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aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
dondarrion) wrote in aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
Entry tags:
CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN
 |
prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog. |
Oh yeah? [ And now he's truly got her attention, not only in his mind but in her mind as well. Slow going as the job may seem, developing pictures seems like a thrill and a half compared to checking-out groceries. Which is why — floor manager be damned — Waverly leans forward to brace a hand against the lip of the counter, delicate fingers (fingertips stained from ripping receipts and counting bills) coming to curl over the little platform where she asks customers to sign their checks.
(Don't be afraid, touch me. I know that you wanna. We can do it real secret and no one'll know. Just you and me, baby. That's how it's supposed to be.)
Waverly ducks her head, spying around a second time before confessing: ] That seems, like, totally cool, I'd kill for a job like that. Sitting around getting to see what kind of crazy stuff people take pictures of in their spare time? [ She giggles, like maybe she's taken some pictures of her own.
(Y'wanna see? I can give you something to remember me by. But you first.) ] Y'ever see something super kooky?
(Don't be afraid, touch me. I know that you wanna. We can do it real secret and no one'll know. Just you and me, baby. That's how it's supposed to be.)
Waverly ducks her head, spying around a second time before confessing: ] That seems, like, totally cool, I'd kill for a job like that. Sitting around getting to see what kind of crazy stuff people take pictures of in their spare time? [ She giggles, like maybe she's taken some pictures of her own.
(Y'wanna see? I can give you something to remember me by. But you first.) ] Y'ever see something super kooky?
[ In accordance with her wish, Petyr shifts to slide down the length of the bed, brushing a hand over her belly before pressing his lips to her skin. (Never once since he had been struck down had he thought such a blessing a possibility for him. From time to time he still cannot believe it. He had kissed her until there had been no breath left in his lungs when he had first heard the news, and even as he looks at her now, well aware of the swell of her belly, he seems young, an effusive and bright sort of joy to his countenance.) ]
Be as clever and as beautiful as your mother, [ he whispers, the curve of his lips betraying his smile. (I shall sing for the both of you. For you, my love, and for our child.) ] Be half that, even, and I should be mad with joy.
Be as clever and as beautiful as your mother, [ he whispers, the curve of his lips betraying his smile. (I shall sing for the both of you. For you, my love, and for our child.) ] Be half that, even, and I should be mad with joy.
[ Even he was young, a budding and bright star academia complete with meteoric rise, Gene hadn't been able to do much of anything by halves. Whatever he put his mind to, he did — a spiraling staircase to success that had crumbled away just as quickly when the ax had finally fallen. He had been brilliant with every fiber in his being as a young man and, now mad and old, he's just as crazy as he'd once been inspired. (And sometimes that means forgetting the one he trusts most; sometimes it means holding onto her for dear life and hoping she doesn't drown in the process.)
He looks down at his jacket and he follows suit, both hands coming to bat at the fabric as if having realized it offends Nellie somehow. ] Too kind, too good. Mustn't shout, not at Nellie. Drats.
He looks down at his jacket and he follows suit, both hands coming to bat at the fabric as if having realized it offends Nellie somehow. ] Too kind, too good. Mustn't shout, not at Nellie. Drats.
[ She can't quite bring herself to look at the whole affair through the same perspective. It's easier for her, admittedly, being the younger of the two of them. But love is love — and a kiss is a kiss — and true to her word she tells him once each day I love you, though the timing of the confession varies. (She understands the concept, now — feels it — as well as their arrangement, inconvenient though it is.) ]
Pinky swear? [ The question is more hypothetical than not — for one, she knows it is (she may range hot and cold but he'd never let her crash that way), and for another, she never actually pinky swears, preferring the idiom to the action. But still, her eyes shine bright at the question. ]
Pinky swear? [ The question is more hypothetical than not — for one, she knows it is (she may range hot and cold but he'd never let her crash that way), and for another, she never actually pinky swears, preferring the idiom to the action. But still, her eyes shine bright at the question. ]
[ It was by no means a practical thing, to have been taken with child at such a young age and during a time when pretense meant he was still her father in the eyes of many. The reveal had first been awkward and then painful, as shock gave way to betrayal and then scandal. Accusations flew and cut deep into Alayne's heart like knives, but all the while Petyr (once, so pragmatic) had remained by her side and did not flinch at the worst of the slings volleyed in their direction. For all that others had tried to cleave them apart, to convince Alayne of the error of her ways and to reveal Petyr as some sort of charlatan, every effort did nothing but tether them more strongly together — fortified as are the walls of a great keep, tenacious against enemy arrow and winter snow.
His breath is a tickle in her belly and Alayne giggles, giving a wriggle that quickly gives way to exhaustion as she cards her fingers lightly through his hair, fingertips lingering at the temples. ] No, be as bright and as bold as your father, [ she hums. ] I will not abide him raving mad, even by way of joy.
His breath is a tickle in her belly and Alayne giggles, giving a wriggle that quickly gives way to exhaustion as she cards her fingers lightly through his hair, fingertips lingering at the temples. ] No, be as bright and as bold as your father, [ she hums. ] I will not abide him raving mad, even by way of joy.
[ The tiniest crease forms in the smooth stretch of Sylvia's brow. At first glance it seems as if she takes issue with this assessment, but then: ] Am I cruel, Isak?
[ Her voice squeaks with distress when she asks, as if the thought of being just another sister was some kind of terrible joke. In stories, there could only be one King and one Queen, and while sometimes they royal couple had more than one child, there was almost always just a single princess — beautiful and magical and often kissed by fate. ]
[ Her voice squeaks with distress when she asks, as if the thought of being just another sister was some kind of terrible joke. In stories, there could only be one King and one Queen, and while sometimes they royal couple had more than one child, there was almost always just a single princess — beautiful and magical and often kissed by fate. ]
[ Love is love, no argument there, but the fact that Peek can count Grace's age on both his fingers and toes makes him wonder (frequently) if it's really love at all on her part or just something like passing infatuation mistaken for love.
When he tries to look back over the course of his own life, back on through his adulthood and into his distant adolescence, there is no single great love that that he can recall with crystal clarity, no woman or girl so monumental and large that she managed to eclipse all the others. There are times when he wonders whether or not this is strictly a girl thing — some phase that Grace is going through that he should try to Google over the internet, or some form of teenage rebellion that happened to somehow twist itself into knots.
He gets the urge every once and a while to ask her step back, to analyze the situation objectively. Ultimately a compliment, an I trust your judgment, but Peek is pretty sure Grace won't ever take it that way. ]
What — wi't you? [ He sniffs his nose at the pinky in question. ] Dunno when y'washed it last.
[ That's a lie. If anyone in the room has an idea when, it'd be him. ]
When he tries to look back over the course of his own life, back on through his adulthood and into his distant adolescence, there is no single great love that that he can recall with crystal clarity, no woman or girl so monumental and large that she managed to eclipse all the others. There are times when he wonders whether or not this is strictly a girl thing — some phase that Grace is going through that he should try to Google over the internet, or some form of teenage rebellion that happened to somehow twist itself into knots.
He gets the urge every once and a while to ask her step back, to analyze the situation objectively. Ultimately a compliment, an I trust your judgment, but Peek is pretty sure Grace won't ever take it that way. ]
What — wi't you? [ He sniffs his nose at the pinky in question. ] Dunno when y'washed it last.
[ That's a lie. If anyone in the room has an idea when, it'd be him. ]
[ He glances up from his armchair as soon as she speaks, a makeshift desk laid across the arms as he goes through a few papers brought down from the school, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. They don't always speak but he makes a point to listen when she does. ]
— Sorry?
— Sorry?
[ He's still brilliant. That's the line Nellie maintains, at least. Crazy, sure, but still just as bright. She's too young to have been around the ACRG for the fall-out, but not so young that she doesn't remember the sort of weight that his name used to carry. It's through trying to keep up with him that she's gotten past both the old legend and the current reputation, and there's nothing in the patient tone in her voice that is feigned or insincere.
Gently, she pats his collar, shaking her head once. ]
It's okay. Can't scare Nellie away.
Gently, she pats his collar, shaking her head once. ]
It's okay. Can't scare Nellie away.
Mm—? [ She's as distracted as he, so distracted that she seems to have forgotten that she'd spoken aloud at all. Looking up, Sansa blinks at Mr. Baelish with her large blue eyes and, for a moment, seems endlessly lost. (She tries not to be lost for his benefit. Even though the routines of her everyday life have been uprooted, even if she has been asked to cast aside so much of what has defined her life up until this point, Sansa wants to be grounded, if only for his sake.) After a moment she smiles slightly (it's nice to have his attention).
Turning the page back she rereads the words aloud: ] 'I burned down everything I had.' Isn't it strange?
Turning the page back she rereads the words aloud: ] 'I burned down everything I had.' Isn't it strange?
[ Sansa makes a face at her uncle from the opposite side of the kitchen table, over the top of her magazine. Bran is in the other room, playing a video game, which means the both of them have to behave. Still, her long leg extends underneath the table, the arch of her barefoot curled over the top of one of Uncle Petyr's shoes, tapping to an absent rhythm. ]
What're you even talking about?
What're you even talking about?
[ There's a dull thud as he lies back on the couch again. ]
Don't be cross.
[ A pointless statement, for the large part — not that she's cross, but because it's true: he isn't exactly having fun. (There's something calming about tracking the click of her heels across the floor, but that is neither here nor there.) At length, he speaks again. ]
'Sides, not everything gets given to you.
Don't be cross.
[ A pointless statement, for the large part — not that she's cross, but because it's true: he isn't exactly having fun. (There's something calming about tracking the click of her heels across the floor, but that is neither here nor there.) At length, he speaks again. ]
'Sides, not everything gets given to you.
You think I offer myself to her? [ he asks, though he keeps his voice mild so as to prevent his words from keeping the guards who stand just outside the door. Yes, he provides his services in the capacity that his title implies, but beyond that, his loyalty belongs to himself and to himself alone. ]
Rank does not necessarily say everything about the colors sewn over a man's heart.
Rank does not necessarily say everything about the colors sewn over a man's heart.
[ For once, it doesn't seem to be matters of the flesh that occupy his mind (though his gaze still lingers on the bow of her mouth just a moment too long). Instead of aiming for her lips, her neck, her breast, he lays his head in her lap, gazing up into her features as he makes himself comfortable. ]
I d'no, [ he offers, following a long moment of silence, reaching up for a lock of her hair. ] Everyone wants something different, don't they? For themselves, for others.
I d'no, [ he offers, following a long moment of silence, reaching up for a lock of her hair. ] Everyone wants something different, don't they? For themselves, for others.
You're as ugly as we are, [ he spits, and it's the closest to anger as he's ever allowed himself to show the thing. (Cold is the most that he usually offers it — his version of winter, where nothing grows.) ]
You take and you take, you destroy. I don't have anything left to give you, not even this town.
[ (You took my son. Another principle that he knows the growth cannot comprehend: love, not to mention the emptiness that it leaves behind. It's sickening, in a way, to watch the Strangler learn as his boy might have. But it learns without feeling, even if it takes a shell that should.) ]
You take and you take, you destroy. I don't have anything left to give you, not even this town.
[ (You took my son. Another principle that he knows the growth cannot comprehend: love, not to mention the emptiness that it leaves behind. It's sickening, in a way, to watch the Strangler learn as his boy might have. But it learns without feeling, even if it takes a shell that should.) ]
[ Barrymore will never last that long and the truth is that, once she's gone, Kirn won't take too much time in following after. (He suspects he'd have been gone sooner if it wasn't for her. There's not really much point in living like this, and it isn't as if the next prophet won't also come to realize that time is a pretty relative concept.) He'll close up shop and play the game the way it's meant to be, not the way that every generation of boogeymen seems to have decided to — taking their time to live in ways they hadn't when they'd still been alive. ]
We don't have to talk if you don't want to, [ comes his voice again. ] I won't say anything.
[ Once more: ] Just let me in.
We don't have to talk if you don't want to, [ comes his voice again. ] I won't say anything.
[ Once more: ] Just let me in.
I know— I know you're not.
[ Still, he averts his gaze, carding a hand back through his hair in exasperation. (His temper hasn't gotten much better, though he tries and tries to get a handle on it. It makes him sad, now, more often than not; a shadow of a man passing through the streets, not looking anywhere or at anyone.)
She still loves him. And that realization hurts more than any penance. ]
Doesn't mean everyone'd agree with you.
[ Still, he averts his gaze, carding a hand back through his hair in exasperation. (His temper hasn't gotten much better, though he tries and tries to get a handle on it. It makes him sad, now, more often than not; a shadow of a man passing through the streets, not looking anywhere or at anyone.)
She still loves him. And that realization hurts more than any penance. ]
Doesn't mean everyone'd agree with you.
[ He watches her (the way she forms the words, the way she chews at her cheek) but he keeps his hands to himself.
(A different sort of father might have reached out, might have taken her into his arms.) ]
I know. [ It's a moment before he smiles. (Privately, he's not a terribly demonstrative man, but he goes a little extra for the sake of his child. At the end of the day he is still her father and among the myriad of nearly imperceptible ways in which he demonstrates his love, that is one.) ]
An' I'd burn 'em all before I let 'em even touch you.
(A different sort of father might have reached out, might have taken her into his arms.) ]
I know. [ It's a moment before he smiles. (Privately, he's not a terribly demonstrative man, but he goes a little extra for the sake of his child. At the end of the day he is still her father and among the myriad of nearly imperceptible ways in which he demonstrates his love, that is one.) ]
An' I'd burn 'em all before I let 'em even touch you.
[ Though the span of her life is considerably shorter, faced with a similar experiment, Grace has to confess to similar results. There's no one person she remembers so strongly as to blot out all of the others (no one save him, though the confession doesn't seem to take as much effect as she'd like). Arguably, it's because she just hasn't had time — because she's been too wrapped up in everything else (everything apart from the heart) to notice or care. Arguably, it's just because she's growing up, and she'll move on to some movie star or pop artist or grocery store clerk in a matter of time. (She doubts it, but it's the frustrating nature of love that it isn't exactly quantifiable.)
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes (too childish, and ultimately unnecessary), she lets her arm drop back to the mattress, limp hand hanging over the edge. ]
Cross your heart, then, if you're so afraid to touch me.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes (too childish, and ultimately unnecessary), she lets her arm drop back to the mattress, limp hand hanging over the edge. ]
Cross your heart, then, if you're so afraid to touch me.
[ Once, so pragmatic, and to a degree, pragmatic still. The business of lies has taught him much about words; first and foremost that standing alone, they cannot cut as well as a blade. They must move to be effective, but without a true force behind them — or at least one in sight — they are as useless as waves crashing upon the rocks. So he keeps his place by Alayne's side, unmoved by anything save her sentiments and her heart.
Still, his hand runs circles over that slight swell, chin tipped up so that his gaze can meet hers, smile wavering about his lips. (He cannot deny that her frailty worries him — strong though she is, the birthing of a child is no easy process and the technology on board the ship, being unfamiliar to him, provides little comfort.) ]
Be both, and we may share in that madness.
Still, his hand runs circles over that slight swell, chin tipped up so that his gaze can meet hers, smile wavering about his lips. (He cannot deny that her frailty worries him — strong though she is, the birthing of a child is no easy process and the technology on board the ship, being unfamiliar to him, provides little comfort.) ]
Be both, and we may share in that madness.
[ Just as surely: ] No. You are not like them.
[ It's what he truly thinks, as opposed to an answer spoken because it's what he thinks she wants to hear. Though he is kind, in his own way, he is not given to lie (nor to joke, when it comes down to it) unless the situation absolutely demands it. (Some might argue the point, but he does not believe this moment to count among them.) ]
[ It's what he truly thinks, as opposed to an answer spoken because it's what he thinks she wants to hear. Though he is kind, in his own way, he is not given to lie (nor to joke, when it comes down to it) unless the situation absolutely demands it. (Some might argue the point, but he does not believe this moment to count among them.) ]
[ (Her foot curls over one of his shoes, and every now and then, just to say yeah, baby, I'm here, the toe dips, the gesture rolling from the ankle. He likes it, to put it simply — it's a near possessive gesture, or the closest they can get without being too blatant about it.)
He manages a quick smile at her question, one that doesn't quite manage to be properly apologetic. ]
Confessions. When we catch people. Whatever gets said or beat out.
He manages a quick smile at her question, one that doesn't quite manage to be properly apologetic. ]
Confessions. When we catch people. Whatever gets said or beat out.
[ He can't help the fact that she gets him hard. The implications borne by each of her actions, by every syllable that passes her lips or every bat of her eyelashes — every moment that he can't touch her is one more where he's strung along (she's cruel — cruel but kind) and just a little bit more pleasure, he's sure, when there's nothing in the way of them being together. (That's how it's supposed to be.) He doesn't let his gaze linger on her and, to her credit, doesn't seem particularly off one way or another when he smiles and shifts his weight. ]
Not so much anymore, y' know, what with digital an' all tha', but yeah, I t'ink I've seen my fair share.
[ He pauses, the line of his mouth twisting for an instant before he offers: ] Y' ever get tired of checkin' groceries, I could pro'ly set y'up wit' a little work. Not a lot, mind, but y' might see somethin' for y'self.
Not so much anymore, y' know, what with digital an' all tha', but yeah, I t'ink I've seen my fair share.
[ He pauses, the line of his mouth twisting for an instant before he offers: ] Y' ever get tired of checkin' groceries, I could pro'ly set y'up wit' a little work. Not a lot, mind, but y' might see somethin' for y'self.
[ She offers her body to him — not the first time, not the last — but her brother doesn't take it, doesn't even seem to stop and linger over the possibility. It should probably sting of something like rejection, but for Claret it speaks volumes (speaks to the nature of their love) that he choses a simpler intimacy instead. His hand in her lap, her hands in his hair — a comfort that no one, not even coveted Vermillion, could ever hope to provide him. A warm feeling fills the cage of her ribs and colors Claret smile as she looks down at him, that coveted lock of her hair slipping from her shoulder as if reaching for his hand in turn.
Claret shrugs. ]
I guess there are some universals in the mix. Y'know — stuff everybody wants. Or, close to everybody. Some folks— they just wanna watch the world burn. I dunno. But mot people— I think most people just don't wanna be alone.
—is that dumb?
Claret shrugs. ]
I guess there are some universals in the mix. Y'know — stuff everybody wants. Or, close to everybody. Some folks— they just wanna watch the world burn. I dunno. But mot people— I think most people just don't wanna be alone.
—is that dumb?
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