#ferrousfae

After the fifth run through Cain loses interest in practicing. Not once has he ever considered himself a dancer - stripper, well... recently. Nevertheless there’s an important and clear distinction in his head between the two. This day in particular he feels that there are more difficulties than usual. So after a second to consider his options, he shut the music. “Mori, the only thing that’s sticking is my shoes to this floor.” Then shakes his head as if it to shake it from his memory, he adds, “and the god awful Grind on Me. Who names themselves Pretty Ricky anyway? Right, someone ugly.”

One look from Morrigan is all he needs to know not to push his luck. So with a sigh he doesn’t even attempt to conceal his slight annoyance - more to the song than choreography which he didn’t dare tell her wasn’t her best work. Once that run through finishes (with much sloppiness on his part), he looks at her as an idea comes to mind. “Sure this is fine, but do we want fine? No, we don’t. I hope you see where I’m going and would consider a song people still care about like Pony. What do you think?”

she amuses him. all of that misdirected anger.  he remembers their last little conversation and her scathing outburst         -- ( and how - w r o n g - she was.  about the fairies - while it may well have been fun to pluck those wings, pin their greying bodies, devoid of light and magic and life to a pinboard like a stuck butterfly - he’d merely taken advantage of the -- corruption -- the pollution, the greed spewed by the humans and their machines... if she truly wants to spit her venom and vitriol at the -- culprit -- then she’s in the right place, this world is full of delightfully foul humans.  seething and pulsing in the mass of pollution that spilled from every available orifice... their cars, their machines, their factories, their plastics, their fuels, their greed -- in fact, he really didn’t have to do much here at all... the entire planet was so immersed in it’s own ultimate downfall ).

they seem to forget.         -- ( probably because they compare their own actions, histories, desires, whatever - to him.  they try to imply that he has motivation.  that what he does has rationale or reason.  because they do... they’re the bad guy ‘because’ ( insert tragic backstory here ) -- but that’s just not how it works with him ) --             he doesn’t hate.  he has no agenda of revenge or retribution.  he isn’t ‘good’ become ‘evil’.  he simply -- is.  no more to blame for ‘what’ he is than the sun or the wind.  he is the juxtaposition to creation.  without ‘nothing’, there can never be ‘something’.  he exists.  that’s all there is to it.  ( that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it ).

❝ either you’ve come to apologise... ❞

he looks up from the small leather bound notebook idling in front of him, black ink scratched across the pages in immaculate script.  perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, but for a moment they words look as though they seethe on the paper, twisting into something terrible before they settle.  and he speaks in the words of that ever impeccable host -- tone patient, droll, lacking emotion.

❝ ...or this is the part where you ‘rain the forces of hell down upon my head’. ❞

@ferrousfae ~ with diaval ~

Recently back from a flight, Diaval transformed back into his charming human form with a rustle and settled into a nearby chair. He settled his face onto one of his hands as he fought back an inner wave of panic from flying again. But the shapeshifter had news, probably something Maleficent already knew since she cared much more about political things then he did. 

“ Have you been made aware of the happenings in Adora ? ”

“…you said she asked you out for coffee?” Morrigan asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowed.

Across from her stood Milo, sipping nonchalantly at a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Licking the remnants of chocolate off his upper lip, he nodded.

“Yes, she did.” He responded, legs neatly crossed at the ankle underneath the table. 

“And you said what?”

Milo shied and smiled sheepishly, holding up his hands in a defensive manner. “Okay I may have tried to invite a friend - ”

“Melvin, you idiot.” Morrigan sighed her words, eyes shutting as she pressed two fingers to her temple. 

“Okay, listen!” Milo started, ignoring the mistake in his name, “In my defense, we had always gone for coffee with a group of friends before! How was I supposed to know it was a date?”

“Because she asked you alone for a reason, Milo.” She reached over and smacked the side of Milo’s head, resulting in a small laugh and Milo protectively reaching up to his head.

You can find it right here!

"Ugh,” is the first thing that she things to say when one Morrigan Firmin is mentioned, and it’s a sentiment that stands no matter how many a positive thought she might have for the woman--not that she has all that many of those either. “Bitch likes to run me ragged,” she says, hand instinctively going to the place on her shoulder where it’d felt like she’d tweaked something the last time Morrigan came to the club with a new routine for Scout to learn. “She’s--she’s shameless, though.” She pauses, and she’ll tell herself later that it’s because she was trying to think carefully, to think clearly, but she knows that if she were truly being careful she’d keep her mouth shut altogether. “She’s shameless in who she is, a villain by every definition of the world but proud of the atrocities she’s committed, truly thinks she was justified in every one.” She pauses again, the liquor weighing heavily on her stream of consciousness. “There’s something to be admired in there somewhere.”