cheers, my silent friend,” she beamed. “The mornin’ is young.”
Characters: Alex and Kez.
Rating: PG
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: Basically follow up to this. Alex and Kez continue to discuss Alex's looming death. And Kez finally introduces herself.
Alex’s cheeks burned. He had rolled up his sleeves to cool himself while chasing after the girl who was about to kill him. It seemed counterproductive now, but he was embarrassed. Her eyes bored into the dark bruises, scars, and scabs that covered his arms, mementoes of both the past week and the past thirteen years at Greater Saxus Holy Mercy Academy. His feeble attempts to hide the injuries by pulling his sleeves over them were thwarted by the yelp of pain that, despite his best efforts, escaped his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, bowing his head in another weak attempt to hide the pain written across his face.
When the silence stretched from seconds to minutes, Alex stole a quick glance at the girl standing opposite him, only to see her features contorted with disgust. He bowed his head lower.
“You should kill me. Those big guys are gonna find us pretty soon.”
“Will you stop saying that!” The girl snapped.
“Sorry,” Alex responded automatically, shrinking back. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing to die, just instinct. At least that’s what he told himself. And although he hoped it wouldn’t hurt, he knew he deserved it if it did. He forced himself to be still, bracing himself for the blow.
The stranger sighed. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“But-” Alex protested.
“Not yet at least,” the menace that was clearly supposed to be conveyed through her tone was overshadowed by her obvious exhaustion. For a brief, confusing moment Alex felt a wave of relief, but before that wave had even reached the shore it had become just another drop of sickly salt water in the tide of guilt that seemed to never leave his body.
The stranger seemed about to speak again, but whatever she’d had to say was suddenly overshadowed by a look of deep distraction that settled on her face like a mask. Finally, she addressed him.
“They won’t come here,” she announced. “You can sit, you know.”
He did as she said, placing himself directly on the damp forest floor while she sat delicately on a fallen log.
“I should have told you,” Alex started. “But I didn’t because I’m a coward. But I’ll tell you now in case you change your mind... I don’t think I’m very good at dying.”
The girl looked up, for once genuinely interested. “How so?” She asked.
“Its just sometimes I think I should but I never do. I can lose a lot of blood and I don’t even pass out. So you might have to try something different, I don’t know.” Alex hated himself for saying it as soon as it was said, because the girl winced and that revolted look came over her face again.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised quickly.
“Stop apologising,” she chided. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t think.”
Alex shook his head slowly. This girl - his captor - must be really stupid.
“I’m not a good person,” he said. “If you kill me... I think it would be a good thing. For everyone.”
She sat quietly for a moment, staring not at him but past him to the trees behind him. When she got to her feet he did not flinch. He was ready to die. Ready. To die. Ready. It was what he’d wanted after all. So he was ready. He couldn’t care less, didn’t feel a thing. Completely apathetic. He closed his eyes tight and let the strength slide away from his body, staying carefully limp and ready. He wanted to pray, but resisted the urge. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He repeated it over and over again in his mind, sending the words out to his mum and dad, his teachers at school, the boys who’d broken his bones, the girls who’d broken his spirit, the priest, the baker, even the ugly old lady who sold carrots at the market. Everyone he could imagine would get a silent apology with his dying breath.
“Hi,” the stranger said, startling Alex out of his fatalistic stupor. “I’m Keziah,” she said, holding a hand out expectantly.
Reluctantly, he shook it. And she smiled. At him.
Flavors: carob 6 (languor), wildberry 10 (bad influence)
Characters: Aoibhe and Suriel
Rating: PG13
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: Just some random alcohol soaked fluff while everyone is at Suriel's place. This is shortly after Aoibhe gets involved.
“What the hell is goin’ on here?”Aoibhe demanded as she stumbled blearily down the stairs.
After several long moments of confused observation, Aoibhe deducted that the hat hanging precariously from the chandelier - which itself was hanging precariously from the drooping ceiling - was of some great interest to Suriel. Through some strange variation of logic, most likely assisted by the moat of empty bottles surrounding his person, Suriel had apparently decided the most effective method through which to obtain said hat was by lying on a mouldy coffee table and repeatedly throwing glass bottles at the chandelier. At which point it struck Aoibhe that the bottles surrounding him could not have possibly been all he’d consumed. There was a thick coating of broken glass on the floor.
Aoibhe shook her head slowly as the surveyed the surroundings, her expression tinged more with awe than disapproval.
“Tha’s a lot o’ liquor, Suri,” she grinned. “Even for you.”
Suriel grunted mournfully in the general direction of his just-out-of-reach hat, causing Aoibhe to wrinkle her delicate brow.
“Don’t tell me ya kept drinking so you’d have more to throw. Or have ya forgotten about bein’ an angel? Ya know, with wings?”
This time the only response she got was a strange compression of the angel’s neck and shoulders which she could only assume was the drunken and reclining version of a shrug. He glanced briefly at the couch next to him - the last noble holdout among an ocean’s worth of furniture sunken in glass.
“Yer aware it’s not even eight in the mornin’, aren’t ya?”
To this entirely irrelevant objection she was granted no response.
“Fine,” she grumbled, clumsily shifting into a winged creature of sorts - as close to a bird as her pre-breakfast abilities would allow - and flew, rather than risk walking, over the irreparably damaged floor. Taking care not to accidentally retrieve the hat, she quickly reverted to her more human form and sprawled herself across the couch, effortlessly catching the bottle that was tossed in her general direction.
“Cheers, my silent friend,” she beamed. “The mornin’ is young.”