221. Untitled/ joke pairing 1: Pedre/ Catherine of Aragon, 302 words
He had been exotic to her, from the far north, even further than the cold lands of England to which she had now become accustomed. He had wrapped her in furs, entire bears, pelt upon pelt of precious small soft animals, exquisite in colouring, engulfing her in splendour. Befitting for a queen, he had said. The esteem he held for her beloved husband, of whom he inescapably reminded her, didn’t seem to diminish his belief that she was still a queen. Henry, too, had been tall and strong, handsome like this strange man, although he had a regal air bred into him that Pedre lacked, for all his fine clothes and pretty speech. This was something she allowed herself in the knowledge that, although she could not acknowledge it, she had known men before her legal husband, and now was unlikely to know that man again. No person would know of the affair save for him and her, and her daughter still stood as heir to the throne. Pedre seemed satisfied with his role becoming Henry, if only because his own behaviour hardly needed to be changed for such. It was not a role that he played, as such, but simply how she thought of him, alternatively her rightful and proper husband and her course noble exotic lover, her revenge for the usurper who now occupied her bed and still neglected to provide a male heir. Catherine had laughed, from within the protective circle of her lover’s arms, when the girl child had been born. Such a fuss, for something Henry already had. What a pity. Now nothing had been gained and so much had been lost, and she, at least in her own telling, happy enough in this secluded and private haven. How sorrowful for the poor King of England. Ha.
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222. Untitled/ joke pairing 2: Henry VIII/ Teiya, 190 words
It was his prerogative, as king, to take whatever woman he saw fit. If none of those blasted women he married would thank him with an heir to his crown, well, what was his obligation to them? Besides, during and after those long periods of childbearing his women seemed to grow ugly before him, to dull visibly day by day and push him away, or cling disgustingly closer. This new woman did none of these things; neither pushed or pulled, but simply shook her head reverently and sadly. The honour of his interest seemed not to occur to her, but she did not forget her place. When he had insisted, resorting finally to veiled hints towards misfortune befalling her husband, and therefore her own self of course, she had finally seen sense, but no one would need know about the necessity of that. Wasn’t he still King? And handsome. Women fell at his feet. Who would question this woman’s attraction, beautiful as she was herself? It would be seen as a matter of course that she would have been appropriately flattered. No one need know of his difficulties, no one.
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4. Dark: Kira/Ambros, 488 words
It was Ambros’ dark nature, the one that he denied all he could, that longed after Kira, the dark-haired girl twisting and turning, straining herself to the utmost, casting dark shadows across the floor which span and distorted with her, a magic show. She was cruel, sharp, passionate through suffering, feet torn bloody from the wooden floors as she wore off the varnish. He cared for them, bandaged them for her, and she only nodded as she went again to dance on those broken appendages, careless of the pain.
She loved as she danced, animalistic, brutal and merciless, to some hidden beat within her, or the pulsing of their two heartbeats, overlapping but not identical, a tattoo which accelerated as they sped themselves, a circular pushing on and on until it was all just friction and buzzing, so, as if she was trying to rub them together like sticks to make fire. She burned herself, flashing with dark eyes and brightness in tanned skin, for what time had she to care for this body that should be working and working. With her, only his helplessness was fed, as he strived to help her, to take her from that floor where there was nothing but the movement of her body, and not a care for her health. Rest, rest! He cried, but all his reply was a further push in the steps, a higher leap, a harsher twist of her abused feet. He saw her smirk sometimes at him, finally exhausted and willing for him to help her home, now, not apologetic or thankful but acknowledging, repayment for his help, yes, I’m ready now. Now that she could hardly walk, let alone dance longer, and he often carried her back, but there was still the energy and more than a little frustration at her traitorous body which could not endure what she desired. She bit and clawed, left him raw and gasping. The guilt ate at him sometimes, for accepting this, for letting her continue broken, but other times she was the one tearing away and the fight back took precedence and it was all he could do not to fully let himself see red as she did, to hold himself back and not hurt her. Men should not hurt women. This was truth to him, but they hurt themselves and there was no way to overcome it, because without that source of pain all her energy would turn inwards and she would fade to ash and singed wood rather than this fast burning out. Her voice was low, rough and sawn beyond reasons. Rusty and harsh and bit at him as well as her teeth. He held her down to stop her, when she carried on past the threshold to leave a trail of dark blood over the floor, and she writhed against him. Runaway and lost, he could not have stopped it, even as he wanted to.
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9. Drive: Kira/ Aila, 239 words
British cafes are not nearly as picturesque as those in the sunny tourist traps, but her sitting there alone amidst all the holiday revelries had Kira reaching for pen and paper. It wasn’t his usual topic, and there was too much distraction with all the detail around her. And without the setting, there was really worth noting about her, he would never have noticed, most likely. That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t pretty, in an average way, although her thighs seemed rather too large for a skirt that short. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes from her. He didn’t know, or much care, how much of that was to try to get the line of her arm right, to keep the proportions right. For Kira, the line was thin. Most of his models were, or had been, his lovers. He only really regretted that he would have to take her out of this context to know her in that way. Even if there was a way to make love to her right there, it wouldn’t be right. His involvement would ruin, ruin her alienation. Sitting there as she was, nursing her cigarette, cup of coffee beside her, with that far-away look in her eye; that was the way that he could love her. He would keep this sketch; perhaps recreate her on canvas with oils and broad strokes, as testament to this momentary unrequited romance, but no more.
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21. Vacation: Cicuta/Ambros, 195 words
She’d never been good at falling in love. People saw through her too easily, and she didn’t believe in unrequited love. Perhaps one type of love could be returned with another, but a love returned with fear was no love at all. Of course, Cicuta did fall in love, found little crushes growing like weeds in her neatly organised mind. She despised that word: ‘crush’, but ‘infatuation’ seemed too scientific for the people she found herself drawn to, those who would declare love or nothing at all. ‘Puppy-love’ was reserved utterly. It suited him better than it could any other. Bouncing, trembling, gleeful love for that man who was so puppyish himself.
She knew that these relationships never lasted, that he was too transient, too easily distracted. The two of them were too dissimilar, in many ways too alike. She neglected her work, because she knew that it wouldn’t continue too long. She never took holidays, entrenched far enough into her work to transcend the necessity. But this puppy love she enjoyed as a vacation, knowing that once it was over, she would return and sink ever deeper, even further than she had done before.
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28. Sorrow: Lilly/Teija, 336 words
Traditionally, that particular spot above the cliffs on Thule’s greatest island is left alone, to grow, as it naturally should. Even the children do not venture there, fearing the sorrow that the wanderer’s blue flowers are said to bring, chastised by their parents for going so near to the cliff edge. Now there was added to the folklore some very real concerns over the stability of the cliff face. As much as the true old locals insisted that the cliff there had been unchanged for over a century, that the spirit of the wanderer protected it, the council wasn’t willing to risk that, advising against going there, doing their best to maintain the wooden railings which were the only permissible by the conservation laws. An alliance faced them of sea air, strong winds, and what must be vandalism, the stakes kicked down and pitted onto a campfire, found burned out safely by inspectors. Still, they kept trying.
And this vigilance made it odd for that pair to have been able to stay there undisturbed for so long. She absently combed her fingers through his long hair, teasing out the years of tangles, grass and leaves, as he sat leaning against her, surprising her with his weight. A part of her skirt was still damp from his tears, her skirt dark from the damp grass, but his clothes seemed dry enough, through the mud and grass stains. He squirmed away from the sharp tugs at his scalp but couldn’t make himself move from her warmth and movement, even if it did feel as if she was purposefully tugging harder than needed. The smile she directed at him, corner of her mouth quirked upwards, didn’t do much to contradict his suspicions.
Eventually he pulled away, with a lopsided broken smile and averted eyes. She stood, smoothing out her skirt and bent with that same smirk, tipping his head to kiss him before again straightening and strolling away from the empty knoll, with his laughter ringing in her ears.
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40. Rated: Lilly/Kern, 446 words
His brother’s latest (read main.) slut was leaning against the doorframe when he looked up. Naturally, he jumped. It wasn’t that he was easy shocked. He wasn’t scared easily, he just…
… Yeah ok, shut up.
And there was no need for that superior smirk. If she was in his position, no, she would probably have heard him come in. She seemed to have ESP or something. Bloody witch, that girl was (wasn’t she more his age, rather than his brother’s?) She probably just appeared there with her damn magic. Made a deal with the devil. That made sense, considering that he seemed to be about to lose that bet with Rina that his brother was not the devil. Some ******** deal. She couldn’t have had a soul to give. Maybe he had taken her soul, that’d explain the pure evil on her face right now, and s**t, a girl with a soul and morals couldn’t hold herself like that, there’s no way she didn’t know that the little area of smooth pale stomach showing was that damn distracting. That smirk wasn’t an expression that people without links to the devil could ever have.
And she was just watching him ramble silently to himself, with an eyebrow slightly raised now, and that one strand of hair curling out across her brow and ******** if his brother wouldn’t kill him for it he would be trying to do her right now. The foot not quite hidden by the floor length skirt was stockinged and s**t but he wasn’t stupid enough to do anything. So his glare got a little more focused.
And she laughed.
“Probably a 6 or 7. The red hair doesn’t do you any favours dear.” Wait, wait, what? Ok, piss off. Seriously. He was more than a bloody seven thank you. And-
She was kissing him, tongue in his mouth and teeth at his lips and hands on, and legs curled over his lap and- he kissed back, of course. Fully conscious of the warmth and the fullness of it, and her sharp teeth and small tongue arching, and just s**t. Ok, his brother had taste in some things then. Her legs were smooth- stockings and the material was spread around and too much and just in the way-
- And gone. She was standing and smirking again, witchy green eyes bright and amused and patronising. She gave a little wave, mockingly, and turned on those feet that had just been rubbing against his thigh, and left with a swing of the skirt. He was left on the sofa, wondering if she had been just a little flushed too and cursing himself for caring.
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48. Childhood: Kern/ Domo, 211 words
Kern was sulking. He could feel Domo’s cool hands on his skin as she gently cleaned and dressed his grazed hand and split lip.
Quite apart from the pain of his lip, Domo’s care was another thing for Kern to be angry with Rex about. It was out of character for his brother to want anything like a childhood friend for a ‘girlfriend’, and the only reason Kern could think of for him doing so was to make the idea of a match between the younger siblings even more unlikely. Lilly wasn’t exactly stunning, and Rex wasn’t too worried about who he ********.
So he had his eyes closed and was trying to ignore her, even though he knew all her weak spots for tickling, the exact amount of teasing needed for the cutest shade of red. Despite the fact that she giggled at his jokes, except when they were too awful. Some really were too blue for her, but the reaction would still be good. It would have been a win-win situation, if it hadn’t been for the other troubles. And the fact that she didn’t seem to actually consider such things as dating. That was a pretty big obstacle.
This wasn’t a sulk that he felt indulgent for staging.
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51. Sport: Kern/Ambros(/Teija), 284 words
Watching is no fun, Kern knew as well as anyone. More so, he knew better than to say anything, even if he could have admitted to himself that all that annoyance had any basis other than pure annoyance at those two playing about when they should have been working. Kern had researched the reasons for all these tests and games, knowing that he needed to in order to pass, and no matter how many times or how noisily he checked, there was no mention of this particular sport being provided as a convenient way for two cadets to cop a feel. Fitness: yes, aggression: yes, use of grappling techniques, ingenuity, utilisation of emotions: yes, yes, yes! But not pinning the opponent so that a make-out session could start. Yes, he expected that from his roommates, but not with each other, for ******** sake and neither seemed to be fighting for dominance anyway. Any sane man would think that wrong. If you’re going to be doing that then at least don’t do it like a damn girl. When he fought, he fought dirty, and Ambros had to fight to hold him down. If kissing got involved, and with him it invariably did, to the extent that Teija, watching happily from the sidelines, wondered how any of them would ever pass this section, when any of that was involved, Kern fought back as hard as he could, nothing like the explorative easy laughing sessions with Teija, this was hard and fast. Ambros tended to come away with as many bruises as would he have done if Kern had punched him. Kern faired rather worse.
Which always just made him fight all the harder the next time.
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55. Waiting: Aila/Ralph, 248 words
She knew that this wasn’t something that would last; he was too distracted. He was too tense. He tried, but his heart just wasn’t in it. They got on fine, well even.
There were no arguments, no fights. She felt comfortable with him, able to be the best person she could be. They could talk for hours, and she loved to see him come alive, talking about the environment in terms she could understand and relate to, without the fanaticism of her best friend, mourning the passing of old times, about history without feeling a bore, or a swot. At times like that, he relaxed, dropping that disinterested front, and she saw a little spark which seemed so lacking in him normally. That spark which she knew she couldn’t kindle in him by herself. It hurt, as it was bound to do. Yet she knew that this wasn’t so bad. She knew she was nothing special in herself, honestly didn’t know the reason that he had asked her out, she’d just been happy about it happening. They plodded on gently and she didn’t mind overly much. They were there for each other. A school coupling wasn’t meant to last anyway, and the other possibilities of these transient relationships were much worse than the missing spark that was the only issue here. So until he realised what he wanted, she was happy to tread water like this. She only hoped that he’d do it before she became too attached.
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59. No Way Out: Kira/ Ruo, 283 words
The calm when Ruo had stated his intent was disconcerting. He had expected fireworks, a fight, screams and tears and harsh sharp slaps. He had expected tears and teeth. Instead, Kira had laughed, taken another drag of his cigarette.
“Do what you like.” He had said, with a shrug. He had known, the b*****d. “Go ahead and try.” That hadn’t needed to be added. Kira knew the bond that held the two together. Ruo knew it too, innately. They needed each other, devoured each other as the fuel that Arthur worried over too much. Ruo was attempting to switch to sustainable energy, knowing that reserves would soon be exhausted. No person could live this way, burning night and day without sleep and without rest. Kira burned brightly, rather than Arthur’s enduring low light.
But what was that half-life to the passion they suffered through long nights, through the days seemingly endless, restless. Kira and Ruo had torn along in life, accomplishing nothing but living fully. Life was worthless without feeling, they agreed. Now Ruo was feeling that complacent well-fed daze first-hand, and longing for that white craze again.
Kira had done no more than nodded at his return. The apartment was exactly as it had been when he had left, all his belongings still lying where he hadn’t taken the time to collect them. Even that unopened packet of cigarettes lay precisely where he had left them. His piles of books remained opened to the pages he had dropped them on. Everything was ready for him to pick up, as if he had never left.
Ruo broke the seal of the packet, and breathed deeply as Kira held a lighter to the end.
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61. Fairy Tale: Ralph/Teija; Lilly/Ambros, 421 words
All those folktales had within them far too many Jacks. He had noted it when she asked him ‘which one’. Everything came down to folklore with Lilly, came down to romance and contrivance and layers with the simple virtues of kindness and beauty, luck and honesty. Her own choice of man she liked to compare to Lancelot. Chivalry and pride, she said. Without the inclination to God, he turned out to be perfectly so, but concerned to the same extent with the environment. That was more suited to her traditionalist fantasies. With too much knowledge, she classified him as T.H. White’s ill made knight, though not so ill made. That would have been a difficult hurdle for Lilly to surpass. It all had turned out so perfectly for her, if rather an adulterated version of the grim tales that she loved. For her was the happily-ever-after truly rare in the true tales. Lilly waved the concerns aside with a note to modern acceptance of different twists. “… and I suppose that makes you Arthur.” Although most representations of Guinevere had little in common with the cruel, proud Lilly.
Ralph sat now and wondered about the question he’d shrugged off- or rather he’d dismissed, as shrugging was not the type of dignified reaction to which Ralph could admit. Jack was lying curled loosely on the bed, uncovered and limbs thoroughly awkward, like spindles in every direction. A small damp patch was spreading slowly on the expensive linen of the pillow. It was utterly disgusting, but oddly endearing. It was an utterly different reaction to that which would result from seeing Lilly or Ambros in a similar situation. Certainly that would be a disappointment in Lilly’s case. Ralph found himself wondering what opinion this Jack would inspire in her. She was bound to have an opinion on which character his sleeping habits most resembled. Perhaps Jack Frost, with so many sharp edges, but that was wrong, with his warmth and the liquidity of the saliva. Jack the giant killer, mischievous and curious before his beanstalk, before the contractual killing. Ralph had been forced into too many discussions on the psychology of these tales to want to consider that particular character. There were too many: ‘Jack be Nimble’, ‘the house that Jack built’, Jack Sprat, Jack with Jill, probably even things like jack-o-lanterns counted.
This was all useless speculation prompted by Lilly, and better considered by her. Ralph preferred true history, where names were a little more varied.
Besides, this Jack called himself Teija.
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68. Hero: Ruo/Ambros, 263 words
Even as he choked on it, and the expensive vodka, Ruo wasn’t blind to the irony. Through his melodramatic teenage years, he’d never really believed that he would find himself in this position. Waiting out the end of this pathetic war, without any idea as to an idea as to an improved condition when it finally ended, drinking vodka from the bottle in the dark. He had fantasised about this during that phase, with full if subconscious knowledge that it was simply fantasy. So beautiful in its tragedy, but now he was living it the beauty largely passed him by. In those days, before the war they had been in perfect agreement about the stupidity of the fight. His idealistic Russian boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, who wouldn’t drink vodka, had surprised him. Ambros, after those smoky pacifist talks, had signed up at the first sign of the war reaching them. He had been the idealist of the two of them, it had been thought. But somehow the distinct change hadn’t been out of character. Ambros set out to fight in the place of others, determined to play the hero, to live and fight or die for his country. It was still idealism, of a different kind. Ruo stayed pacifist, alone, and laughed with only a hint of bitterness. An apathetic spirit had set over him. His just position felt simply empty, as he knew it would do. The radio played on with marches and patriotism, touching nothing within him, but he let it carry on, just taking another gulp, feeling his body buzzing, detached.
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69. Annoyance: Lilly/ Teiya, 195 words
“All men are idiots.”
It was a statement, an assertion, and Lilly waved away Teiya’s unspoken objection with a flick of the wrist, not unlike the movement she would have made to shoo away an irritating fly. She offered the joint to Teiya, and frowned when the latter refused. Still, she shrugged and instead put it back to her own lips. The girl was a frustration, wasted on that boyfriend of hers, who couldn’t appreciate what he had been given. It wasn’t that she was not attracted to other people, only that the devotion towards her beloved Ruki was enough to render all other desires bland and grey in comparison. Lilly knew when a person was attracted to her, it was something she had perfected within herself, but she also knew when that lust would not be acted upon. Although it was a shame, Lilly admitted the cause to be lost, simply listening and entertaining herself in poisoning the girl against any other persons, so that it would be herself that would be the recipient of any rebound, if or when Ruki was out of the way. If, she decided, was definitely the situation here.
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74. I Can’t: Set/Ambros, 289 words
The love for that brother had always been different, not the care that he had to take for each of the others, not the frustratingly maternal needs to care for these children who ran around at his feet and stuttered or stumbled or pulled demanding at his sleeve, who ran from their father to him, calling his name and big brother, big brother until it was almost enough to drive him insane and let go of that famous genetic temper, see red until there was no more children to push and pull and cry as he desperately tried to make them happy, to raise them well, to figure out just what it was that they wanted, while he was too busy to even consider what was happening to him as he grew hair and broad shoulders, hands big enough to cover the head of the youngest child. Too many children, who fought and bit and screamed at each other until he pulled them apart with probably too much force, forsaking any chance of a truce not arbitrary, resorting to the strength on which he knew he could rely.
Ambros had almost seemed like someone else’s child, not a brother at all, not like Rina who looked up at him with eyes very much like his own, not like the mother’s boy Ruki, or the reticent and aggressive Kira who reminded Set so much of himself as a child. Ambros was a visitor, or even father to Set’s mothering, even so much younger, supposedly so much more ‘camp’. Any thoughts to other aspects of parenthood together, Set pushed down and refused to acknowledge. There was enough to worry about without that, and Set just revelled in the help and company.
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77. Broken Pieces: Ambros/ Teiya, 328 words
It was mutual, he knew that well enough, but that simple fact wasn’t enough to stop him feeling guilty about doing it. Many a more selfish man than Ambros would have felt guilty about that.
It was somehow made worse by the fact that she was so beautiful. ‘Am I really that shallow?’ He asked himself, each time fearing the answer would return positive, and knowing each time that it could never be the case. She wasn’t just beautiful. If anything, a different type of shallowness: a conceited view of his own abilities to comfort, the tearstained face which did not add to her beauty, because tears and snot and smudges of mascara under already-tired eyes are not becoming on even the prettiest of girls. He’d wanted to take the place of the man she had loved and been left by, make her remember that she was beautiful despite her tears and would be even more beautiful without them. It was not a new experience for him. The new experience was that he had failed. She’d enjoyed herself throughout, of course but afterwards, in the morning, she had smiled at him with no joy, shaken her head at his protestations. She knew it all, knew that he wasn’t worth her tears, knew the indulgence that she was allowing herself, to cry like this, but she couldn’t stop the tears. She didn’t want to stop the tears. This was who she was now, inclusive of tears and broken smiles. He’d kissed her again, bursting with compassion, but even as she had complied, he knew it was hopeless.
He stood at the airport now, thinking of that girl again, wondering, and yearning, a little, too, after all this time. It was at a brother’s wedding, after all, that he had met her, and this was to be a brother’s wedding also. He found himself hoping, in the smallest way, to see her again.
Perhaps smiling a true smile this time.
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79. Drink: Kern/ Teru, 178 words
Everyone knew that Teru couldn’t hold her drink. Still, she always attended Rex’s numerous parties, generally annoying and amusing the people there, growing sillier and sillier on the various fumes, becoming overly tipsy at the smallest measure of vodka until she was tripping around the room to fall in the lap of any person she came across.
This particular time she happened to fall upon Kern, who jumped at the contact, so unexpected. His shock, however, was fast overcome to leave him with a smug grin and flamboyant remarks about her beauty. That the vaguely cherubic-featured girl had literally fallen on him gave him great pleasure, and an opportunity to use the cheesiest of pickup lines upon her.
Of course in her state she was less inclined to turn away at the sight of his freckles and gawkiness, even as she still realised her preference for more muscular men. It wasn’t long at all before they were noisily necking in the corner, much to the amusement of the more sober onlookers. Really, she would do anything whilst drunk.
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80. Starvation: Kern/ Teiya, 441 words
Nothing could be done to aid her. The king could hardly be expected to give up his favourite simply because she pined for her home. This is your home, she was told harshly. Never mind the red rims to her eyes, from nights starved of sleep and drenched in tears, she was still the most beautiful girl in his court. That made her the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, as of course the best of the kingdom’s fair folk were gathered there for his pleasure, regardless of their original position. If this one in particular had been brought to him less than a maid, none would question the decision. The king himself hardly seemed to mind, favouring her over many of his wives who did remain virginal.
She didn’t seem to acknowledge the offer, eyes glazing over as she did her duty and desperately imagining her life before, before this idea of duty, before the knights had brushed aside her pleas and tore her from the arms of her beloved husband. Whilst she still fantasized about bearing a child, children, as many as possible, and didn’t find herself dreading the possibility as she did now. Daily, she prayed to the gods to allow her to become free again, to be granted a pardon from this honour, for that man to pass her by, for him to grow bored of her. If not for the constant hope for release, she would gladly have disfigured herself, done whatever it took to extract herself from this situation, and see her true husband once more. It was a simple dream, but the gods to whom she so fervently prayed deemed it fit only to grant her infertility, The rest she managed herself as best she could, forcing fevers upon her tiring body, taking the wrong side of caution when dangers arose, taking less trouble over her appearance than the least peasant woman. Some days she succeeded, but more often it did not, and each night she cried herself to sleep, to dream of a happier time of less riches and harder work, but real and devoted love.
It wasn’t that the king was not a good man in himself. He truly seemed to care for her, took great pains to please her and even to an extent to court her, although these exertions were not in the least necessary. In a different position, a different life perhaps, she may have fallen in love with him, been more than happy with her lot, but in this life she pined away her strength and health, starving for something that he simply would never give to her.
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81. Words: Ruo/ Arthur, 992 words
This is nothing like it was with Kira, nothing like that intensity, nothing like that hunger and pain. This isn’t the fight, or the battles of their ‘love’. The two of them sleep together, or Ruo watches Arthur sleep, the sleep of the innocent. He is quiet, as he is while awake, lying on his back, one hand holding loose but firm to Ruo’s wrist. It doesn’t hurt. He is for the first time in years without a single bruise. They don’t even seem to need the sex, although both want it. It is that line, the line between want and need. But where Ruo would have thought, a short time ago, that this thing that they share was bland, pointless, he is now sated, comfortable and warm. Every little thing is accepted, yes, I understand. They do not argue. Ruo still has to try sometimes, but is rewarded with only sense and perseverance and logic. This is my opinion, Arthur tells him, but you can think differently. We do not have to be the same person. Have your space, if you need it. Just come back, please? I want you. I love you. He does not say need, because he knows that he can live without. There is a difference between want and need. This is the difference. His eyes scream, stay, his lips say go, if you need to go then go. Arthur is strong. He can accept either way, with only some shed tears and a hole in his heart that will simply add to the others until it looks like a leaf withered by slugs and snails. I love you, he says, easily. There is something guarded, something unsure, which Ruo wants to know. Tell me everything. Arthur shakes his head and spreads his hands. He works with gestures, rather than Ruo’s words. Stay, his hands say, holding a little too tight and making Ruo squirm inside. Stay, he says, through mending the laptop which he despises, through installing electricity and settling down in this house of bricks and mortar. It doesn’t really matter where we are. Ruo knows that he yearns for the trees and wood of his home, but they are still here in the city.
Kira is a bone of contention. See him, Arthur tells him. You understand each other as I’ll never understand. Don’t see him his eyes say, slightly too wet. Come with me instead, his body says; hands clasped a little too tightly. Love me instead, he screams inaudibly, with the flinch of expression and twitch in the legs. A suppressed urge to leap after him and hold him down. Stop him from going anywhere, ever. Ruo wants to tell him to just do it, to give in and let those passions fly, but this isn’t any other relationship he’s ever had. This is different. This is respectful. This is lasting. He will be held later. Why do you love those fallacies so much? Why can’t you live and not write? Why are you so absorbed in those pictures? Arthur lives things, cannot see the joys of imagination. Why would I want to see a picture, when I have the reality in front of me? Ruo doesn’t know if he should be happy that he will be loved all the more for growing old. Reality is the word that all Arthur shouts. He means it when he says that a picture for him is good when it makes him want the reality. An apple which makes him hungry, but it isn’t enjoyable. He hasn’t the masochism of his father. It isn’t the cry of break me, fight me and hold me, but rather an acceptance, if this is what I must do for you than I shall. He once threw Ruo on the bed, somewhere that no other romance of Ruo’s has ever placed itself. He touched every part, stroke and really feel; perception that even Kira, with his intrusive pencil, ever reached. This is what I love every part of him said. Reality more sensual than any prose, than any painting or sketch. I want to swim in rivers, not paint them. It should disgust him, but it doesn’t. Even as he tells himself the opposite, this isn’t just good food and good sleep and warm love. There is heat here too. Arthur will do his best to offer anything he can, anything that Ruo could want, because he knows that a sharper emotion is not necessarily a stronger love. Strength does not need to prove itself. His muscular arms and calloused hands are for building things, for carrying shopping and lifting those things that need to be lifted. Any fight he is faced with, he could win, but he doesn’t need to prove himself, and Ruo is starting to understand that it really isn’t weakness.
I love you, Arthur’s whole body tells him, not with teeth and bruises and burning hot ********, but with kisses and care and slow lovemaking which turn blinding hot without the screaming and kicking. I love you. And just because it isn’t starving, and it isn’t powering any works of art, it isn’t any weaker. Arthur distrusts words, but loves to hear Ruo’s just for the voice and the way he can see, even alone, not the characters that move within the novel, not the dance of the letters on the page, but Ruo telling the story, muttering at points and thinking such and such may have been better there and gesticulating as he explains. It is the telling that Arthur loves, and he thinks that maybe he could even understand a little of Ruo’s admiration for Kira if he could just watch the actual painting going on. Kira is for a separate part of Ruo though, and Arthur will accept that, as much as it hurts, because he is in love and actions and opinions interacting mean so much more than words ever could.
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93. All That I Have: Ruki/Teiya 262 words
He stood, trembling, in front of the house that was no longer his, knowing that everything else was gone, too. All the things he’d bought, the land he’d dug with his own hard work, everything he’d ever been given. In all his worst nightmares, this had never occurred to him. His entire life had been one of prosperity. Even now, he couldn’t imagine what it was to be poor, to go without. Nothing like that seemed possible.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving?” Bitter, chocked. ‘I love you,’ he wanted to say. ‘Don’t leave me.’ But instead he was pushing her away. “I have nothing to offer you now.” All his redemption was locked inside that house. She was worse off now than he was. The best years of her life stolen, and even the security which was his strongest attractive feature was gone. All gone. Locked away because he’d been too secure in himself, too arrogant. Ruki couldn’t bear to look at her.
“Why?” She asked, and she was truly puzzled. She took his arm, fingers slightly damp, slightly clammy. She was worried, then. She pulled away from the house that was no longer theirs. Despite the worry, she smiled. “You were always the only thing I ever wanted. Doesn’t matter where.” Eyes crinkled with the smile, head shaking side to side. Doesn’t matter, as long as they’re together. ‘Cliché’ Ruki thinks, but knows finally that it’s honest. Because even Teiya isn’t silly enough to fall in love with a tattered old hat and a tailored suit; without her, that’s all he has.
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1. Reason: Pedre/Anna, 236 words
The position of wife to Pedre Mikhaylov was one highly sought-after. A suave, handsome gentleman with a certain fortune, due to the timely deaths of his elder brothers, save for one now disinherited, leaving him as a most eligible bachelor. Anna’s friends and her family told her to be honoured, to graciously accept his offer. Honestly, she knew she had no real choice in the matter. Her family would happily acquiesce in her steed. After all, no one cared to stand between Pedre and his goals. The Mikhaylovs were a determined family. Pedre was no less than mulishly stubborn. Anna was hardly interested in him for his own sake, but for the sake of those close to her. There was a mad gleam in his eyes that unnerved her, but she was not without sense. She could see the benefits of accepting his proposal whilst she still retained some bargaining power. Love at this time was hardly a prerequisite to marriage. Pedre would provide for her a more than comfortable home in this uncertain economic climate. Even with her beauty, wit, and not inconsiderable personal funds, Anna knew that a more profitable proposal was unlikely to be forthcoming. Pedre could be managed, would be managed. If he wished to put aside his promiscuous bachelor lifestyle, which she was to be sure that he would do, in order to marry her, who was she to deny him?
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129. Uniform: Lilly/ Teru, 237 words
Both girls were more than aware of the picturesque couple that they made. Certainly the picture itself was more than a little pornographic, but neither saw that as a disadvantage. They preened over each other all the more when there was an audience to see them. Sitting demure for the most part across from one another in an utterly public café, Lilly fed Teru cream which the smaller girl lapped eagerly with a dainty little pointed tongue. It was a practiced thing, that air of complete absorption with disregard of the watching eyes. The routine, although at first a spontaneous and private gesture, was one they had practised until it was perfected. The hungry eyes upon them magnified that simple pleasure indefinitely.
Even in private, they performed, if only to each other. Both had large mirrors in their rooms, used to full effect as they indulged their vanity and admired all sides of their lover. ‘Look at us now’ one or the other often said, before they reached a level where at least one would be incapable of stopping even for such a beautiful view as was offered. In this performance, though, was the exclusive view of the two naked lithe bodies together. The less privileged audiences saw only the first, and perhaps second, acts of their schoolgirl fantasies, with short skirts and knee-high socks adorning the girls sweetly holding hands as they walked down the street.
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1. Green: Cicuta/Anna, 325 words
Green had always been a weakness, bright or forest and dark, full of mystery and the fertility that would never be his. Anna was green in more than eyes and dress. She glowed with fecundity, stretched and tightened in antiquarian clothing, lacing herself into a corset even now as the twenty-first century started to wear on. Corsets which restricted the lunar breasts. Full skirts which tended to lose the ample hips, childbearing hips. Soft white kid gloves hid her long, clever fingers, in the street, although she peeled them off like an unwanted skin from a snake as she sat down to the piano. Cicuta saw the looks pass between them, the mistress of the house and her brother-in-law, the only one yet remaining, as she played some piece with hidden meaning. Idly watching, leaning concealed within the doorway, Cicuta wondered which of the many children was his, if the old drunk of her husband had fathered a single one of them. She was still fit to bear now; the child would be healthy, even if she was not. It didn’t matter, Cicuta had no desire to father yet another brat to run at her feet or suckle at her breast. His desire was purely selfish, modern in its denial of that express fertility of hers. It was her lies, the pretence of the virtuous wife, which interested him. He wanted to see the facade torn away, crocodile tears banished and real ones take their place. He wanted no vocalised love, only its physical representation. A smile lay carved upon his face, partially shadowed. The bedding of the mother of a supposed friend would spice an already appetising dish. Cicuta didn’t believe in friendship, only human egoism. His own pleasure, whether carnal or philosophical in its purest meaning, was his sole drive. This would be one fuelled by the other side of green, the one that he did acknowledge in himself, in his own green-eyes.
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1. Row: Ambros/ Teru, 238 words
They were an unexpected couple: she who chased fashion and all things material, with he who gave away the very clothes from his back to the most suspect of beggars. Those who knew them were more puzzled, even, than the simple observer in the street, who only saw the contrast of the petite blonde in designer labels from head to high-heeled foot and the stubbly man in sandals and charity clothes. They seemed opposite, utterly without common ground, but it was clear from their expressions, from their animated conversations made as much with gesture as by word, that were was real affection between them.
Of course they argued, his eyes filled with tears and his fists clenched until blood was drawn. Her eyes sparked with real contempt and disgust. One or the other always cried. One of other spat and cursed and railed. She shocked him time and again with cruel and profane language. He angered her still further with his abject humility and stubborn pride.
These rows lit up whether they were alone or among a heaving crowd; voices were raised against a fug of other voices as easily as against any heavy silence. The couple remained entirely oblivious to outside presence. Any who tried to interfere were harshly set upon by both arguers. The business was theirs alone. And it worked that way, cathartically restoring them again to lovers, happily laughing and talking with smiling hands.
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150. On Time: Kern/Rina, 222 words
Far from knowing what had caused her to agree to his question, Rina couldn’t think of a single positive trait belonging to the boy before her. He was annoying, brash, rude, hopelessly concerned with what other people though and what was ‘normal’. He lazed around in class, wasting the intellect he had to the point that she didn’t actually know how smart he was under that apathetic front. (That it was a front was more than obvious, even to those who didn’t watch people the way she did.) He taunted her for her brains, and for the fact she was willing to try in class. He made overt cruel comments about her weight just within her hearing but in situations she couldn’t answer. Overall, he was foul.
It wasn’t as if he had surprised her, either. His behaviour was typical of a boy afraid of having his pride hurt. Although she had only briefly considered it, the fact that he liked her had registered as possible. So that was hardly a reason to acquiesce. Perhaps it was simply that he had bothered to turn up on time to the lesson before he had asked. Perhaps she just wanted the attention. Perhaps it was that she didn’t mind the juvenile behaviour, even rather liked it, and that she actually liked him back. Perhaps.
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166. Composed: Ruki/ Lilly, 299 words
It started as these things often do, with him just noticing her, sitting with a straight back, clothes clean and pressed, hair and make-up obviously having had some time spent on it, but rather than the plastic effect so sought over nowadays, elegant, silky. She had no instrument with her, and did not appear to be borrowing one. Throughout the practice, she simply sat, silent, hands folded in her lap. Sometimes her lips moved, but only slightly, not even really speaking to herself. At points, her eyes closed. Ruki found himself intrigued. He was curious as to what she was doing; he’d never seen her before, and from the looks she was receiving, the others hadn’t either. There were no whispers, as should be expected from people who took this so seriously, but the orchestra wanted to whisper. Looks flitted back and forth between members as they counted time, heads turned a little, or a lot. From above, the room was a sea of movement, save the copper head at the back, retaining her perfect decorum, a Technicolor statue with animated face, and Ruki, as he fought to keep still but not stiff, ignoring the urge to stare, focusing on the time.
After, whilst the conductor was talking, to the backing track of whispers, Ruki’s eyes were drawn to her again, under the protective shade of his hat. She was standing now, brushing imaginary dirt from her ankle-length skirt. So rare, nowadays, and strangely compelling. He watched as she nodded to the conductor, skirted around the various instrument cases, reached the door, and paused with one hand on the doorframe, looking back over the orchestra. Their eyes met, under the rim of his hat. She smiled, a smile that made him shudder, before she turned again, leaving the room.
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167. Summer Days: Pedre/ Teiya, 660 words
The short summer nights were no more to Pedre’s taste than the longer ones of winter, when at least the darkness allowed him some sleep. The relentless moonlight flooding his room when the nights were too warm for windows to be shuttered gave a melancholy cold blue tint to his rooms, which all together seemed too large for one person. In the days of his marriage he had willed the room to himself in the summer months, longing for coolness away from the warmth of the body next to his. Anna had always seemed to radiate heat throughout the night, gluing their skin together painfully, and overheating him, as she demanded the covers be kept, to warm her cold hands and feet. He had lain awake at that time, wishing her away, for the fresh sheets and space to himself. Now he wished for a woman to share the space with him, any woman, to keep him from this greater misery.
These nights he lay by himself, listening to the sounds of sleep from the rooms of his many sons, with their heavy breathing and the gentler noises of their sleeping woman, or the squeaking of bedsprings and girls who tried or did not try to keep quiet. How were they to know of the carrying of sound through even these well-built walls to his silent quarters? Pedre learnt quickly to distinguish the distinctive tones of each of the women within his home; Domino’s barely-audible breathing, only to be heard in the stillest of nights; Teru’s childish peeps and whistles; the varied noises from the room of his eldest; the snores of his brother’s strange choice in bedfellow. Teiya’s sweet breathing and sighs of content.
It had taken him a while to reconcile those sighs with the girl that figured so favourably in his memory. She hadn’t seemed so unhappy while in his own bed, and looked so serenely attractive curled at his side, but he had heard none of those satisfied moans. He had not been favoured with the looks of adoration directed now at his son, either, who was hardly the most handsome of his offspring. Ruki, although silent to a painful point in waking, was not a quiet sleeper, but Pedre could easily envision those same looks being directed dotingly by the girl, propped perhaps on elbows or arms, crossed across the boy’s flabby chest. It was not a pleasant image, perplexing as it was. It drew to mind the long hot days not too long ago when it had been his own arm that the handsome girl took, and his attention that took hers. He would have been happy to remain with that girl for much longer than the time that was given to him, but once she had seen his son there was no opportunity. Pedre had bowed out gracefully, something not expected of the acquaintances who knew only his perseverance in the case of his wife, and the business deals which he knew would bring him further profit to add to the fortune he had amassed. They didn’t realise the pride he felt in his children, as he saw them in the ways of his own childhood. If it pleased the girl to pine after another, it was best to be one of his sons. He knew well the ruthlessness of the family in matters of love, and was, if not happy, aware of the profitability of stepping aside in a timely matter. Still, it was a loss he lamented, especially in these summer nights, lying alone, and the summer days between them, when Teiya’s beauty was easiest to see, long legs emerging from one of his son’s shirts, basking in the sunlight. It was well past time to find another woman, he reflected, who could share his bed and frustrate him to enjoyment of his freedom, even if she would not compare to the beautiful girl he had given up to his son.
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170. Intentions: Cicuta/ Domo, 259 words
The curtains were closed so as to prevent reflections on the screen, to prevent anything spoiling the view. To stop anyone looking through and watching the voyeurs. It was innocent enough. It had been easy enough, although Alina had refused this time to interfere. The older sister, too, had been an issue, but she was hardly ever at home, and they’d had to trust her habit of showering at her ********’ houses to keep her away from the bath, although that footage would surely sell a lot better. It couldn’t be known. This one had to be kept secret Cicuta had been told. After all, it was for a friend, a rare favour. He had almost begged, and she had been curious. An oddity, at least.
The show itself was tame. An innocent slowly and dreamily peeling off her clothes. Cicuta watched carefully for signs, for whatever had attracted this friend of hers. A pale body on the edge of pubescent, breasts less developed even than her own. Almost transparent hairs, blonde so white it seemed to cast blue shadows. A poetic creature, a fairytale creature, rather than the reality that awoke Cicuta to passion and lust. But she found herself watching, dreamlike, as Jackie beside her watched too, in that dark room, with only the light from the digital image.
And she found herself watching, later, as the same girl stood fully clothed with her face to the blackened sky. Beautiful contrast, no mystery now under those modest clothes. The water-streaked face turned to perceptive eyes and smiled.
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176. Tightrope: Lilly/ Rex, 429 words
Watching her as she painstakingly washed her hair, bending half-clothed over the dirty bathtub; he had a sharp longing for something more than what they shared. Bent still over his tub, with her hair unnaturally dulled under the jet of the showerhead, he looked critically at her features. She was not exceptionally beautiful; a few fines lines were already beginning to show, around that eyebrow that she loved so to raise sceptically, around the corner of her mouth. Signs of her scepticism which were even with the care she took beginning to take their toll. The freckles splattered, over her cheekbones and nose, were reminiscent of the toothbrush splattering of paint from a small child, messy and inartistic. Her hipbones jutted out harshly, especially in that position she held now. Her hair clashed violently with most colours, save when it was dull and wet like now. She was not beautiful, but she was alluring. Even now the way she held herself was enough to make that latent need rise.
But the fear of her tongue held him back. She was vicious, cruel in humour and spite. He watched with pride and a repressed tenderness as she turned away men seeking her company and body within his house, twisting their words over to become adversaries to them. His face strained a little with his smile as she came to his arm, and the eyes of the room fixed upon her, upon that hypnotic walk of hers. Their eyes met his and all he had to do was smile a little wider, for all that they could probably ******** her if their wits were sharp enough. That he didn’t mind, because at the end of the day it was his bed she lay upon, his bath she leant over to wash that cascade of rusty curls. For now, his brain appended. For now. He saw her, small hard breasts pressed against the sheets, stretched feline and languid, elegant even with hair mussed from sex and trailing across her back and stark against the sheets. And he could imagine things carrying on as this for years without end.
Still he trod lightly about her, wary of her temper and easy derision. Now, he was likely to forgive anything from her, but the same amnesty was not extended to him. Beneath consciousness, he fretted, knowing that a man of his bulk was not built to walk a tightrope. Lilly was not a woman forgiving of the cowardice of a net below, or inexperience. If he fell, he could not climb to try again.
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183. Waltz: Lilly/Set, 1025 words
Step, backwards, forwards, sweep to the side and back. Three beats at once, gliding into the next bar to begin again.
He was her imagined prince, as she told the stories one after another to her small sister. It can be better, it shall be better. Look her, at this, listen to my tales and be swept away from this place, hush, quiet before our mother hears us and decides to come and scold. Hush, hush, no need to wince so, she shan’t hurt you. I won’t let her. Hear: here, listen to this. Can you see them, those princesses dancing night by night? Step by step, it’s a waltz. Three beats to a bar like this, one two three. Tap out the rhythm softly, fingers on a soft palm. The prince comes to rescue them and takes the youngest as his bride, because it’s a sin to dance so and do nothing all day. Make sure that you are useful and no one can scold for your dancing. Slip off your shoes and dance endlessly in bare feet without wearing out those beautiful slippers. Wait, don’t forget them before dawn, when you run back home. The prince, yes, he was too good for them, who only wanted to enjoy themselves, a meddler, with dark hair and darker eyes, who wanted to rescue them from themselves, no matter if they wished to be saved. But they needed to grow up, their parents told them, needed to learn to work and be sensible. There is a time for dancing, and one can’t do it every night. But wouldn’t it be beautiful? Just to carry on dancing forever? And perhaps there was another prince, twelve more princes for each princess to dance with, endlessly around the room, across the lake. Step, step and step. Skirts swirling around, like ours do, little sister, my beloved little sister. We could dance too, if the floorboards wouldn’t creak so, but I’ll teach you, and one day we shall dance, with our princes. Step, step and step.
When their mother faced them, angry and threatening, Lilly took the blame. She stood before her sister, the louder, the brighter, her flaming hair wild, creeping from the plaits. Bright against the pure paleness of the sister. The littlest sister was the one who would have her prince. She was the good one, the godly one. Lilly knew that she would have to take the price of being evil for her, but only for her mother, yet. Later, she’d stand out cruel and sharp in the crowd, in the wild outside. She’d dance all night and sleep all day. She would teach herself to spill toads and serpents from her mouth so that Domo could be beautiful and kind and true. So that Domo would prosper. It wasn’t too bad, in this life, to act like a princess when one wasn’t, and dance all night to the waltz and those three beats…
No one recognised this girl at first, with her hair unbound and perfumed, deep aching rolls under the high swaying floral scents. Like music, guitar and violin, low and high and rolling, entranced. She was watching them all from bold eyes and lowered lids. Slightly inexpert but careful mascara. A dress not quite like any of the others, fitting perfectly, a needle carried unseen for the stitches she was worried may tear. She found the real beats behind, not ump and grind but something more melodic. Swaying from somewhere not only hips. Step two three, she seemed to like. A waltz, for she was unmistakably British. He watched at first, then stepped towards and bowed, at the neck only. Father’s teaching, proper upbringing. High birth, limited space, which cleared a little for them. She smiled, trying to show herself wanton, even as she wanted to be rescued from the need by him. Step, step, step, together. Not quite the dance she had dreamed. Strong hands, strong chest. He fenced, she knew, preferred to hold back and let the other charge. Step two three, side, hold and throw, a point against the opponent. Lilly held back a sigh and pushed herself closer, moved lower down and higher up her body, throwing the skirt out a little, material flush against her abdomen. Step two three, and closer, swaying now, only, like the other girls with static feet. They no longer danced, but his hands were steady on her waist, chaste even as she pressed against him. On her hips, but still chaste. Moving her perfectly to the beat that was swimming in her head, and pulsing over her body in a place this hot. Her hands on his chest, not reaching his shoulders comfortably even with these heels. Swaying rhythmically, in her head still chanting one two three…
And still so rhythmic in his bed, music playing softly behind him somewhere. Classical, the period she loved so, the birthplace of her wonderful stories, and those princesses who never really existed, except as fable and fantasy. One, two, three, timed, practiced, knowing she was giving him this. No apology as he trampled her secret hopes under the secret plans of being rescued, of a kind and chivalrous prince. Enjoyable, through the pain and still swaying slightly, hips still moving to his command. Enjoyable, as he bent towards her, after she had overcome herself and that urge to just clutch on tight and never let go. Step two three he whispered to her, and laughed as she swatted him away. He told her of his training. A true prince, tsarovitch, first son. Beautiful, with long golden hair and warm sky-grey eyes. No promises of love or marriage, just warmth and happiness and an idea that perhaps if this was evil that it wasn’t so bad: not too great a sacrifice for Domo alone.
She’d dance again, perhaps find a place where it could really be a waltz, that step two three, before she grew accustomed to the sway and grind of modernity. A few more nights of dancing as a princess before she took on her proper role of evil sister. A few more sweet waltzes.
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186. Variations: Lilly/Jackie, 190 words
She was like enough in looks, really, and so much more available. Jackie didn’t want to touch Domo, hardly dared to breathe near her, despite the fact that he wanted to, so badly. Her hair wasn’t right (the difference more than visible even in this twilight of noon with the curtains drawn). Lilly is stronger, braver, harder, Jackie imagines, but she is still Domo’s sister. She is a variation upon the family theme, a fallen angel to Domo’s saint. She is so different, hard and bitter and untarnished outside, to Domo’s soft tattered compliancy. Lilly wouldn’t allow anyone to give her scars such as Domo has collected. Jackie knows all this, but he also knows that it’s the closest he’s likely to come. And Lilly will play the part.
As to her own thoughts, well, he’s a Mikhaylov after all. They do tend to muscle at least. It’s a new game to play, with a new player, too. Besides, it will lead him away from that constant bothering of her beloved sister. That alone would be worth one time. It isn’t hard to convince Lilly to widen her pool really.
RKO Marvais Community Member 
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