#vicm writes

TALKING KISS.

You are drawn to that little bit o eccentricity she bears on the crook of her smile, the way she twitches her mouth to the right almost uncertain if she is supposed to smile or not -- if that was right or not. The way her long finger with the clipped nails -- the one she confessed that used to bite at eleven and only stopped when someone idly joked that it could cause an internal bleeding in her stomach (It amazed you how her sense of slef-preservation kicked in so early.) -- tucked the strands of her hair that insited on covering her eyes, behind her ear.

Everything about her was so cautiously planned in the most unplanned way, her stealthiness leaked from every pore of her skin. It was funny, you thought, how remarkably unforgettable in the most forgettable way she could be. It was much like you, and that you didn't notice.

"So, the cops where there and then Nibs..."

She was telling you this story for the second time-- the first you pretended to not listen, way too busy studying the maps in front of you, occuping the pool table in the middle of the loft and ignoring the mean looks of the other kids haning on the corners of that rusty place burning holes on your back.

You had always a way to kill the fun, you did that unitentionally. You're a killer, after all, it's your first nature.

And she came dancing through the door, kicking her boots as soon as the lock cliqued behind her partner, as if it bothered all the way around to have them on.  Their presece gave enough oxygen for the other, you could swear that you'd heard them breathe for the first time in two hours, you could swear that you back was lot lighter, you could swear you stopped breathing as soon as her chilled fingertips touched the patch of skin on your back, underneath your shirt.

She handed you a beer and you at some point you've handed her a knife and showed your pressure points. "Are you even listening to me?" Her annoyance always grew like that, slowly brewing with an easy smirk to her lips only to come bursting all at once, leaving inrevokable bruises, rotting with its venemous intentions. She hopped off the her spot beside the maps on the table, "I hope you memorize well those maps bec--"

It was a triggering sensation, her lips still moving on yours from the cut words, dead by the unnecessary pressure you applied to hers. It was a dreadful feeling, the end of that sentence, to have her slip through your fingers once again. It was a heart-wrenching, blood-rushed desired, to rip her clothes apart, right there, right now.

You broke apart. Fingers tangled on her hair, breatheless words whispered only to her.

I DON'T WANT TO LOVE YOU, BUT I DO.

Maybe it was the sea salt scent that lingered on his skin, reminding you of home. How warm, and smooth his tanned skin was against your palms, under your tight grip of your fingers on his arms, shoulders, back. Everything was familiar to you, from the crook of his neck to the fissures of his spine, like the waves you two are used to claim as yours, but you know they will never truly be.

That’s why, maybe, you love him.

CERBERUS: OUR CHARACTERS RAISING A LITTLE HELL TOGETHER

Halves of the whole, mirrors refelcting each other. Your lips curved in the same hellish smile that stretch your contrastant angelic features in the complete wrong way.

It’s going to be so easy to fool them, you’ve told him that morning, while still tangled in his sheets, nails trailing the moles on his back — the same were scattered on yours — making your own map leading to a secret treasure. Yes, it will. He kissed your temple, brushed your lips with his thumb.  

(You always wondered why they put you in separate rooms, in separate classes. You both are one, he is yours and you are his — God made you like that, and the men will never do you two apart.)

He rolled out of bed, slid his shirt on. The sun was bathing his form and you had never seen more beauty in one person. Your hands stretched to trace his scars, but his kissed your fingertips instead. 

"Go get what we need."

You always got too bored and ilicit substances were always too easily found in your house; you had always been so good in the kitchen — and so good at doing drugs.

So good at destroying your mother’s plans.

It was just another white poder mixed to a bunch of white powder, it was just another time that you and your twin brother made yourselves present in the kitchen, laughing and whispering midless words as you waited for the brownies by the oven.

You looked at him, flour on his face, the blue shirt matching the blue of his eyes.

“Ti amo.”

And people would always learn to never trust your good intentions, maybe because they were never good, or they were only good for your own self. 

Serve yourself, we just baked those — you would smile, and sit on his lap, who was waiting for you by the stair, and watch your mother’s clients to pick the brownies. When the door of her office locked behind them you looked at Emmett.

"How long it will take?"

Ten minutes. 

HARPIES: OUR CHARACTERS GETTING INTO AN ARGUMENT

It had always been cold and dark and calm and quiet. It had always been you and your throne and your kingdom and your endless tyrant ways were you ruled above anyone else.

You ruled above your people and struck fear upon the others -- you were ruthless, cruel.

Until you met her.

She slammed her fists against your chest as if she was trying to make it beat differently, forcefully. She was the life blown on your face, dusting the centuries that passes slolwy and too fast, all at once.

"Fuck you!"

And you have always to remind yourself of her frail bones as you claps her wrists, pushing her against the wall; but what could you do, you were heartless and merciless and she threw everything away, she makes your ageless blood a simple volatile substance -- so easy to boil and spill, so easily burnt away.

It was the way she danced, the way she moved. Everyone in the Court had their eyes casted upon her -- she was magically ordinary, and in the magical world they could never ask anything else. 

You're mine, mine, mine and not theirs. 

Her laugh echoed through the empty halls, I am anyone's, she had retorted, I am anyone's but mine.

(And that was true, that was true. She was anyone's but hers, and you were hers, too. But you were always too blind to see it.)

You're mine. 

Your greedy heart only knew how to suffocate -- and she always wanted to soar free,away from your reign. She had fire burning inside herself while you, only had the bitting and hard cold of an endless winter. She knew the risk she was living by staying by your side, but she was a fighter, she would never allow you to consume the only thing that kept you both alive.

Her hand hit your cheek, your yelling voice was quiet down. 

You are a tyrant who rules above everything and anything.

After the fifth time, he had given up on closing his windows; she would always get herself into his kitchen, leave his floor bloodied and crash right beside him on his bed. Crystal had lost the count how many times Thomas had asked if she didn't have a house until the day she woke up to find a bag of frozen peas where he was, wetting the sheets. Her jaw thanked, even though, she didn't quite did the same.

It was their way; he would get completely furious -- she had to stop with this fuckery, right now; and she would laugh, wincing at his rough touch on her broken ribs, slipt lip, bruised kuckles. Stop destroying yourself. It was more than this, it was an indentity crisis, stocolm syndrome. She had to prove, over and over, she was not like her, she wasn't afraid of him; and his only reply to her silence was just another crushing silence under a killer gaze.

But the reckless behaviour was always hers to claim, always hers to brush on his face and use as an excuse to not be alone with her demons to bite on her flesh; and when he knocks at her door, she shivers slightly -- alcohol filling her nostrills and making her step back. Stop destroying yourself, she had whispered on his ear, carrying him to bed and taking his shoes off. "Uh, will you kiss it better?" Crystal laughs again, fuck off, she said and shook her head until she looked up at him, meeting his eyes. 

It does tastes like blood, but she was not sure if it wad his orr hers anymore. They are more teeth than tongue together, ready to ruin each other, scrape themselves goddamn raw. It was a desperation out of the norms, out of control. His clothes were in shreds at the end of her bed, and she screamed his name until her voice was hoarse and her limbs shaken. 

She never knew how much she wanted to be destroyed by him.

The pretetious smug can't be wipped of his face -- she knows it wasn't an accident, really. Daniel Heart could've bought her the whole place, if she wanted, but Claire insited, I don't really want a party. This was the first birthday party he would be around, this meaning, sneaking into her place right after she snakes out of the party the girls at the Diamond not so secretly were setting up for her.

"The guy must've listened wrongly. Besides, I've heard they have the best cake in the whole America." He shrugged, relaxedly sat on his chair, ankle on his knee and a loose grip on his glass. "You can always say Alicia" He wrinkled his nose slightly, frowing at the moment of doubt at the absolutely wrong name he had given to her roomate. "Went on a baking spree and give cake to everyone."  

He had always done that , and you hald always hate it. Sleep was precious, you've muttered, eyes fogged; still into that torpor, never ending haze you so cherrished, where dreams and reality couldn't be set apart. You are just a girl when you're asleep, ghosts don't haunt you there. 

But he always does that, always. You hate it.

(But you don't actually. You could never hate him, in any form or shape. You could not ever demonize your savior, you could not ever stain his figure. He is your beacon, he is your safety. You cling to him. Save me, save me, save me.)

The 'smack' right into your ear, and you quickly sit. I was not asleep, you mutter, the back of your hand trying to fix the leaking coming from your mouth; the essay you've been tortuously working on, ruined. You won't look at him -- becuase he had kissed you, right into your ear again and because you haven't listened to him and typed your progress right away, again. 

You could see -- yes, see; every expression of his face was memorized, every inch of his body, burned agains your, tattooed, and thank god those  never fade away -- even face down on your papers, the little smug, timid bloated smirk. He is the worst.

"What did you say?"

But you know well how much he hates this -- when you mutter disconnnected words, senseless sentences. He hates to repeat himself, and you make him do it; what did you say, what did you say, what did you say -- over and over again.

So it reaches to a point that his voice had grown slightly annoyed, and you haven't moved from your spot -- face burried into your books, just saying stupid words like peacock or booby trap. "Come closer."  He finally manages to hear -- more like you finally managed to say, secretly triumphant.

And he does come closer -- only later you'll notice how he manages, in one way or another, after a couple more annoyed huffles than the usual, do whatever you aks him to. And it's incredible how his presence rules you like an orchestra, how his mere touch is capable of crumbling down ever perfectly built wall you've pulled up. He rules your body, mind and heart -- and you will never admit it.

His breath is hot against your neck and you hear once again he asking you what have you said -- you could simply laugh, and repeat it all; or simply stick your tongue out and bite his nose, but instead, your lips meet his in a loud and quick kiss. Before you could even welcome the dormency, the comfort you only find in your dreams, you pull away. Stop kissing into my ear, you whisper, and smile. 

Send me ☾ for a Sleep headcanon